NEW TRANSLATIONS
LITERATURE,
HISTORY, & PHILOSOPHY
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Every
weekend, including Sundays after the sketch comedy Happening or the
football match, Sandra and Márgara got into the
sky-blue Toyota Celica and cruised Apoquindo looking
for guys—or minos
as they liked to call them—to
hook up with. It was almost like a sport, a real hobby, but it seemed
all right to them, understandable, not at all a disgraceful vice as people
often say. However, when they started going out on Tuesdays— like today—even they started to feel like it was getting out of hand.
Anyways, whatever. Like totally, they thought, worse to remain alone,
every girl for herself, dreaming away the time, frustrated to death.
The
driver was Márgara, owner of the Celica, but in
affairs of destiny she would pass the reins when the moment of conquest came.
There were basically two reasons: she had to worry about driving well (an
accident would be humiliating, totally out of place—like flailing spastically in the middle of a slow dance);
and plus she just couldn’t master the art of picking up boys like Sandra,
her friend and copilot, the brain of the duo, quite attractive, almost exotic,
with long hair that hung down over one eye, shiny black with blonde streaks—way in style. Together, Sandra and Márgara—who was shorter, with a little meat on her
bones, you might say—swore they
were the queens of love-on-wheels, the Cagney and
Lacey of the Apoquindo strip, although it was clear
that this was pure fantasy, since there were other girls who blew them away in
the competitive world of car-to-car conquests.
Sandra
and Márgara were good friends, but they drew clear
lines staking their turf at the moment of truth. Every girl for herself, and
may the best girl win. They had known each other all their lives, both
classmates as well as deskmates in every
class—with all the passive-aggressive intimacy that brought. A few of
their old school friends who they used to get together with for after school
snack-and-gossip sessions, had told them not too long ago that going around
looking for guys on the street was pathetic and debauched. Even dangerous. The
girls came back with the response already so well rehearsed: “How else
are we gonna meet guys?” And, in some ways, it
was true. Though in their respective schools there was—as Sandra would say—a “healthy stock of available
studs,” they knew perfectly who was who, or rather—that none of the
studs would pay either of them much attention. Their classmates were just that:
classmates. That was it. Of course, they could all go out and do something
together, but what? Aerobics? All a bunch of queers. Philosophy courses, brain
power, literary workshops? All a bunch of nutcases and deadbeats. No, the girls
just weren’t that type. At all.
The
outlook was, all told, bleak. And so they had arrived at the conclusion that it
was a definite must to get out there, like they were today, because if they
just sat around longing for Prince Charming, the only ending possible would be
that—although it sounded cheesy—the train would leave without them.
Still,
there was one comfort: they weren’t, by far, the only girls out there
dedicated to love on wheels. Every time they made the loop, as on this strange
night, they crossed paths with a good number—an
astounding number—of women looking
for the same thing. Or even more,
because some of them were dedicated to going all the way while Sandra
and Márgara were just playing it cool, trying to meet
guys so that later they could choose the most suitable, the most succulent of
the pile. The competition was stiff, ruthless. Every cat on the prowl, every
lady out for young meat, every bored teenage girl was a threat to the two.
It’s
hard to believe that two young girls going out cruising for guys—age limit thirty—didn’t go all the way. They didn’t even
go to second base. And not because they didn’t want to, but simply
for reputation’s sake.
Since
they weren’t stupid and knew they had to look out for themselves—though tonight, tonight was
another thing—they never agreed to
stray too far from the strip. They held as law not to go down further than Providencia con
That
is just what the two are thinking about: the dose of luck they would need to
snare a mate. Maybe tonight, a night too chilly for October: things will
go differently, they hope. There even seems to be a something in the air.
The night is different, eerie. Weird.
Apoquindo, the busiest street in the uptown neighborhoods,
with its three lanes going up and three coming down, is pretty jumping for a
Tuesday, almost like a Saturday; this puts the girls in a good mood and spurs
them on as they cruise the streets. Sandra’s going crazy, singing out at
the top of her lungs (though she hasn’t got a clue about English—she just knows that David Bowie is like the
maximum), moving her whole heated body to the radio’s rhythm, feeling
stunning and proud to be young, to be rich, to be her.
As
they’ve coordinated, Sandra has on an extremely tight, strapless t-shirt
with her tits squeezed into the cotton stamped with an Any time you want!
in red. Márgara is wearing—although in
reality she knows she’s got nothing of the femme fatale in her—a
skirt with two slits that, according to her, will kill any guy in less than one
minute flat, and a super shiny, black tube-top that’s a bit too loose.
Her hair is styled to look like she’s just come from a wild screw. For eyeshadow, smears of cinnamon that flash gold sparkles. The
two are decked out not so much for a Tuesday as to find a partner for
twelve-rounds in bed.
Around
nine-ish ten-ish—relatively early, unless you consider
that the legal curfew is at two. They hit Apoquindo,
the sacred street, off of Bosque Norte, with all those
restaurants that grace the pages of Mundo Diners;
they double back, toward El Faro, where the ultra-cool used to chill before it
went out of style and kicked the bucket. They’re restless, as if
preparing for victory, bullshitting. Maybe that’s why they haven’t
noticed that for the last half hour they’ve been followed closely—very closely—practically scraping bumpers. Too much chatter and too much
glancing to the sides and they’ve forgotten what’s at their backs:
a black car, brilliant and luminous, reflecting the lights of the whole strip.
The car rides smooth, like a boat, and advances slowly, almost without touching
the pavement, spying on the two women who cruise the streets in search of the
perfect man.
Sandra
lights up. She takes a drag and exhales a thin wisp of smoke. She looks
at Márgara, who looks disappointed. Her eyes,
so made up they look dead, fixed on the cars ahead—and not those behind. Sandra continues to smoke; on the
radio, Madonna sings feels so good inside, and they both lick their
lips. But nothing much happens. Nothing interesting: the more they try to have
a good time, the worse time they have. Maybe it would be better just to go
home.
Suddenly,
Márgara’s eyes light up. A veil of light falls
over her face. The illumination comes from the rear-view mirror, as if it were
covered with invisible reflectors. Sandra turns around quickly to see the two
round lights glaring into her face like panthers. The jet black car slows down
and begins to fall back. But only for an instant. The signal turns green. The
car advances, goes in the other lane and accelerates. It’s already
parallel with them. The blue Celica is reflected in its elegant black. Both
girls are silent, breathless. Its windows are also black and shining. No one
can be seen inside. They are very close, barely a few centimeters away. Both
cars shift to the same speed. Red light. The two stop.
They
are now side-by-side. Sandra, who already has her window down and her elbow
out, stares wide-eyed at the black windows. She would sell her soul and all for
the power to see who’s inside. And her desire is granted: the windows—all the windows—come down automatically. The lower they
open, the louder the rock blares out with a rhythm like the beating of a heart.
The interior of the car is lit up and a strange green light escapes from
widening spaces. Inside are four men, around twenty, twenty-five years old.
They appear taken from the pages of a men’s fashion magazine. They are
perfect, beautiful: their pleasantly tanned skin emanates a thick, attractive
fragrance that crosses from one car to the other. Each one is distinct, with
different hairstyles; same with their clothes, watches, faces. But their eyes
are the same. Or very similar. The same fixed, hard, ensnaring expression. The
stylization of their faces makes them look fake, manufactured—living mannequins that breathe, sweat,
prowl.
Green
light. Both take off. Márgara, without knowing why,
tunes the radio to the same station as the black car. Neither of the two
hurries ahead. They stay parallel. The guys don’t look at them. The girls
do nothing but contemplate with moist, open mouths those four sensational
specimens. Apoquindo seems slower, emptier. Red
light.
Sandra
blows a bubble with her pink gum. She is bursting with tension and excitement.
The four men still don’t look to the side. And they’re so close.
All she’d have to do is stretch out her hand a little to caress that hard
and serious chin, to run her fingers through that hair so like Sting’s—short, chestnut brown, and saturated
with gel. But the guy just quietly stares off into space, drumming his fingers
on the steering wheel. The other three fix their platinum eyes on a group of
prostitutes with synthetic fur jackets and stockings that work the corner of
Márgara floors the gas pedal, making the engine roar, but
doesn’t take off. The black car stays there, dauntless. Once more she
floors it, makes the tires smoke, and stops. The guys don’t respond. She
hits the gas, releases the clutch, hits and releases, puts it in gear: first
spins out then is off, second gear, flying, tearing up the road, full
throttle, seventy, ninety, spurring it all the way, and the black car shining
like a dark, electrified jaguar, as though zooming by from above, passing the
red sign of La Gente, the Bowling and
its world, leaving everyone in the dust, overtaking them all, clinging to their
side, close, the wind cool and strong, lashing their hair, stripping it of
everything, and Sandra who by now is almost completely out of the window,
euphoric and crazed, grabs her breasts and squeezes them till they nearly burst
through the material, shouting to them with all strength, wanna
play, boys?
And
she starts blowing them kisses, opening her mouth, wiping off her lipstick with
her tongue. Márgara keeps accelerating, already going
a hundred twenty, can’t stop, radio blaring, there’ll be
swinging, swaying, music playing, dancing in the streets and the guys, to
the girls’ surprise, begin to smile, to turn human, and they blow back
the kisses, holler back phrases, dirty words, winking, let’s go, Márgara, get closer, we’re going all the way with
these guys, I’ll take the ones up front, once in a lifetime, what have we
got to lose, girl? If we’re never gonna find
our Princes, at least a good fuck doesn’t hurt anyone, and the guys are
getting closer, smooth, slow, sliding up to their side, come, handsome, closer,
like that, wanna feel you, hot stuff, if your mama
knew, cutie, come, let me suck you, lick you and… shit! something
changes, the car goes wild, spitting sparks, trying to run them over, run them
off the road. The struggle, the war, the chaos begins; the black car charges
the Celica, tries to ram it, to destroy the rear door, and the battle rages,
only the street like a war zone and Márgara
accelerates, as fast as possible, while the guys in the black car yell dirty
words, more dirty words, insults, spitting gobs of phlegm and saliva, pulling
down their Wranglers pissing on the Celica, toying with their cocks, offering
them to the girls, and both radios, as if connected, as if the black car had
taken over, blare cryptic symphonies, low, dense sounds, diabolic chirping and
heavy guitar, enervating, metal rock, satanic rock and the mist, strange for
October, a grainy, greenish mist makes its entrance to the street, filling it
to the rooftops of the buildings, veiling the way, blocking the view, the
senses, paralyzing the reflections and the black car advances over the mattress
of mist, circling until it surrounds them in a purple, viscous tornado and, in
the midst of the cackling from a ways off and the metallic chaos emanating over
the conduit, disappears down a cross street, leaving only a trembling in the
leaves and a gust in the breeze.
Márgara and Sandra sit in the middle of Apoquindo,
their car stopped. The street is vacant, no people, no buses, no nothing. The
mist lingers and thickens. Both breathe deeply and try to forget what they have
so recently lived. The radio doesn’t work. Gone dead.
They
climb back in the car, start the engine, turn around, and head home in silence,
trying not to make any noise. It seems to take forever, as if the pavement was
running in the opposite direction. The reigning muteness of the isolated street
hasn’t lost its air of complicity. Márgara
looks in the mirror and in the distance sees two distant lights rapidly drawing
closer. She hits the gas like never before.
From
around the corner appears a black car that, sweeping diagonally across the
street, stations itself in front of them, blocking their path of escape. Out of
nowhere, two black cars pull up on either side. Márgara
looks in the rearview mirror again: another black car right on their tail. The
radio starts to play, rattling the windows. The motor dies down. The four cars
stop. A door opens.
(1986)
Translated
by
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Comparative Literature Department at The Graduate Center of the City University
of New York. It is published with the support of the Doctoral Student Council.
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