Not Even the Dead

Juan Goméz Barcena, Katie Whittemore

Description

A claim of justice for the losers of history with echoes of authors as different as Joseph Conrad, Alejo Carpentier, and David Mitchell.

The conquest of Mexico is over, and Juan de Toñanes is one of so many soldiers without glory who roam like beggars for the land they helped subdue. When he receives one last mission, to hunt down a renegade Indian who’s called the Father and who preaches a dangerous heresy, he understands that this may be his last chance to carve himself the future he’s always dreamed of. But as he goes deep into the unexplored lands of the north following the Father's trace, he will discover the footprints of a man who seems not only a man, but a prophet destined to transform his time and even the times to come.

Not Even the Dead is the story of a persecution that transcends territories and centuries; a path pointing northward, always northward, that is to say, always toward the future, on a hallucinated journey from the sixteenth century New Spain to today's Trump wall. Old conquerors on horseback and migrants riding the roofs of the Beast, rebellious Indians and peasants waiting patiently for a better world, Mexican revolutionaries who take their rifles and women murdered in the desert of Ciudad Juárez, all pass by it. All of them share the same landscape and the same hope, the arrival of the Father who will bring justice to the oppressed.

The Messiah comes not only as the Redeemer, he comes as the vanquisher of the Antichrist. Only that historian will have the gift of fanning the spark of hope in the past who is firmly convinced that even the dead will not be safe from the enemy if he wins. And this enemy has not ceased to be victorious.

                                                                                                            Walter Benjamin

 

The world is a vicious, brutal place. We think we’re civilized. In truth, it’s a cruel world and people are ruthless. They act nice to your face, but underneath they’re out to kill you. You have to know how to defend yourself. People will be mean and nasty and try to hurt you just for sport. Lions in the jungle only kill for food, but humans kill for fun. Even your friends are out to get you: they want your job, they want your house, they want your money, they want your wife, they even want your dog. Those are your friends; your enemies are even worse!

                                                                                                            Donald Trump

 

 

Nicān mihtoa in tlahtlaquetzalli in quēnin Juan quihuāltoca in Juan, onēhuah īnāhuac in Puebla īhuān ōmpa huih Tlacetilīlli Tlahtohcāyōtl Ixachitlān, ce nehnemiliztli in mani cenzontli īpan yēpōhualli on caxtōlli omēyi netlalōlli caxtiltēcatl īhuān zan cuēcuēl achīc.

               

Here is the tale of how Juan pursued Juan from the vicinity of Puebla to the United States border, a journey lasting 475 Spanish leagues and some number of years.

 

 1.

 

The first name put forward is that of capitán Diego de Villegas, a man of proven experience in such compromising situations, but Captain Villegas is dead. Someone suggests a certain Suárez from Plasencia, known for his more than fifteen exemplary expeditions, but it turns out Suárez is dead, too. No one mentions Nicolás de Obregón, given that P’urhepecha savages shot him through with arrows, nor Antonio de Oña, who committed innumerable atrocities against the pagan Indians, to later be ordained as a priest to protect said pagans. A measure of enthusiasm momentarily surfaces around the name Pedro Gómez de Carandía, but someone remembers that Pedro finally received la encomienda the previous year, sheathing his sword and taking up the whip. Pablo de Herrera is imprisoned by order of the governor, the result of certain tithes never having been paid, or paid twice, depending on the version; Luis Velasco went mad dreaming about the gold of the Seven Cities. Without Indians to kill, Domingo de Cóbreces returned to his previous occupation as a pig-herd. Alonso Bernardo de Quirós did everything he could to obtain the viceroy’s favor on the battlefields of New Galicia, la Gran Chichimeca, and la Florida, and then turned up hanged in his own house, clutching a final letter addressed to the viceroy in his right hand. No one doubts either the perseverance or skill of Diego Ruiloba, but neither do they doubt the tepidness of his faith, reason enough to discard him from the command of this sensitive situation. To arrive at the right name, they’ll have to dig deep down in the pile of scrolls, grapple with an abundance of human weakness and failures, pass from captains to cavalry sergeants and from cavalry sergeants to simple soldiers of fortune; a path paved with men who were too old or who had returned to Castilla, mutilated men, rebellious men, men tried by the Holy Office of the Inquisition, men disfigured by syphilis, dead men. Until suddenly—perhaps to save himself the effort of dusting off more dockets and files—one of the clerks thinks to suggest the name of a certain Juan de Toñanes, former soldier of His Majesty the King, former treasure hunter, former almost everything. The clerk has never met him personally, but Juan de Toñanes is said to have evaded poverty by pursuing fugitive Indians escaped from the encomiendas of Puebla. A humble man, unworthy, perhaps, of the enterprise at hand, but with a reputation as a competent man and good Christian, endowed with an almost miraculous ability to always return with the Indian in question, shackled and in one piece. God strike me down, the clerk continues, if this occupation isn’t the selfsame enterprise Your Excellencies need someone for; a mission that, excepting of the obvious differences, consists precisely in locating a specific Indian and bringing him back, dead or alive. The clerk stops speaking, and the viceroy, who has also begun to lose his patience with the search, orders the clerk to review his papers for news of this Juan de Toñanes person. He finds nothing more than a thin, moldy file, from which they can deduce that, in his soldiering days, Juan was neither the best or the worst of the bunch; that he bled in many small skirmishes without distinguishing himself in any of them, neither for cowardice or bravery; that for years he sent letters to the viceroy requesting—unsuccessfully—to be granted an encomienda; that later he begged—dripping in deference—for a sergeant’s appointment in the expedition from Coronado to la Quivira; that lastly, he had appealed—receiving no response—for a post in Castilla far below his merits. To all appearances, Juan de Toñanes was a common man, but of the most uncommon kind, given that in all these years he had managed not to defend heresies, engage in duels, take part in brawls or scandals, curse God or His Majesty the King, stain the reputations of maidens, or find himself deserving of prison or ignominy. Before the clerk had even finished reading the record of service in his hand, the viceroy had already decided to suspend the search and summon this Juan de Toñanes of unknown talent and skill, but of whom, like any Spanish soldier, a certain facility with the sword and at least a moderate taste for adventure could be expected.

Sujets

• World Literature
• Literary
• Historical
• México
• Literature
• General officer
• General
• Mexico
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Open Letter
• Date de parution: 18 juillet 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781948830973
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

PRAISE FOR JUAN GÓMEZ BÁRCENA’S THE SKY OVER LIMA
“Bárcena’s [ The Sky over Lima ] is both a love letter to the creative process and a contemplation on the sometimes-blurred line between life and art.”
— Kirkus Reviews
“… Bárcena’s [ The Sky over Lima ] transforms fact with cinematographic imagination, re-creating the scenery and moods of Lima at the turn of the twentieth century with inimitable precision.”
— Booklist
“Bárcena’s style is both fresh and classic, delightful and mysterious, and his characters—who feel like living, breathing creatures—are sure to captivate even as they break your heart.”
— Library Journal
“Here’s a tale with the subtlest of stings in it, dark wit and telescopic perspective aplenty. And then there’s the intoxicating folly of the games that the protagonists play with fantasy and fact, malice, tenderness, ambition, envy and other forces that strike at our most vulnerable selves. I’ll be thinking of these characters, what they longed to create and what they managed to despoil, for a long time.”
—Helen Oyeyemi, author of What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours
“The best heartbreaker novels are the ones that sneak up on you like this one.”
—Alexander Chee, Vulture
“Bárcena shines where so many writers stumble. His writing about art, of the artifice both in the narrative and implicit in his prose, feels alive, fresh, and important. … Against the fascinating backdrop of Lima’s burgeoning rubber industry, The Sky Over Lima explores notions of class, identity, and friendship, and reminded me of how it first felt to fall in love with writing.”
—Sara Nović, author of True Biz
ALSO IN ENGLISH TRANSLATION BY JUAN GÓMEZ BÁRCENA
The Sky Over Lima
NOT EVEN THE DEAD
JUAN GÓMEZ BÁRCENA
Translated by Katie Whittemore
Originally published in Spanish as Ni siquiera los muertos by Editorial Sexto Piso, 2019
Copyright © Juan Gómez Bárcena, 2019
Translation copyright © Katie Whittemore, 2023
First edition, 2023
All rights reserved
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: Available
pb ISBN: 978-1-948830-67-6 | ebook ISBN: 978-1-948830-97-3
Support for the translation of this book was provided by Acción Cultural Española, AC/E
Printed on acid-free paper in the United States of America.
Cover Design by Daniel Benneworth-Gray
Open Letter is the University of Rochester’s nonprofit, literary translation press: Dewey Hall 1-219, Box 278968, Rochester, NY 14627
www .openletterbooks .org
The Messiah comes not only as the Redeemer, he comes as the subduer of the Antichrist. Only that historian will have the gift of fanning the spark of hope in the past who is firmly convinced that even the dead will not be safe from the enemy if he wins. And this enemy has not ceased to be victorious.
Walter Benjamin
The world is a vicious and brutal place. We think we’re civilized. In truth, it’s a cruel world and people are ruthless. They act nice to your face, but underneath they’re out to kill you. You have to know how to defend yourself. People will be mean and nasty and try to hurt you just for sport. Lions in the jungle only kill for food, but humans kill for fun. Even your friends are out to get you: they want your job, they want your house, they want your money, they want your wife, they even want your dog. Those are your friends; your enemies are even worse!
Donald Trump
For Marta Jiménez Serrano, who accompanies me inside and outside the pages of this book.
Nicān mihtoa in tlahtlaquetzalli in quēnin Juan quihuāltoca in Juan, onēhuah īnāhuac in Puebla īhuān ōmpa huih Tlacetilīlli Tlahtohcāyōtl Ixachitlān, ce nehnemiliztli in mani cenzontli īpan yēpōhualli on caxtōlli omēyi netlalōlli caxtiltēcatl īhuān zan cuēcuēl achīc.
Here is the tale of how Juan pursued Juan from the vicinity of Puebla to the United States border, a journey lasting four hundred and seventy-five Spanish leagues and a goodly number of years.
I
The best of the worst – A tavern at midnight – What the viceroy would want, if the viceroy wanted something – A dog’s life – A particular idea of home – A rooster’s silence – A head, at the bottom of a sack – Fallacy of the strawman – The first last look
The first name put forward is that of Captain Diego de Villegas, a man with proven experience in such nettlesome situations, but Captain Villegas is dead. Somebody suggests a certain Suárez from Plasencia, known for more than fifteen exemplary expeditions, but it turns out Suárez is dead, too. No one mentions Nicolás de Obregón, given that P’urhepecha savages shot him through with arrows, nor Antonio de Oña, who committed innumerable atrocities against the pagan Indians, only to later be ordained as a priest in order to protect said pagans. A degree of enthusiasm momentarily surfaces around the name Pedro Gómez de Carandía, until someone recalls that Pedro had finally received his encomienda the previous year, sheathing his sword and taking up the whip. Pablo de Herrera is imprisoned by order of the governor, the result of certain tithes never having been paid, or having been paid twice, depending on which version you believed; Luis Velasco went mad, dreaming of the gold in the Seven Cities. With no Indians to kill, Domingo de Cóbreces returned to his previous occupation as a pigherd. Alonso Bernardo de Quirós did his best to obtain the viceroy’s favor on the battlefields of New Galicia, la Gran Chichimeca, and la Florida, only to wind up hanged in his own home, clutching a letter addressed to the viceroy in his right hand. No one has any doubts about Diego Ruiloba’s skill or determination, but neither do they doubt the tepidness of his faith, which is reason enough to discard him from command of this sensitive situation. To find the right name, they will have to dig down deep in the pile of scrolls, grapple with an abundance of human weakness and failure, move from captains to cavalry sergeants and from cavalry sergeants to simple soldiers of fortune; a path paved with men who were too old or who had returned to Castilla, mutilated men, rebellious men, men tried by the Holy Office of the Inquisition, men disfigured by syphilis, dead men. Until suddenly, and perhaps to save himself the trouble of dusting off more dockets and files, it occurs to a clerk to suggest the name of one Juan de Toñanes, former soldier of His Majesty the King, former treasure hunter, former almost everything. The clerk has never met him personally, but Juan de Toñanes is said to have avoided poverty by pursuing those fugitive Indians who escaped from the encomiendas of Puebla. A humble man—unworthy, perhaps, of the enterprise at hand—but with a reputation as a competent person and good Christian, endowed with an almost miraculous ability to invariably return with the Indian in question, shackled and in one piece. May God strike me down, the clerk continues, if his occupation isn’t the selfsame enterprise Your Excellencies require someone for; a mission that, excepting the obvious differences, consists of just that, of locating a specific Indian and bringing him back, dead or alive. The clerk falls silent, and the viceroy, who has likewise begun to lose patience with the search, orders the clerk to check his papers for news of this Juan de Toñanes. The clerk turns up a thin, mildewed file, from which they can deduce the following: in his soldiering days, Juan was neither the best nor the worst of the bunch; he bled in many minor skirmishes, never distinguished himself, neither for cowardice nor courage; for years he sent letters to the viceroy requesting—unsuccessfully—to be granted an encomienda; later he begged—dripping in deference—for a sergeant’s appointment in the expedition from Coronado to la Quivira; and lastly, he appealed—receiving no response—for a post in Castilla far below his merits. To all appearances, Juan de Toñanes was a common man, but of the most uncommon kind given that over the years he had managed to not defend heresies, engage in duels, participate in brawls or scandals, curse God or His Majesty the King, besmirch the reputations of maidens, or find himself deserving prison or ignominy. Before the clerk was even finished reading the record of service in his hand, the viceroy had decided to suspend their search and summon this Juan de Toñanes of unknown talent and skill, but of whom, like any Spanish soldier, they could expect some facility with a sword and at least a moderate taste for adventure.
Two raps of the knocker wake the dog and the dog’s barking wakes the woman dozing beside the hearth. Four men linger in one corner of the tavern, unsteady from drink. By the light of a single candle, they swap cards in silence, indifferent to the knocking at the door and the hammering of the rain on the roof and the sound of the five leaks that drip from the ceiling into five tin cauldrons. Already one of the cauldrons overflows, leaving a puddle the packed dirt floor cannot absorb. She should have emptied it hours ago, the woman perhaps has time to consider, as she lights the oil lamp and goes to answer to the door.
Two men wait outside, sheltering under their capes and sombreros. As soon as the woman turns the key in the lock, they burst into the tavern, stomping their soaking wet boots on the threshold. One of them curses sotto voce; it is unclear if his profanity is directed at the storm, at the night that has caught them unawares in this remote corner of the world, or at the dark-complexioned woman who helps them shrug off their wet overclothes. Their capes are waxy from the rain and when they remove their hats, the last drops splash to the floor. Only after she has hung up their hats and ponchos does the woman have the chance to observe them by the light of the lamp. She sees their eyes and pale skin and coppery beards, she sees the fine shirts they wear, the belts made of thin leather strips, and she sees, above all, their very white hands, clean and most certainly soft, hands made for grazing scrolls or silk and never, eve