Quesadillas by Juan Pablo Villalobos

Author:Juan Pablo Villalobos [Villalobos, Juan Pablo]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: contemporary fiction, literary fiction, novel, translation, translated fiction, satire, comedy, rite of passage, Mexico, pilgrims, electoral fraud, elections, family, novella, brothers, twins, Guardian First Book Award, Mexican food, quesadillas, tortillas, politicians, Greek names, bovine insemination, Polish immigrants, middle class, corruption, Mexican politics, Synarchists, PRI, Spanish, PEN Translates!, PEN Promotes!, watermelons, acacias, Jalisco, Lagos, Orestes, Winner English Pen Award, Pink Floyd, Aristotle, Archilocus, Callimachus, Electra, Castor, Pollux
Publisher: And Other Stories
Published: 2013-06-25T18:15:00+00:00

‘You’re fucking kidding me! Let’s just leave it there, shall we? So, where were you trying to get to?’

‘To Disneyland. We wanted to go to Disneyland.’

‘At your age? Don’t lie. Where were you trying to get to?’

‘Poland.’

‘Poland is nowhere. Don’t fuck with me.’

‘To Guadalajara.’

‘That’s more like it! Why?’

‘To live.’

‘To study.’

‘To study.’

‘What did you want to study?’

‘High school.’

‘Don’t be stupid, after that. What do you want to be when you grow up?’

‘A teacher.’

‘And starve to death? Don’t you want to stop being poor? Why not say a doctor.’

‘A doctor, I want to be a doctor.’

‘Very good – but you’re not studying.’

‘No. I left my brother behind and now I have to beg.’

‘Why did you leave him?’

‘We had a fight.’ I pointed at the scar criss-crossing my cheek; the vileness of the gesture brought a few little tears of shame to my eyes.

‘Very good! Now you’re getting it. People love this sort of thing. What was the fight about?’

‘A quesadilla.’

‘What?’

‘We only had money for one quesadilla.’

‘And didn’t you share it, like good brothers?’

‘We beat each other up to see who would get to eat it.’

‘Excellent. Do you want to work for me?’

‘What do you do?’

‘I’m a politician.’

‘Do you earn money?’

‘What do you think?’

‘My dad says politicians are stupid.’

‘That’s part of the deal, letting people think we’re idiots. Where’s our damn food? That bastard’s fucking with us.’

At the same time as the tie man was preparing to end all relations with the waiter, the supreme creeper blossomed: on the TV a photo of my parents appeared. It was a recent picture, as you could see quite clearly that their sadness had acquired an aristocratic look, as if they’d been sad for generations. The sound on the TV was turned down, but at the bottom of the screen you could read the headline: PARENTS LOSE 7 CHILDREN.

I pressed the red button and picked up the tie man’s Coke to show him the shit he was drinking. The movement was complicated enough in itself: putting my right hand into my pocket to press the button, while at the same time picking up the bottle with my left. There was an additional difficulty: I was the one performing the movements. Our motor coordination might not have been genetic, but my mother was right: it was real, it existed. The Coca-Cola traced a somersault in the air and hit the tie man on his jaw, the creamy dregs splashed on to his lapels, his shirt and – oh, too bad – his tie. I ran out into the street this time without looking back, or forward; I ran across roads without looking, knocking into people as I went, I ran between cars and buses, upsetting bicycles and motorbikes.

I ran as if I were a stray dog fleeing from the blandishments of the town dog-catcher.

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