Editor’s Note
Alberto Fuguet’s Missing (una investigación), to be published in English as Missing (My Uncle’s Story), pushes the boundaries between fiction and autobiography, between prose and poetry, between memory and history. Fascinated by his uncle Carlos’ mysterious disappearance many years ago, Fuguet embarks on an imaginative reconstruction of Carlos Fuguet’s life after emigrating to the United States.
The following excerpt, exclusive in English, details the narrator (Alberto) visiting family members in California and the first time he meets Carlos, newly released from prison. The chapter is suffused with cultural tension, linguistic and otherwise, against the backdrop of a 1970’s Orange County that never quite lives up to anybody’s dreams.
Translator’s Note
“Missing is the epitome of a hybrid text. Throughout, Fuguet’s original Spanish is dusted with Anglicisms, and in translating this book, I endeavored to recreate that effect in an equal yet opposite manner. That was the most important thing, because these characters don’t inhabit a single country or a single language: they’re wandering down an unpaved cultural and linguistic street which connects two worlds that mix but haven’t quite set yet.” —Ezra Fitz
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The kid is sitting on a bench at the airport, watching the luggage circulate through the carousel. Suddenly he sees his bag. Sees it rolling along the conveyor belt. He remains seated. He checks his Seiko watch, and the time in Chile. It’s December. Two weeks before Christmas. And this is Los Angeles International Airport. This is where he left without saying goodbye, and set off for a black-and-white Third World country. And now he’s returning unprepared. He continues to watch the rolling luggage. He wishes he didn’t have to exit the terminal and meet the people waiting for him. He’d rather remain in this no man’s land of customs declarations, departure gates, and international police. The kid wants to cry, but he doesn’t dare. Especially not in public. He doesn’t know how. He can’t bear the emotions. He misses it all so much that he can barely breathe.
— — —
The kid doesn’t know why he agreed to come. He still feels like his mother betrayed him, that she didn’t fulfill her end of the bargain. He took her side, and now she was embarking on this adventure with some stranger. He knows what’s coming, and he doesn’t want it to happen: He’s here to visit his dad, to visit his paternal family, and to meet his dad’s new girlfriend. His bag is the only one left. A baggage handler asks whether it’s his. The kid lies and says no hablo inglés.
— — —
It’s 1981. It’s his first time back in California since going on vacation in Chile. But the vacation lasted forever, and now he feels like he’s returned to a country that’s no longer his. Like he no longer wants it to be his. He hated the Miami airport. All his thoughts and words are in Spanish. He left as a gringo child, and now he’s returning as a Chilean teenager.
— — —
He sees them, and they see him. His father looks like an American now; he’s dressed like Lee Majors. He’s forty-one years old, but he looks so young to have so much, thinks the kid, who will turn seventeen in three months’ time. His grandfather smiles in disbelief: the kid is taller than he is. He hugs the boy, who smells of cologne and hair gel. His grandmother is the same, with her sky-blue clothes and her white-lilac hair. She bursts into tears, squeezes him tight, and the kid likes this. He’s surprised that a family member would be so good as to embrace him, to love him, and this makes him feel better, makes him feel like he’s not so alone, like he’s not the only kid in the world. Everything looks modern, just like the movies, and completely unlike the airport in Santiago. He looks around, but doesn’t see her. His father’s new girlfriend is nowhere to be found. Maybe they already split up, he thinks. He hopes. Among those who are there are his godfather Javier and his wife Vickie, and his two young cousins, who have grown up some, though they’re still just kids.
— — —
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His grandfather’s car is luxurious, elegant, and timeless. A Cadillac, or something like that. The grandparents ride up front. He sits in the back with his father. They ask him the usual questions: how is this, how is that, how is so-and-so. The grandmother has a thermos and pours out some coffee. It’s a long drive. The freeway is monstrous, packed with cars, and lined with factories that resemble lit-up skyscrapers. The grandmother hands him a bottle of V-8 Juice; the kid hasn’t drank that stuff since he was five years old. Then she passes out candy bars: Hershey’s, Almond Joy, and Three Musketeers. Soon, the questions stop. The father looks out the window. So does the kid. Watching the passing cars. Nobody talks. The kid closes his eyes, feigning sleep. He feels like he’s already been in this city, with these people, for months. Far from his own world. Very far away indeed.
— — —
Everyone’s gathered there in the living room of his grandparents’ apartment on Ridge Route Road, in El Toro, Orange County. The kid feels like he’s at the end of the world. The TV shows are in color. He looks at the pictures on the mantle: pictures of him when he was younger, of his cousins, of his uncle. The kid asks about Uncle Carlos, but nobody has anything to say.
— — —
The kid tells his father that he has to call his mother. He says sure, but that it would be better to call from his place. He says that he lives in a smaller apartment across the patio and past the pool. You’re gonna stay with your grandparents, he explains, but we’re still gonna see each other every day. We can have dinner every night. We’re neighbors. They step outside and walk down the stairs. The pool is lit up and surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. It’s cold. The father pauses and says, before we go in, I have to tell you something. The kid replies, I know what you’re gonna say. What? asks the father. You’re gonna tell me that you’re living with someone. That’s right, he says. How did you know? They told me before I left Santiago. Is that okay? he asks. Whatever, the kid replies. You could have told me first. You could have called me, or at least sent me a letter. What do you want me to say? It is what it is. That’s all. They keep walking. Is she American? the kid asks, even though he already knows she isn’t. She’s Chilean, he replies. Ah, what luck, what are the chances you’d run into a Chilean woman here. The father doesn’t respond. They walk up the stairs to the second floor and open the door.
— — —
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The kid wasn’t expecting that the woman, who had been waiting inside for them, would look like an aunt. She seems normal; she could be a friend of his mother. She doesn’t look like a model or a porn star. She’s nothing like what everyone back in Santiago had assumed. She doesn’t come across as a lover; she comes across as a wife. The kid greets her with a polite, well-mannered kiss. She seems more nervous than he is. You live here, he asks. Yes, they both reply. Where’s the phone. The father goes into the one bedroom and pulls a sheet of paper covered with numbers and codes from under the phone. He dials. His mom answers. The kid tells his father to leave. He closes the door behind him. How was the trip, asks his mother. Fine, but I want to come home. I hate it here. He’s with a woman. Yeah it’s all true; he’s living with some chick. Take it easy on her, it’s not her fault. Whatever. She’s Chilean; I’m sure he met her there, brought her back to the States, and abandoned us. How are your grandparents, she asked. They don’t look old, but they sure look like gringos. Grandpa wears checkered pants. Mom, says the kid, Dad’s acting weird. I don’t know what to say, I don’t know how to talk to him. It’s like I don’t even know him. I want to go home. Now. Can you come get me, or send me a ticket, please?
— — —
The kid is lying in bed in the guest room at his grandparents’ apartment. It doubles as an office. There’s a desk there, papers, and a calendar covered in notes. The time change has got him upset and out-of-sorts. He’s stopped crying, or he just can’t cry any more, and the fact that he still feels these things at his age bothers him even more. He sees the light of dawn; hears people moving in the bathrooms and kitchen. He closes his eyes again. A knock at the door wakes him. His grandmother looks in to say that they’re leaving for work. There’s a key for him on the kitchen counter. Help yourself to the fridge. We’ll be back later this afternoon. And help yourself to the fridge.
— — —
The kid has a V-8, cottage cheese, fried salami, and apple juice. All things he can’t get in Chile. He pokes his nose around the house, but doesn’t dare enter his grandparents’ room. He’s still in his pajamas. He turns on the TV. There’s like nine channels. He unpacks his suitcase and stores his things in the empty dresser drawer. He comes across a paperback with a half-naked couple on the cover. He looks at the dedication inscribed by his teacher. Reminisces about how they kissed, deeply, in the car, and how she then pushed him away, slapped him, said they couldn’t go through with this, that it was a mistake. Her tongue in his mouth, the fingers that undid the zipper of those gray trousers and played with the pubic hair underneath. He tries to read the book. He gets three pages in, and he can’t understand a thing. He tucks it away in his nightstand. He goes into the living room to sit down and watch TV. Nothing but shows with people yelling and fighting. Out of sheer boredom, he starts to touch himself through his pajamas.
— — —
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The apartment door opens. It’s his grandfather. It’s 12:15. What is he doing home at this time of day, he thinks. How are you, he says. I didn’t think you’d be home until tonight, Grandpa, he replies. Don’t be so informal with me, I’m not your father, he says dryly. I work half days, he explains. Did you just get up? Yes, the kid lies. I’m jet lagged. Go take a shower, and put on a robe. I don’t have a robe. Use one of mine. The grandfather changes the channel and puts on the news. The kid doesn’t move. The grandfather looks over at him and says, I don’t like people watching me when I watch the news. You’ve got your own room; use it. The kid says that there’s no TV in there. Then read. You’re supposed to be smart, so read.
— — —
His cousin Geraldine has a birthday. She’s turning three or four, or maybe even five. The kid’s been in Orange County for half a week now. It’s a Sunday. There’s food and cake and a good number of people. The apartment is full of relatives he can barely remember. Everyone is speaking Spanish. They’re all gawking at how big she it, how tall. His cousin Eddie is watching TV and eating a jar of salted peanuts. An aunt whom he remembers being a good friend of his mother asks about her, about relatives in Chile, about Santiago. A younger aunt, his father’s cousin, questions him periodically. Her name is Sandra, and she’s obsessed with the Providencia section of Santiago. She asks about Café Tavelli, about the Galería Drugstore, and Pollo-Stop. Sandra asks the kid what slang is still in fashion. Do they still use choriflai to mean like groovy? No, he says, they don’t. It’s all choro, la raja, descueve, things like that. The grandfather shakes his head. I can’t believe it, he snorts, I can’t believe decent people would talk like that. But the kid doesn’t see the problem; everyone he knows talks like that, so he doesn’t even realize it. What else? Do they say caballo? asks Sandra. No, not anymore, that’s really old school. Huevón, the kid says, they say that all the time. It’s like a verb, an adjective, whatever you need it to be. A total wild card. Puta la hueá, hueón, la media huevá, el huevón huea, no huevís, ¿me estás hueveando?, dónde se me quedó la huevada. You know, like when you talk in English about being a big baller, going balls to the wall, ballin’ on the courts, ballin’ your girl, busting your balls, cold as balls, you don’t have the balls to do it. Stuff like that. That’s a lie, interrupts the grandfather, who hadn’t missed one beat in this private dialogue between Sandra and the kid. You’re all just spouting lies. That’s not how good and decent people speak. Only a no-class bum would talk like that. That’s not true, Grandpa. Everyone does. I do. And so do the other kids. In that case, then you’re a bum, too. The kid doesn’t know how to respond. Everyone falls silent, staring. Maybe, but it takes one to know one. No it doesn’t, the grandfather snaps. It does, and it’s true. Everyone talks like that now. If you’re going to tell lies, you can get out of this house. I won’t put up with this sort of behavior. What behavior are you talking about, says the kid. I’m not lying. Everyone uses the word huevón. Even your own son. The grandfather looks at the father, who looks down at the floor. He doesn’t talk like that in front of me. Well, in front of me he does. He says things like son of a bitch, fuck that shit, puta la huevada. That’s how he talks. My mom says huevón, too. Everybody does. Then you’re mother’s a bum, too, the grandfather says, his face flushed. No more than you, sir. I’m sorry, but in this case, you’re a bum, too. Get out of this house, you snot-nosed brat. It’s obvious you take after your mother; this is the kind of thing that I’d expect from her. Hey, don’t talk like that about my mother. This is my house. I talk how I want about whomever I want. Now get out. I told you to get out. You’re an old fucking asshole, the kid said to his face. The grandfather takes a swing at him, but the kid catches his arm in midair. I’m sorry sir, are we back in Chile? I thought this was a civilized country. The kid leaves, he leaves and runs off, runs for blocks and blocks through the night until he’s completely lost. It’s very late by the time he finds his way back to his father’s apartment. His father asks if he’s calmed down, and explains that his father is just old fashioned. The kid asks him who he thinks was right. Nobody, the father says. The kid asks if he stuck up for him, defended him, took a swing at his old man or something. You started it, the father replied. I didn’t start anything, said the kid. But if I did, the guy’s like sixty years older than me.
— — —
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One day the kid bumps into his grandfather while the two of them are alone in the apartment. The kid has overslept after staying up late to watch TV at his father’s place. His grandfather doesn’t speak to him. He hasn’t spoken to him ever since the argument at the birthday party. The grandfather doesn’t even look at him; he avoids him entirely. He didn’t give him anything for Christmas, not an acknowledgement, not even a thought. The kid thinks his father should step in and do something, but he can see that everyone in the family regards him with a skewed sense of fear and respect. The kid is afraid of him, but there is no respect. Maybe that’s the difference.
— — —
His grandmother doesn’t do any cleaning work on Thursdays. It’s hard to picture her as a maid. His grandmother in Chile had a maid of her own. Thursday is one of his favorite days because the psychopath isn’t home in the mornings. He describes the situation to his mother in a letter: That psychopath still won’t speak to or even make eye contact with me. He’s one messed-up dude. Another reason the kid likes Thursdays is because it’s the day his grandmother makes pancakes. One time they catch a bus to the Laguna Hills Mall, and the grandmother gives him some money which the kid spends on a few books and a corduroy jacket with a fleece lining for the colder weather. Another Thursday they go have lunch at Bob’s Big Boy. The grandmother orders coffee and a chicken sandwich. The kid asks her if the grandfather is ever going to speak to him again. He’ll get over it, she says, but the kid is unconvinced. He’ll never speak to him again as long as he lives. Then the kid asks her about his Uncle Carlos. She replies that visiting hours are on Sundays, and that he’s been asking about him. He asks if jail is a scary place. She says that it’s a nice place surrounded by grassy lawns and trees. The kid asks if Carlos has ever killed anybody. She replies that Carlos is a good guy who ran into some tough times, someone who just lost his way. So why is he in jail, the kid asks. Because he gave in to temptation, he took something that didn’t belong to him, and now he has to make amends and learn his lesson. The kid says he’d like to write him a letter; his grandmother says that she will take it to him, and that Carlos will be thrilled. The kid tells her good things about his uncle, about when he lived in the Valley and he would come visit them and bring them things, or take them sightseeing or to play in the park. The grandmother tells him that his uncle is going to be released a few days before the kid leaves to go back to Chile.
— — —
The kid is beginning to learn the routine. He has a silk robe. His grandparents usually get up around five in the morning. His grandfather does something for Cadillac, and always gets home at exactly 12:15. He watches TV, leafs through Reader’s Digest, has a sandwich with a cup of tea. Then he leaves to go look for the grandmother at one of the houses she cleans near the ocean. They return to the apartment around four in the afternoon. On Tuesdays, they get home a little later, because that’s when they stop by the grocery store. They’re usually asleep by eleven, and sometimes even earlier. The kid avoids his grandfather, trying not to be left alone with him because even the idea of it makes him feel something between disgusted and amused. His father leaves at two in the morning and returns home around three in the afternoon, but he takes a siesta in there somewhere. His father delivers bread all throughout the region. The new woman in his life leaves around six in the morning and returns around four in the afternoon. He isn’t sure exactly what she does, but it has something to do with a local school. They eat at five while watching the news, and they’re asleep by ten. The kid watches the late night talk shows or old movies until around one, when his father gets up and prepares for work. With the allowance his old man gives him, he bought a cheap alarm clock. He sleeps in his room until ten thirty or so. He gets up and takes a shower, and he always tries to be out of the house by eleven-thirty. From there, he goes to his father’s apartment. His father is usually napping, and mutters a few things to him without opening his eyes before the kid goes off to his room. On Sundays his grandparents get up at six and go off to visit uncle Carlos, who is incarcerated in some place called Chino. Those days he sleeps to around ten, has a quick bite with his father and his girlfriend, and leaves on a Sunday stroll.
— — —
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He likes going for walks. He walks three blocks to a gas station and buys a paper. The film listings take up pages and pages, and he likes to check out the promos. All the films that he wants to see are, of course, in Los Angeles, far to the North of El Toro. He also grabs a couple rock and roll and movie magazines. At a bookstore, he picks up a collection of film reviews titled When the Lights Go Down. He marks the movies he wants to see with stars. Realizes that he hasn’t seen very many. He reads and rereads it over and over again. Later he buys another collection of reviews by the same critic, titled Deeper Into Movies. One hot afternoon he goes to the pool, but the water is freezing. The father always falls asleep when they watch TV. Sometimes they go shopping at the mall. Once he bought him a pair of cowboy boots that the kid new he’d never wear back in Santiago. They go to the theater, they see premiers, movies like Reds and Ragtime and Taps.
— — —
The kid writes a few letters, including a love letter to the girl he likes, asking forgiveness for acting stupid on that idiotic school trip to Brazil. The girl never writes back. They drive around: Hollywood, San Diego, the desert, the mountains. The kid would like to get out on his own, but he doesn’t have a car. There are so few busses. One day he takes one to the beach and is three hours late getting home. He doesn’t like riding the busses. He devotes himself to walking around the neighborhood. He wanders and wanders along empty sidewalks. He never gets anywhere. He does laps around supermarkets, around the mall. He spends time at a lame old WaldenBooks. He’s bored. But it’s not the end of the world. It’s almost time. It’s almost time to go home. The life he has in Santiago is absolutely nothing like what he’s got here, he thinks. He doesn’t have any friends with cars, no friends at all, no minibuses, no subways, no parties, no seedy pool halls or video arcades. Back there, he lives; here, he hopes. He hates American life. It just seems so pathetic. The kid promises himself he’ll never be an immigrant. Here, everybody hopes, he writes to his mother. It’s just what they do: They hope. They wait and they hope to one day return to Chile, they hope for happiness, they hope for death.
— — —
The kid gets a letter from his mother in the mail. It talks about Santiago, about summer vacations in Maitencillo. She asks the kid to promise her that he’ll be very careful when Carlos is released from prison. He could be a bad influence. Who knows what he’s done, or what’s been done to him, she says. I know he’s caring and loves you very much, but just be careful. He is, after all, someone who committed a crime.
— — —
One day the kid is in his room reading a magazine. He’s been waiting for his grandfather to arrive. He hears the door open. The kid gets up and goes down to the kitchen and looks him straight in the eyes. The grandfather looks away. You’re gonna talk to me, he tells him. Don’t be stupid, he snaps. You already tried that, the kid replied. Look, I don’t want to be here any more than you want me to be here. The grandfather carefully prepares a sandwich. The kid watches as he carefully spreads a layer of mustard on the bread. At least I don’t have a kid in prison, he says. I bet when Carlos gets out, he goes off and steals everything in sight. No response from the grandfather; he simply sits down in his recliner and lights up a cigarette. You smoke too much; it’s gonna give you cancer, he says. The grandfather flips on the TV and leans back. I hope you get lung cancer, and I hope you suffer, he adds. Then the kid storms out, slamming the door behind him, and heads over to his father’s apartment, where he drinks an entire glass of vodka. He falls asleep on the sofa with the TV blaring.
— — —
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The kid is riding in the back seat of the car. They’re on their way back from watching Queen Mary in Long Beach. Six days until he returns to Santiago, to his senior year of school. February is ending; it’s 1982. The kid is counting down the days until he leaves. Today, though, all he wants to do is get back to his grandparents’ apartment. Today’s the day Carlos is released from prison. From what his grandmother told him, they went to pick him up in Chino. Carlos was to be back at the house around one in the afternoon. It’s already four. Finally, they’re home. The kid runs up to the apartment and unlocks the door. Carlos is there, wearing a red shirt. Carlos doesn’t seem like Carlos. Carlos doesn’t seem to have anything to do with Carlos. Carlos looks frightening, scary. Carlos hugs the kid, who feels a mix of revulsion and fear. He looks like a murderer. He’s got long hair and an enormous, graying beard as if he were some Bolshevik revolutionary. He looks old and fat. Very fat. They say you eat a lot on the inside. The kid’s father comes in, followed by his girlfriend. The father embraces his brother and introduces the woman. Their other brother is there as well. They’re all sitting around, watching TV. The kid doesn’t know what to say, so he keeps quiet. Nobody brings up prison. Slowly, bit by bit, the kid begins to recognize the face, the mannerisms, the vestiges of the Carlos he remembers from the early seventies. His grandmother chimes in and says that she’s packed the kid’s things. For these last few days, Carlos will be staying in his room, while the kid will be sleeping on the sofa at his father’s apartment.
— — —
The next morning, the kid heads over to his grandparents’ apartment to find Carlos is still sleeping. He knocks on the bedroom door, he enters. Carlos continues to sleep. The room smells like a condemned man. The kid tells Carlos to wake up, that his father will be home at 12:15, and that it’s best not to be here when he arrives, because he’s really disagreeable. Carlos looks at him, his eyes still heavy with sleep, and says: You know what? You’re right.
— — —
The kid invites Carlos over to his father’s apartment. Carlos takes a seat on the sofa. The kid offers him a drink. Carlos accepts. The kid mixes up two double Bloody Marys. Carlos opens the window and lights up a cigarette. Carlos asks him if he’d care for a smoke; the kid says no. Carlos asks the kid if he’s ever smoked marijuana. The kid says he prefers cocaine. Carlos says he seems cool, says he thinks they’ll get along just fine. They talk all afternoon about sex, drugs, rock and roll, and movies. Carlos asks about Chile, about the dictatorship, about Santiago. The kid tells him about the grandfather. Carlos replies that he’s a cowardly old son of a bitch. A bitter failure as a man. And he wears checkered pants, the kid chimes in. Around two o’clock the father comes home and sees them. The look on his face says it all. Have you been drinking? he asks. The kid is pretty buzzed. Carlos is the best, he says to his father. Yeah, Carlos is the best, he says before tripping and falling on the carpet, laughing hysterically.
— — —
The kid’s father isn’t very good at expressing himself verbally, but one thing is left crystal clear: Carlos shouldn’t be left alone with the kid. But there is nobody around to enforce this. The kid is alone in one apartment, with Carlos alone in the other. The kid calls up his uncle, and they talk about a thousand different things. Carlos invites him to come along to the barber shop with him. They walk eight long blocks until they reach the outskirts of El Toro. The kid is telling him about The Police and The Clash; in return, the uncle buys him a Warren Zevon album. He says Joan Jett is hot. I’d do her. Carlos gets a crew cut, and the kid does the same. Now my father won’t be able to bitch about my long hair, he says. The barber is Honduran, and the two of them talk politics. The barber starts trimming his beard; it takes a good amount of time. Carlos looks better, younger, without a beard. He and the kid go to Der Wienerschnitzel for hot dogs. Carlos asks the kid for a few bucks; he goes into a liquor store and buys a bottle of tequila. They head for a park, and they pass the bottle back and forth, taking swigs. The park has a duck pond. Carlos is critical of this bourgeoisie world; he says it’s all just a bunch of shit, and when he completes the terms of his parole he wants to go off, fly away, travel around, and never settle down. After awhile, a couple of girls pull up in a black Mustang. Carlos introduces the kid. He met the girls in the liquor store. Carlos told them they would be here. The girls pull out a few joints. The kid coughs and coughs, but he manages to get a hit. One of the girls says why don’t they go back to her place, that she’s got a Jacuzzi. The kid figures that Carlos Fuguet must be the coolest, most boss guy on the planet.
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Carlos wakes up to the sound of the phone ringing. The kid has three days left before he has to leave. Carlos tells him he wants to say goodbye, that the weekend is getting near, and that his father would want to have him to himself then. Carlos says he wants to take him to go see a new movie that afternoon called Missing. Yeah, I know it, says the kid. I read about it in the paper. That film will never be shown in Chile. Ever. They meet up in front of the building and wait for the bus. At the mall, they transfer to another bus, and then to a third bus after that. It’s like a three hour ride to Costa Mesa, where they arrive at another, much larger mall. They walk up to the theater box office and buy two tickets to the matinee. They enter the mall and make their way to a bookstore. Carlos selects a book with a cover identical to the movie poster. He buys two copies, and hands one to the kid. Hide it in your luggage, and don’t read it until you get to Santiago. They have a coffee; Carlos talks about politics, and asks him a bunch of questions. The kid can’t really answer them. Carlos tells him he needs to get more informed, that he’s only a year away from starting college. They cross the immense road and enter the theater. Carlos says that if he had stayed in Chile, he might have gone missing himself. So I went missing in a different sort of way, he says, but the kid doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Nor does he know that this would be the last time the two of them would be together.
Used with permission.
Crédito: Wikimedia Commons
El chico se sienta en un banco del aeropuerto y mira las maletas girar por la correa. De inmediato ve la suya. Ve cómo da vueltas. Sigue sentado. Mira su reloj Seiko y la hora de Chile. Es diciembre, faltan dos semanas para Navidad, y este es el aeropuerto internacional de Los Ángeles. De aquí salió sin despedirse para partir a un país tercermundista en blanco y negro; ahora regresa sin estar preparado. Mira las maletas. Desearía no tener que salir a la terminal y encontrarse con los que le esperan. Le gustaría quedarse en esa tierra de nadie que son las aduanas, las puertas de embarque y policía internacional. El chico quiere llorar pero no se atreve, no sabe cómo. Menos, en público. El chico no tolera sentir todo lo que siente. El chico echa tanto de menos que siente que no puede respirar.
— — —
El chico no entiende por qué aceptó venir. El chico siente que su madre lo traicionó y no cumplió la parte del pacto. Él se puso de su lado y, ahora, ella lo embarcó en esta aventura con este desconocido. Sabe a lo que viene y no quiere que suceda: ha llegado a ver a su papá, a visitar a su familia paterna, a conocer a la nueva mujer de su padre. Su maleta es la única que existe. Un tipo de la aerolínea se le acerca y le pregunta si esa es su maleta. El chico le miente y le dice que no sabe inglés.
— — —
Es 1981. Es la primera vez que regresa a California desde que fue de vacaciones a Chile. Las vacaciones duraron para siempre aunque ahora siente que está en un país que ya no es el suyo. Que ya no quiere que sea el suyo. Odió el aeropuerto de Miami. Todo lo que piensa y siente es en castellano. Se fue un niño gringo y ahora es un adolescente chileno.
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Los ve, lo ven. Su padre ahora parece americano, se viste como Lee Majors. Tiene cuarenta y un años pero se ve menor para tener tanto, piensa el chico que cumplirá diecisiete en tres meses más. Su abuelo sonríe, no puede creer que ahora el muchacho es más alto que él. Lo abraza; huele a colonia y a gomina. Su abuela está igual, anda de celeste y tiene el pelo levemente lila-blanco. La abuela se pone a llorar y lo abraza y lo aprieta y les gusta eso, le sorprende que alguien de la familia sea tan buena para abrazar y querer, y al verla se siente mejor, siente que no es el único tipo en el mundo, se siente menos solo. Todo se ve moderno, igual que en las películas, nada que ver con el aeropuerto de Santiago. Mira pero no la ve. La mujer de su padre no está. Quizás se separaron, piensa. Ojalá. Sí está su padrino, Javier, y su mujer, Vickie, y sus dos primos chicos que están más grandes pero siguen siendo chicos.
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Crédito: Wikimedia Commons
El auto de su abuelo es fino, elegante, eterno. Un Cadillac o algo parecido. Sus abuelos van adelante. Él va atrás junto a su padre. Le preguntan las típicas cosas: que cómo están estos, esos, aquellos. La abuela tiene un termo y sirve café. El viaje es largo. Andan por una carretera inmensa, llena de autos, que pasa por fábricas que parecen rascacielos de luces. La abuela le pasa un tarro de jugo V-8 que no ha tomado en al menos cinco años. Le pasa barras de chocolate Hershey, Almond Joy, Three Musketeers. Pronto terminan las preguntas. El padre mira por la ventana. El chico también. Mira pasar los autos. Nadie habla. El chico se hace el dormido pero no duerme. Piensa que le quedan más de sesenta días en esa ciudad, con esa gente, lejos de su mundo, lejos de sí.
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Todos están reunidos en el living del departamento de sus abuelos, en la calle Ridge Route, en El Toro, Orange County. El chico siente que está en el fin del mundo. La televisión es a color. Mira las fotos en la repisa: fotos de él cuando chico, de sus primos, de su tío. El chico pregunta por su tío Carlos pero nadie dice nada.
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El chico le dice a su padre que quedó de llamar a su madre. Él le dice que perfecto pero que es mejor que llame de su casa. El padre le explica que él vive en un departamento más chico que está al otro lado del patio, más allá de la piscina. Tú vas a alojar con tus abuelos, le explica, pero nos veremos todos los días. Podemos comer todas las noches, somos vecinos. Salen y bajan la escala. La piscina está iluminada y rodeada por una reja. Hace frío. El padre se detiene y le dice: antes de entrar tengo que decirte algo. El chico le responde: sé lo que me vas a decir. Qué, le pregunta el padre. Me vas a decir que vives con alguien. Sí, le dice. ¿Cómo sabes? Supe, me contaron en Santiago. ¿Te parece bien?, le pregunta. Me parece no más, qué quieres que te diga. Pudiste decírmelo antes, por carta, por teléfono. Ahora qué quieres que te diga. Es, no más. Es. Siguen caminando. ¿Es americana?, le pregunta el chico aunque sabe que no lo es. Es chilena, le dice. Ah, qué casualidad, qué suerte, conocer una chilena acá. El padre no le responde. Suben a un segundo piso y abre la puerta.
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Crédito: Wikimedia Commons
El chico no esperaba que la mujer, que estaba adentro, pareciera una tía. Es normal, podría ser amiga de su madre. No parece una modelo o una actriz porno. No es como todos se la imaginaban en Santiago. No tiene cara de amante sino de esposa. El chico la saluda de beso, educado. Ella se ve más nerviosa que él. Aquí viven, pregunta. Sí, le dicen los dos. Dónde está el teléfono. El padre lo lleva al único dormitorio y saca de debajo del teléfono una papel lleno de números y códigos. Marcan. Atiende su mamá. El chico le dice al padre que salga. El padre cierra la puerta. Cómo llegaste, le dice su madre. Bien, pero me quiero volver. Lo odio. Está con su mujer. Todo es verdad: vive con una mina. Sé bueno con ella, no tiene la culpa. Cómo que no. Es chilena, seguro que la conoció allá, se la trajo, nos abandonó. Cómo están tus abuelos, le pregunta. No tan viejos, pero muy gringos. El abuelo usa pantalones a cuadros. Mamá, le dice el chico, mi papá es raro; no sé qué decirle, no sé de qué hablarle. No lo conozco. Me quiero volver, ahora. Ahora. Venme a buscar, envíame un pasaje, por favor.
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El chico está en la cama que le tocó en la pieza de alojados en el departamento de sus abuelos. Es una oficinapieza. Hay un escritorio de su abuelo y papeles y un calendario lleno de anotaciones. El cambio de hora lo tiene alterado, enredado. Ha parado de llorar, ya no puede llorar más, le molesta que a su edad sienta esas cosas. Ve la luz del amanecer. Escucha el ruido de las duchas, de la cocina. Se duerme. Unos golpes lo despiertan. Entra su abuela y le dice que se están yendo al trabajo. Que dejó una llave para él en la cocina. Que coma lo que quiera. Llegarán a la tarde. Que coma lo que quiera.
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El chico toma jugo de tomate V-8, come cottage cheese, torrejas de salame, jugo de manzana. Come todo lo que no hay en Chile. Intrusea por la casa pero no se atreve a entrar a la pieza de sus abuelos. Sigue en pijama. Enciende el televisor. Hay como nueve canales. Desarma su maleta y guarda sus cosas en el cajón que le dejaron libre. Encuentra una novela con una pareja desnuda en la portada. Mira la dedicatoria que le colocó su profesora. Recuerda cómo se besaron, con lengua, en el auto y cómo ella luego lo empujó fuera y le dio una bofetada y le dijo que no podían seguir, que era un error. La lengua se la metió ella, la mano que le bajó el cierre del pantalón gris y jugó con su vello púbico también. Trata de leer el libro. Lee tres páginas y no entiende nada. Lo guarda en su velador. Se sienta en el living y mira televisión. Programas donde la gente se grita y se pega. De aburrido empieza a tocarse a través del pijama.
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Crédito: Wikimedia Commons
La puerta del departamento se abre. Es su abuelo. Son las doce quince del día. Qué hace de vuelta a esta hora, piensa. Cómo está, le dice. Pensé que llegabas a la noche, Abuelo, le dice. No me trates de tú, no soy tu padre, le dice, seco. Trabajo medio día, le explica. ¿Recién se despertó? Sí, le miente el chico. Por el cambio de hora. Vaya a ducharse y use una bata. No tengo bata. Le pasaré una mía. El abuelo cambia de canal, pone el noticiero. El chico se queda a su lado. El abuelo lo mira y le dice: no me gusta que me miren cuando miro televisión. Usted tiene su pieza, úsela. El chico le dice que no tiene televisión. Entonces lea, ¿no dicen que usted es tan inteligente? Lea.
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Su prima Geraldine cumple años, cuatro o tres, quizás cinco. El chico lleva como cuatro días en Orange County. Es un domingo. Hay torta y comida y bastante gente. El departamento está lleno de parientes que apenas recuerda. Todos hablan castellano. Todos le dicen que está grande, que está alto. Su primo Eddie mira televisión y se come un pote de maní salado. Una tía que él recuerda como bien amiga de su madre le pregunta por ella, por sus abuelos de Chile, por Santiago. Otra tía, más joven, prima de su padre, lo interroga por lugares. Ella se llama Sandra y está obsesionada con Providencia. Le pregunta por el Tavelli, por el Drugstore, por el Pollo-Stop. Sandra la pregunta al chico qué palabras están de moda. Todavía se usa choriflai. No, le dice, no. Choro, la raja, descueve. No creo, comenta el abuelo, no creo que la gente decente hable así. El chico no entiende lo que dice porque toda la gente que conoce habla así, por lo que no lo toma en cuenta. ¿Qué más? ¿Dicen caballo?, pregunta Sandra. No, caballo no, es como antiguo, pasado de moda. Huevón, dice el chico, eso se usa mucho. Es como un verbo, un adjetivo, un comodín. Puta la hueá, hueón, la media huevá, el huevón huea, no huevís, ¿me estás hueveando?, dónde se me quedó la huevada. Mentira, le dice el abuelo que no se ha saltado una palabra de este diálogo privado entre el chico y Sandra. Mentira, no mienta, la gente decente, bien, no habla así, así hablan los rotos. No es así, abuelo, todos hablan así. Yo hablo así, los jóvenes hablan así. Entonces usted también es un roto. El chico no sabe qué responderle. Todos callan, los miran. Quizás, pero da como lo mismo. No da lo mismo, le replica. Sí da. Todos hablan así. Si quiere mentir, mienta fuera de esta casa, no voy a aceptar ese comportamiento. Qué comportamiento, le dice el chico, no estoy mintiendo, todos usan la palabra huevón. Su hijo usa la palabra. El abuelo mira al padre, que mira el suelo. Nunca delante de mí, dice. Delante de mí, sí: puta la huevada, la puta que lo parió. Así habla, mi mamá también dice huevón, todos lo dicen. Entonces tu madre es una rota, le dice, rojo. No más que usted, señor; disculpe pero el roto es usted. Sale de esta casa, mocoso maleducado, se nota que la que te cría es tu madre, qué se puede esperar de ella. No hable mal de mi madre, por favor. Hablo como quiero de quien quiero, esta es mi casa. Sale, te dije, sale. Viejo culeado, le dice, en su cara. El abuelo trata de pegarle pero el chico le agarra el brazo. ¿Acá no estamos en un país civilizado? Ya no estamos en Chile, señor. El chico sale, sale y corre, corre y corre por las calles oscuras hasta que se pierde. Se demora en llegar. Llega al departamento de su padre. Su padre le pregunta si está calmado y le dice que su padre es un tipo a la antigua. El chico le pregunta quién cree que tiene la razón. El padre le dice que ninguno. El chico le pregunta si lo defendió, si le pegó a su padre o algo. Tú partiste, le dice. Yo no partí, le contesta. Y si hubiera partido, tengo como sesenta años menos que él.
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Crédito: Wikimedia Commons
El chico se topa un día con su abuelo, los dos están solos en el departamento. El chico se ha quedado dormido. Estuvo viendo televisión hasta muy tarde en la casa de su padre. Su abuelo no le habla. No le ha hablado desde que sucedió el conflicto para ese cumpleaños. El abuelo no lo mira, lo evita. Para Navidad no le dijo nada, no lo tocó, no lo miró, no le regaló nada. El chico cree que su padre debería intervenir pero capta que todos le tienen miedo y respeto. El chico lo teme pero no lo respeta, quizás esa es la diferencia.
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Su abuela no trabaja haciendo aseo los jueves. Le cuesta imaginarse que sea una empleada doméstica. Su abuela en Chile tenía empleada doméstica. El jueves es uno de los mejores días porque durante la mañana el sicópata no está. Así le dice a su madre por correo: el sicópata sigue sin hablar ni mirarme; es un picado. Su abuela le cocina los jueves panqueques, lo que quiera. Un jueves van en bus al Laguna Hills Mall y le pasa dinero y se gasta el dinero en libros y en una chaqueta de cotelé con chiporro para el frío. Otro jueves van en bus a un restorán llamado Bob’s Big Boy a almorzar. La abuela pide café y un sándwich de pollo. El chico le pregunta si su abuelo le va a hablar. Ya se le va a quitar, le dice, pero el chico entiende que no, que nunca le va a hablar mientras viva. El chico le pregunta a su abuela sobre su tío Carlos. Ella le cuenta que lo van a ver los domingos y que Carlos pregunta por él. El chico le pregunta si no le da miedo la cárcel. Ella le dice que es un sitio bonito, rodeado de pasto y árboles. El chico le pregunta si Carlos ha matado gente. Ella le dice que Carlos es un chico bueno que «se perdió», que le ha tocado duro. Por qué está preso, le pregunta. Porque tomó de lo ajeno, se tentó y ahora está pagando porque esas cosas no se hacen y aprendió su lección. El chico le dice que le gustaría mandarle una carta, ella le dice que se la va a dar, que Carlos estaría feliz. El chico le cuenta cosas buenas de su tío, cuando él vivía en el valle y él los iba a ver, los sacaba a pasear, les llevaba cosas, jugaba con ellos. La abuela le dice al chico que su tío va a salir libre unos días antes de que regrese a Chile.
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El chico empieza a entender las rutinas. Tiene una bata de seda. Sus abuelos se levantan tipo cinco de la mañana. Su abuelo trabaja en algo con Cadillacs y regresa, siempre, a las doce y cuarto. Ve televisión, lee The Reader’s Digest, come un sándwich con una taza de té. Luego sale a buscar a la abuela a una de las casas que limpia cerca del mar. Regresan a eso de las cuatro de la tarde. Los martes llegan más tarde porque pasan al supermercado. Generalmente están durmiendo antes de las once de la noche, a veces incluso más temprano. El chico se preocupa de no ver a su abuelo, de no estar con él porque ya le da entre asco y risa. Su padre se levanta a las dos de la mañana y regresa a su departamento como a las tres de la tarde pero duerme siesta. Su padre reparte pan por todo el sector. La nueva mujer del padre sale como a las seis de la mañana y llega a las cuatro de la tarde. No tiene claro qué hace pero tiene que ver con un colegio. Comen a las cinco de la tarde mirando las noticias. Están durmiendo antes de las diez de la noche. El chico ve los late-shows o películas antiguas hasta la una de la mañana antes de que su padre se levante. Con el dinero que le dio su Tata se compró un despertador barato. Duerme en su pieza hasta las diez y media. Se ducha y sale, siempre intenta salir del departamento antes de las once y media. Se va al departamento de su padre. Ahí ve tele hasta que llega su padre. Él le dice un par de cosas y se queda dormido, se va a la pieza a dormir. Los domingos sus abuelos se levantan a las seis y parten a ver a su tío Carlos que está en la cárcel en un lugar llamado Chino. Ese día duerme hasta como las diez y cruza a desayunar con su padre y su mujer y luego van a un paseo dominical.
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Crédito: Wikimedia Commons
A veces sale a caminar. Camina tres cuadras a una estación de servicio y compra el diario. La sección de cine es inmensa y le gustan los avisos. Todas las películas que desea ver, eso sí, se exhiben en Los Ángeles, que está lejos. También compra revistas de rock y de cine. En una librería compró un libro de críticas de cine llamado When The Lights Go Down. Marca con estrellitas las que ha visto. Capta que ha visto muy pocas. Las lee y relee. Luego compra otro libro de la misma crítica, Deeper Into Movies. Un día hizo calor y fue a la piscina pero el agua estaba helada. El padre siempre se queda dormido cuando ven televisión. A veces salen a comprar, al mall. Una vez le compró botas de vaquero que el chico sabe que nunca usará en Santiago. Van al cine, ven estrenos, cosas como Reds y Ragtime y Taps.
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El chico escribe algunas cartas, le escribe una carta de amor a la chica que le gusta y le pide perdón por lo estúpido que se portó en el viaje idiota de curso a Brasil. La chica nunca le responde. Hacen paseos: a Hollywood, a San Diego, al desierto, a la nieve. Al chico le gustaría salir por su cuenta pero no tiene auto. Casi no hay buses. Un día tomó un bus a la playa y se demoró tres horas en llegar. No le gusta andar en buses. Se dedica a caminar por el barrio. Camina y camina por veredas vacías. Nunca llega a ninguna parte. Da vueltas por supermercados, por el mall. Pasa tiempo en una librería pésima que se llama WaldenBooks. Se aburre. Pero no es el fin del mundo. Queda menos, le queda menos para volver. La vida que tiene en Santiago no se parece en nada a la que tiene acá, piensa. No tiene amigos con autos, no tiene amigos, no hay micros, metro, fiestas, juegos Delta. Allá vive, acá espera. Odia la vida americana, le parece patética. El chico se promete nunca ser un inmigrante. Acá todos esperan, le escribe a su madre. Es lo que todos hacen: esperar. Esperan regresar a Chile, esperan jubilar, esperan morir.
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El chico recibe una carta de su madre. Le cuenta de Santiago, del veraneo en Maitencillo. La madre del chico le pide que le prometa que cuando Carlos salga de la cárcel que tenga cuidado. Puede ser una mala influencia. Quién sabe qué ha hecho o le han hecho, le dice. Sé que es cariñoso y siempre los quiso mucho pero ten cuidado. Es, mal que mal, alguien que ha cometido un crimen.
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El chico un día está en su pieza leyendo una revista. Ha estado esperando que llegue su abuelo. Éste llega. El chico sale y va a la cocina y lo mira a los ojos. El abuelo no lo mira. Me va a hablar, le dice. No sea maleducado, le responde. Ya me dijo eso, le dice. Yo también me quiero ir, le dice. El abuelo prepara su sándwich con delicadeza. El chico se fija cómo esparce mostaza en su pan. Al menos no tengo un hijo en la cárcel, le dice. Seguro que cuando Carlos salga le va a robar todo. El abuelo no le responde, se va a su asiento reclinable y enciende un cigarrillo. Usted fuma mucho, le va a dar cáncer, le dice. El abuelo enciende el televisor y se echa para atrás. Ojalá que le dé y que sufra, agrega. El chico sale, cierra la puerta de un portazo y se va a la casa de su padre, donde se toma un vaso entero de vodka. El chico se queda dormido en el sofá con la televisión prendida.
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Crédito: Wikimedia Commons
El chico va en el asiento de atrás del auto. Han estado mirando el Queen Mary en Long Beach. Le quedan seis días para volver a Santiago, a cuarto medio. Febrero está terminando, es 1982. El chico cuenta los días para partir. Hoy, sin embargo, sólo quiere llegar de vuelta al departamento de sus abuelos. Hoy es el día en que Carlos ha salido de la cárcel. Por lo que le contó su abuela, ellos lo iban a ir a buscar a Chino. Carlos estaría en la casa alrededor de la una de la tarde. Son las cuatro. Por fin llegan a la casa. El chico corre al departamento de sus abuelos, abre la puerta con llave. Carlos está ahí, con una camisa roja. Carlos no parece Carlos. Carlos no tiene nada que ver con Carlos. Carlos le da miedo, lo asusta. Carlos lo abraza y el chico siente entre asco y miedo. Carlos parece un asesino. Tiene el pelo largo, una barba inmensa, como de revolucionario ruso, llena de canas. Carlos se ve viejo y está gordo, muy gordo. Uno come mucho allá adentro, dice. Ingresa el padre del chico, su mujer. El padre abraza a su hermano, le presenta a su mujer. También está el otro hermano. Todos están sentados y están mirando televisión. El chico no sabe qué preguntar, así que no pregunta. Nadie habla de la cárcel. Poco a poco el chico va reconociendo la cara, los gestos, los rasgos del Carlos que conoció a comienzos de los setenta. Su abuela lo llama y le dice que ella le hizo su maleta. Ahora Carlos ocupará su pieza. Estos últimos días el chico dormirá en el sofá del departamento de su padre.
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Al día siguiente el chico va al departamento de sus abuelos y capta que Carlos está durmiendo. Le golpea la puerta, entra. Carlos sigue durmiendo. La pieza huele a hombre encerrado. El chico le dice a Carlos que se despierte, que su padre llega a las doce y cuarto y es mejor no estar cuando él esté, que no le conviene. Carlos lo mira con los ojos llenos de sueño y le dice: tienes razón.
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El chico invita a Carlos al departamento de su padre. Carlos se sienta en el sofá. El chico le ofrece un trago. Carlos acepta. El chico prepara dos Bloody Mary dobles. Carlos abre la ventana y fuma. Carlos le pregunta si fuma, el chico le dice que no. Carlos le pregunta si ha fumado marihuana, el chico le dice que prefiere la cocaína. Carlos le dice que le cae bien, que pueden ser amigos. Conversan toda la tarde, hablan de mujeres, de sexo, de pajas, de drogas, de rock, de cine. Carlos le pregunta por Chile, por la dictadura, por Santiago. El chico le cuenta acerca de su abuelo. Carlos le contesta que es un hijo de puta amargado y cobarde, un fracasado. Y usa pantalones a cuadros, acota el chico. El padre aparece a las dos y los ve. Su cara lo dice todo. ¿Han estado tomando?, pregunta. El chico está mareado. Carlos es lo mejor, le dice el chico a su padre, Carlos es lo mejor, antes de tropezarse y caer en la alfombra, con ataque de risa.
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El padre del chico no es bueno para hablar ni para expresarse pero todo ha quedado claro: Carlos no puede estar con el chico a solas. Pero nadie los puede vigilar. El chico está solo en un departamento, Carlos en el otro. El chico llama a su tío y hablan de mil cosas. Carlos le dice que lo acompañe a la peluquería. Camina ocho cuadras largas hasta llegar a El Toro. El chico le habla de The Police y The Clash; el tío le compra un álbum de Warren Zevon. Carlos le dice que Joan Jett es tirable. Carlos se corta el pelo como militar y el chico hace lo mismo. Así mi padre no podrá decirme que lo tengo largo. El peluquero es hondureño y hablan de política. El peluquero le corta la barba, se demora bastante. Carlos se ve mejor, más joven, sin barba. Carlos y el chico van a Die Winerschitzel a comer hot dogs americanos. Carlos le pide plata e ingresa a una botillería y compra tequila. Caminan hasta un parque y lo beben de a poco. El parque tiene una laguna con patos. Carlos habla mal de ese mundo burgués, dice que le parece una mierda, que cuando se le acabe la libertad condicional quiere irse, volar, recorrer, no estarse quieto. Al rato aparecen dos chicas en un Mustang negro. Carlos les presenta al chico. Las chicas estaban en la botillería. Carlos les dijo que estarían ahí. Las chicas sacan marihuana. El chico tose y tose pero fuma. Una chica dice que por qué no se van a su casa, que tiene un jacuzzi. El chico considera que Carlos Fuguet es el tipo más cool e intenso del planeta.
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Crédito: Wikimedia Commons
Carlos lo despierta por teléfono. Al chico le quedan tres días para irse. Carlos le dice que quiere despedirse, que está por llegar el fin de semana y su padre querrá verlo a solas. Carlos le dice que quiere invitarle a ver una película llamada Missing, que es nueva. Sí sé, le dice, la vi en el diario. Esa cinta nunca la van a dar en Santiago, nunca. Se juntan frente la puerta del edificio y esperan el bus. En el mall toman otro bus y luego otro. Viajan como tres horas hasta llegar a Costa Mesa, donde hay otro mall pero mucho más grande. Se acercan al cine y compran las entradas para la función de las dos de la tarde. Luego ingresan al mall y van a una librería y Carlos ve el libro con la misma portada del afiche y compra dos ejemplares. La da uno al chico: escóndelo y léelo en Chile. Toman café y Carlos le habla de política y le hace muchas preguntas. El chico no sabe mucho. Carlos le dice que debería estar más enterado, que en un año ingresará a la universidad. Cruzan la inmensa calle y entran a la sala de cine. Carlos le dice que si se hubiera quedado en Chile capaz que él hubiera desaparecido. Desaparecí de otra manera, le dice, pero el chico no entiende, no entiende lo que le dice. Tampoco sabe que esta será la última vez que estarán juntos.
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Ezra E. Fitz is a translator of contemporary Latin America literature, and the author of the novel The Morning Side of the Hill, coming this fall from 2Leaf Press. To learn more, visit www.ezrafitz.com.
Alberto Fuguet was born in Santiago, Chile but arrived in Encino, California when he was 3 months old. He stayed in the U.S. until he was eleven. After his return to Chile, he learned Spanish and eventually studied journalism. He has three books translated into English: Bad Vibes, The Movies of My Life and Shorts. He is the author also of Missing (An Investigation), a non-fiction bilingual work and the anthology McOndo. He has directed five movies including Música campesina and Locations: Searching for Rusty James, a documentary based on the impact of Francis Ford Coppola’s Rumble Fish. He was the director and editor of Andrés Caicedo’s autobiography Mi cuerpo es una celda. He has been Visting Writer at UCLA and Vanderbilt and has won Fulbright and Guggenheim grants. He lives in Santiago.