McSweeney's Issue 46 (McSweeney's Quarterly Concern): Latin American Crime Fiction

INTRODUCTION

by DANIEL GALERA

It used to be simple to talk about Latin American fiction. One would mention magical realism, slums and urban violence, the struggle against dictatorships, pre-Columbian cultures, the colonial legacy; the colorful, sensual frenzy above the Tropic of Capricorn and the cold, existential gloom below it; Borges, Cortázar, Rulfo, García Marquez, Rosa, Llosa. And more recently, one could try to sum things up with Bolaño. It would all feel relatively straightforward.

But it’s not so simple anymore. In the last couple of decades, and especially in the last few years, the panorama has changed. On the one hand, you have globalization, widespread democracy (or something like it), the occasional rise of a workers’ party to national power, new technologies, new weapons, new drugs, new oil reserves, swarms of brand-new middle classes taking over shopping centers, buying cars and cell phones at exploitative prices—all while wealth and poverty continue their tortured dance.

On the other hand, there’s a new generation of readers and writers eager to put the stereotypes of their cultures and literatures behind them. Translation of literary works between Portuguese and Spanish, and between those two languages and others, has increased in a book market fueled by economic and educational progress. Social, political, and economic change, plus our old friend the Internet, have helped foster the so-called anxiety of influence: when everything is available as a reference and pretty much everything has already been made, unmade, and remade by canonical and contemporary authors (sometimes the ones you go drink with), what the hell should you do?

The good news is that a lot of new Latin American authors find the situation rather stimulating, and are dealing with it in interesting ways. Their voices are suffused with wildly diverse influences—from old scripture to last week’s memes and pop songs, from the fast-changing realities of their backyards, neighborhoods, and home countries to the places to which they travel and the ones they read about on their smartphones. They’re finding new ways to depict tradition and history through the lens of the hyperconnected present moment. Some pay homage to classics in one page, only to defy them in the next. Some sound distinctly Latin American (or Brazilian, Mexican, Peruvian…), while others avoid this at all costs, or simply don’t care. Some go to great lengths to sound foreign. There’s a lot of noise. There’s trash and redundancy. There’s also genius. Don’t trust anyone claiming to pinpoint exactly what’s going on. Like I said, it’s not so simple anymore. As readers, we’re all trying to figure it out, and have some fun in the process.

This issue of McSweeney’s sprang from a desire to bring together a collection of stories that would offer a comprehensive sample of new Latin American fiction. To tie it all together, we selected a single target—thirteen writers from ten different countries were asked to write a contemporary crime story set in their home country. The choice of that broad and beat-up genre was intentional—we wanted to see how each writer would adapt the themes and tropes of outlaw life to suit their own style and sensibility, and how they’d show us their surroundings through it. Beyond that restriction, our vision was an inclusive one: some authors here are well established, and have been translated into English and other languages; others are newcomers, even in their local literary scenes. They were encouraged to do what they liked with the concept. Some stuck to the rules, and others got wild.

The resulting stories, as you’ll see, have a bit of everything. Latin American life emerges in characters and plots that range from the funny and farcical to the violent and disturbing. You’ll read about corrupt politicians and inexpert detectives, satanic altars and stolen ambulances, the middle class and the nouveau riche, crooked cops and reclusive graphic designers. Some stories revolve around corpses, while others only point toward potential brutality. Every author, however, has managed to use the architecture of the crime story to express their own mix of personal, political, and societal anxieties. The usual suspects have all materialized—murder and love, comedy and tragedy, hope and hopelessness—but so too has a glimpse of the complex world these writers live within today. Have a great trip.

THE FACE

by SANTIAGO RONCAGLIOLO

Translated by Natasha Wimmer

I s it her or isn’t it?

I don’t know, sir. It could be anybody.

Assistant Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana frowned. Over the course of his career, he had come across all kinds of bodies: familiar and unfamiliar, many of them undocumented, some of them in an advanced state of decomposition. Sometimes they were missing bits, nothing big, fingers and such. Occasionally something had been stuffed into the mouth, or another orifice. Regulations required that every body be identified with the help of a relative or friend of the victim. But in order to be recognized, a body had to have a face. And this one didn’t.

I hope it’s not, said Officer Basurto, shaking his head with concern. She was a fine singer, sir.

‘Is,’ officer. Make that present tense. Until the death is certified in writing, the lady is officially alive.

Then who’s this?

The assistant prosecutor shrugged. There was no room to stand up inside the trailer; the two officials were sitting across from the dead body, around a little camp table, like a couple of day trippers. They took another look at the bloody mess, the shapeless muddle of hair, skin, and bones. A few hours ago, that red blob had been a face.

What was she hit with? asked the cop. A stone?

I don’t think so. A stone is hard to handle. And the victim would have tried to defend herself. To do this right, you need a hammer.

Chacaltana imagined the claw end of the hammer sinking into flesh, puncturing an eyeball, smashing bones in the skull. But his mind returned rapidly to his main problem: the proper procedure for identifying the body. He couldn’t remember any item in the regulations for cases like this. And if the body wasn’t identified, he wouldn’t be able to complete the appropriate forms. He hated to leave administrative procedures half finished.

Maybe there’s an ID in one of her pockets? he asked.

"Pues, that outfit doesn’t have pockets, sir," said Basurto with a laugh. He didn’t know a thing about procedures, but he was clearly an authority on folkloric attire.

Assistant Prosecutor Chacaltana contemplated the victim’s majestic outfit: the pink-and-green-flowered bodice, the full skirt, the yellow kerchief fastened at the shoulders. The murderer had taken the trouble to set her Andean hat on her head after he’d killed her. Bashed-in face aside, she looked very presentable.

People need to carry their IDs, scolded the assistant prosecutor. I always have mine with me, to make things easier for the authorities in case I’m the victim of a homicide. Premeditated or not.

Mm, agreed the officer, and the two were silent for a minute, looking out the window at the concert grounds littered with empty bottles and cigarette butts. In the distance the stage was still standing, but it looked naked without lights, musicians, or instruments. The assistant prosecutor was reminded of something.

Women hide things beneath their clothing sometimes. What if that’s where she kept her ID?

Could be.

Why don’t you take a look?

Me?

That’s right. You’re a cop, aren’t you?

Petty officer third-class, sir.

All right, then. Look and see.

You want me to feel up a dead woman?

The two of them turned toward the subject in question, as if she had overheard them making unsavory remarks. She had a serene look about her, and the assistant prosecutor was on the verge of offering her an apology.

I want you to do your duty, he muttered.

Sir, with all due respect to you as a professional and a human being, allow me to remind you that the deceased individual here present, as well as bearing a physical resemblance to Señora Casilda Martínez Vilcas, is also wearing Señora Casilda Martínez Vilcas’s clothes, and was found in Señora Casilda Martínez Vilcas’s trailer, three hundred yards from where Señora Casilda Martínez Vilcas gave a concert last night. Can’t we deduce that she is therefore Señora Casilda Martínez Vilcas?

It’s your job to investigate, not deduce, officer. What if the killer wants to confuse us? What if Señora Martínez Vilcas is alive?

I hope she is, sir. She was a good woman. And a fine singer.

‘Is,’ Petty Officer. And now search her.

Basurto resigned himself to the task. He tried not to look the deceased in the eyes, or rather in the place where her eyes had been, and slid his hands slowly down her wide gauzy sleeves into her bodice. He rummaged around in there for quite a while, testing the ramparts, and then he exclaimed:

Ah hah!

Withdrawing his hands, he turned to Assistant Prosecutor Chacaltana with triumph in his eyes.

Look, sir: a hundred-sol note. Now we can get ourselves some lunch.

***

The terrible death of Casilda Martínez Vilcas shook all of Peru. The story spread that she had been raped and murdered by savage thieves; Lima is a violent place, and not even the Princesita de Huancayo was safe from harm. Thousands of weeping fans attended her funeral, many of them children. Industry figures remembered her as a woman with a heart of gold. Street vendors began selling a series of Princesita-themed temporary tattoos, which depicted her with little angel wings on her back. A Catholic association in Huaraz petitioned the Vatican to name her a saint.

Pictures of the singer—always in the typical dress of the Central Andes, where she was from—were all over the front pages of the tabloids. Her sad songs of love and suffering played constantly on the radio. Assistant Prosecutor Chacaltana had never heard the songs before, but now they engraved themselves onto his memory. He was especially struck by the huayno The Liar, whose chorus went like this: You lowdown cheat / you did me wrong / now turn your face away.

The only person who didn’t seem moved was Petty Officer Third-Class Basurto, whose pitiful investigation wasn’t up to the standards of the profession. He had managed to verify the identity of the body with the help of the victim’s husband—there was no doubt that she was Casilda Martínez Vilcas. But otherwise, there had been no progress. The assistant prosecutor was constantly on the phone to the station, demanding reports so that he could set the proper proceedings in motion. But either Basurto wasn’t in, or he had nothing to report. Chacaltana was for the most part a mild and retiring person, but the man’s ineptitude drove him wild.

What do you mean you haven’t filed anything, Basurto?

That’s right, sir. Things are stable for now.

"Pues, they shouldn’t be, officer. They need to move along."

You’re in a big hurry, sir, replied Basurto with evident annoyance. A little respect, if you don’t mind, for the authority I represent.

The assistant prosecutor got more details from the tabloids than he did through official channels. The Huancayo Teachers’ Union and the Ministry of Culture had dedicated tributes to an artist gone before her time, but Basurto wouldn’t give her even half an hour a day. It took the man two weeks to deliver the witness statements to Chacaltana’s office. There were only three, full of contradictions, omissions, and mistakes. And not a single one of them had been signed by the witness.

Basurto, these reports are worthless! Chacaltana said to him over the phone that evening, beside himself.

You’re too hung up on details, sir.

These aren’t details! The witness has to sign! If not, how do I know you didn’t write these reports yourself?

There’s no call to think the worst of people, the policeman said, offended. How could I make them up?

It’s a hypothesis.

I’m no hypnothogist. And I’m not a liar either, sir. I’m an honest cop.

You don’t understand…

Are you telling me I’m stupid now?

Basurto, that’s not…

Listen, Señor Assistant Prosecutor. Want witnesses? Find them yourself.

And the officer hung up. Chacaltana sat there with the receiver in his hand. He didn’t know whether he should apologize or whether he was due an apology himself. Basurto was clearly telling the truth: he couldn’t have made up the reports. A task like that required brains that the petty officer plainly didn’t have. But he had left Chacaltana in an impossible position. He couldn’t accept paperwork that was blatantly incorrect. Nor, however, could he demand that the officer do work that was beyond his abilities.

The assistant prosecutor turned up the volume on the radio. A music program was on, and at that very moment the announcer was talking about the Princesita de Huancayo. In a hushed, solemn voice, he said that Peru was still mourning the death of one of its most beloved performers, the soul of the Andes, killed by dirty thieves. Then he put on a song, and Assistant Prosecutor Chacaltana heard those lyrics again, the words that were still buzzing in his head:

You lowdown cheat / you did me wrong / now turn your face away.

Good morning. I’m Félix Chacaltana and I represent the Public Prosecutor’s Office. I’m here to follow up on an administrative matter.

Wha?

The man who opened the door was fat and had a big mouth, like a giant frog. He must have just woken up, because it took his bleary eyes a few seconds to focus on Chacaltana’s face. Chacaltana wanted to lend the situation a certain formality, so he explained:

I’m an assistant prosecutor.

"Uy, chucha… I don’t know anything, boss, yeah?"

There was a calm, reassuring smile on Chacaltana’s face, but it did no good. His host’s dark face turned a yellowish shade, and the man’s eyes opened wide at last, glancing nervously all around. The assistant prosecutor read out the personal information from his witness statement.

Are you Señor Elmer Cachay, age thirty-six, of Indian ethnicity, cousin of Señora Casilda Martínez Vilcas?

The man mumbled yes, as faintly as possible. Then he was silent. The assistant prosecutor asked:

May I come in?

Why?

It’s in regards to your statement to the police, regarding the passing of your cousin. I’ve found some irregularities that require my attention…

"Uy, chucha," repeated Cachay. His eyes kept moving back and forth, like a pendulum.

But he let the assistant prosecutor in.

The little house in the neighborhood of Ate-Vitarte looked half finished. The living room, where Chacaltana took a seat, was fully built, at least, and even had bars on the windows. But unpainted cement stairs led up to what looked like a second floor of naked bricks and metal rods where walls should have been. Chacaltana chose to sit with his back to the stairs, at a table with a plastic tablecloth. Cachay sat across from him.

I understand that you worked as… Chacaltana checked his papers to keep the titles straight, a guitarist, composer, manager, driver, security chief, press agent, and beer concessionaire at the concerts of the deceased.

Who?

Your cousin.

Uh. I also sell Princesita de Huancayo notebooks and pencil cases. Casilda rules the schools. Her concerts are full of teenagers.

I see. Chacaltana had put on his glasses and was taking notes in a graph-paper notebook, armed with an old fountain pen. He wondered whether this was the proper way to proceed. Strictly speaking, what he was doing was outside the scope of his responsibilities. And with all those duties, how is it that you had already left the grounds when the lady died? Did you leave her alone in the trailer?

"Uy, chucha… repeated the man, scratching his head. On the wall behind him hung a picture of the Princesita de Huancayo with a llama, which seemed to nuzzle Cachay’s hair. A beer for you, boss?"

The assistant prosecutor peered at him over his glasses and replied:

It’s ten in the morning.

Some pisco?

Without waiting for a reply, the man unscrewed a flask that was sitting on the table. He took a quick swallow and screwed it shut. Now he seemed more confused than he’d been a minute before. The assistant prosecutor tried to continue:

Señor Cachay, I’ve checked your record. You’ve served sentences for extortion, narcotics trafficking, counterfeiting, and document fraud. I’m surprised to see you employed as a security chief.

"Yes, pues, said the other man. There’s no work, is the thing, boss."

"I’m not your boss. But these issues with your statement are a problem. It could be very serious for you. You know how it is. Sometimes the police lock up the first suspect they come across. And, to be frank, you’re a pretty likely suspect. I say that with all due respect, Señor Cachay. I would like to protect you. But you’ve got to help me help