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WINNER OF THE 2009 LA OTRA ORILLA LITERARY AWARD
Upon recovering from a prolonged illness, an author is invited to a literary gathering in Jerusalem that turns out to be a most unusual affair. In the conference rooms of a luxury hotel, as war rages outside, he listens to a series of extraordinary life stories: the saga of a chess-playing duo, the tale of an Italian porn star with a socialist agenda, the drama of a Colombian industrialist who has been waging a longstanding battle with local paramilitaries, and many more. But it is José Maturana—evangelical pastor, recovering drug addict, ex-con—with his story of redemption at the hands of a charismatic tattooed messiah from Miami, Florida, who fascinates the author more than any other. Maturana's language is potent and vital, and his story captivating.
Hours after his stirring presentation to a rapt audience, however, Maturana is found dead in his hotel room. At first it seems likely that Maturana has taken his own life. But there are a few loose ends that don't support the suicide hypothesis, and the author-invitee, moved by Maturana's life story to discover the truth about his death, will lead an investigation that turns the entire plot of this chimerical novel on its end.
In Necropolis, Santiago Gamboa displays the talent and inventiveness that have earned him a reputation as one of the leading figures in his generation of Latin American authors.
have nobody but it’s time you got a grip on yourself, I’ve done what I could. Giorgetta cried and told me I hated her and had always envied her and wanted to destroy her, but I said, Giorgetta, you’re the destructive one, you’re the one who wears out the people who protect you, do you know Murphy’s Law? well, you’re one of the people Murphy’s Law was invented for, any situation you find yourself in, if you can make it worse, you will, and you drag the people closest to you down with you, which in
props team to the Opera House and put up the lights and the set. One of our colleagues, Yarco, was Yugoslav, so there was no problem in making ourselves understood. The only sticky moment was when the director of the theater, a man of seventy who had agreed to our participation as a gesture of solidarity, was disturbed by some of the imagery and asked for a summary of the play. Yarco explained that it was a modern adaptation of the Marquis de Sade; the man was enthusiastic, but said, I don’t want
heroes. Anyway, sighed Supervielle, poor man, although I’m not sure his tragedy is worth the incineration of a conference like this. As he spoke, Supervielle observed Lottmann out of the corner of his eye to see his reactions, but the publisher, who was apparently used to having his face scrutinized like that, did not move a single muscle. Then Kosztolányi said, of course, a conference of this kind, with international delegates and in a city like this, with all that it symbolizes, has enough
detail. When at last everything was ready and Jessica pretended that sixteen thousand people had come in, he’d withdraw to a portable chapel he had and pray in silence for a minute, and then go out on stage in the middle of a cloud of smoke, with a spotlight following him and loud symphonic music, nothing less than Zarathustra by Richard Strauss, do you copy me? The people would rise from their seats and yell and the women would bite their purses and urinate and some would faint, it was
Gómez has a relationship of a sexual nature, and for whom he pays the rent on her house, which is 280,000 pesos. Señor Gómez has his account in the Banco Ganadero. He read the report several times in quick succession, one after the other, and one word surged up inside him: Revenge . . . Revenge! Religion says that we should forgive, but Ramón was not ready for that. Let the bastards beg for forgiveness! If they come to me humbly I may forgive them, but first I want my revenge. He was overcome