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A Note About the Author

A Note About the Translator

Copyright Page

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To every island scattered throughout the ocean,

to the insular lives that endure

It’s seeping into me, the acrid smell of the sea.

—GLORIA ANZALDÚA

Something writes. It’s not the words that write, maybe something beneath the reinforced concrete, beneath the rubble of the collapse. Roofs and walls have been unable to prevent this manifestation. The ruin reveals itself, and language—its stem—emerges from the cracks to meet the page.

—NADIA PRADO

CHILCO ARCHIVE 1. Etymology / Definition

From the Mapuche word chillko.

In Mapudungun, the Mapuche language, it means watery, full of water.

Chillko, n., fuchsia (shrub).

Chillko, adj., watery. ||—v., to become watery (a fruit).

Ko: water.

I A PRELIMINARY INVENTORY OF EVENTS

CHILCO ARCHIVE 2. Flora

Chilco (chillko) or wild fuchsia (Fuchsia magellanica). This is the name given to an evergreen shrub with thin branches and colorful flowers, desired by birds and pollinating insects. It is native to the south of the continent, growing between the central and southern zones, near tributaries and wetlands, for which it is named. The common variety has fuchsia sepals and violet petals with protruding stamens, which stand out among the dark green branches.

There are also the molinae and the eburnea varieties, displaying shades of white, pink, and purple. Its fruit is an edible berry with a sweet taste and a dark reddish color. On its stems, a brown, gelatinous fungus grows, commonly called milcao de monte—mountain milcao.

Other common names for Fuchsia magellanica include chilcón, jazmín de papa, palo blanco, fuchsia, and pendientes de la reina.

Today, chilco is cultivated as an ornamental species; however, its leaves, buds, bark, and flowers have been used for centuries as a wool dye and medicine, specifically as a poultice or an infusion for menstruation, burns, kidney ailments, infections, and fever.

THE ECHO OF MOLD

In this house moisture overwhelms everything. I feel like its scent is devouring me.

Every room is filled with a dense smell, a smell like confinement. I light incense, palo santo, put orange peels in the corners. I have bowls filled with Agua Florida and patchouli. I spray the sheets and curtains with cheap perfume. I smear lemon verbena, lavender, rosemary oils on my skin. I rub lemon peels on my arms, on my elbows.

And nothing, I get nothing.

I open the windows, and the mantle of the Pacific saturates the landscape. I open the windows to let the fresh air in, to let the breeze penetrate the spaces between my ribs and take the opportunity to cleanse me from within. Sounds erupt from the outside: seagulls crying, horses neighing, and waves crashing wildly against the cliffs. The dog’s howls are drowned out by ships’ horns. For those who live in a big city, these noises might seem like evidence of stillness. Silence, for some, is synonymous with human absence, by which they refer, especially, to the lack of articulated words, the silence of tongues. But on this piece of land, every murmur forms part of an instrument. Here, every whisper unfolds into a complex melody that seats you in the front row of an impromptu concert.

Beyond the sounds and scents that flurry in on the breeze in its commotion, not the rue nor the chamomile nor the smell of seaweed makes me forget the stench. And this is after I’ve followed every piece of Mama Awicha’s advice, to get copal resin, rica-rica, waska garlic, yawar kaspi, yawar wiki, wichilla yutsu, wantuk, wayusa.

I try it all, but nothing changes.

No matter what I do, the smell returns like an echo, a resonance, as if the scents were also a sound wave reverberating around me. Sometimes I feel as if I live in the tiny mold spores; like a piece of fruit rotting, I rest in a fungal kingdom that’s consuming me. I’m getting sick, I can feel it inside. It’s not me being a hypochondriac or acting like an only child either. There’s this tightness in my throat, and I’m congested in a way that won’t go away. My nose won’t stop running, and it’s irritated from all the pieces of toilet paper and the Mentholatum.

I’ve had this miserable cold for weeks, which feels like some sort of misty plague lodged in my respiratory system. The dampness enters through my lungs, weighing them down as if a spider has spun its nest in my chest. I’m squatting on her territory; I’m overtaken. I dream about the sacred spider, pleading with her to please leave me be. She responds all proud, without opening her mouth, answering through symbols in her web: “Not even with all the wiracoya incense in the Andes.” Just what I needed, a kusi kusi, an Andean spider.

I’VE BEEN SEARCHING FOR the source of the rankness for weeks, without solving the mystery. My Pachakuti gets the worst of it, because he hates the bath, but with this smell I don’t have a choice. I wear myself out chasing him around the house to get him into the tub a few times a day.

Maybe it’s the whole damn island that smells like this. And they hide it from me; the inhabitants all swallow it in silence to make me paranoid. I remember the first time we opened the door to this house, I inhaled the stench and thought: Well, it’s a big, old, moth-infested, abandoned house; this is normal. With a deep clean and a little paint job it’ll be good to go. Don’t be scared. But no. It can’t be normal at this point. Pascale and I have been living on Chilco for a month, and since we arrived, I’ve persevered every morning under the illusion that I can exterminate the dampness. I emerge in my cleaning clothes: faded sweatpants and a work-worn T-shirt. I clean the walls with bleach, alcohol, ammonia, and a multipurpose cleaner. I wipe every corner, behind the beds, in the folds of the sofas, between the little leaves of the monstera.

Sometimes I manage to make the smell go away for a few hours, but it comes back, in spite of my obsessive tactics.

I’VE COME TO THINK the scent is inside me, that I’m the one getting moldy as I search for an invisible problem on the outside. Sometimes I think I spend more of my time cleaning than existing, although cleaning in this way has become a sort of rite. I wonder if I might have a more developed sense than everyone else, a micropower to perceive smells at their various scales, like someone with perfect pitch or a gifted palate. Or instead of a gift, it’s a distortion, a smelling disorder that makes me hypersensitive. I also wonder if these worries are the result of a silent poisoning, from the fatal love I’ve developed for chlorine.

WAPI

I ask every visitor to the house about the smell problem, because I feel alone in this battle, and Pascale, who has almost no sense of smell, can barely detect a bunch of fresh basil or a sprig of cilantro. And I’m exasperated by this because I spend whole days asking: Can you smell this? What about this other thing?

I end up exhausted from trying to track down something others seem unable to perceive.

The visitors who come by the house most often are the shellfish collectors, a group of older women who have been friends of Pascale’s family forever. I’d say even before forever. On the island, people call them the Sea Weeds. They all bring me things for the new house, especially wool socks and food. An abundance of food: rolls of pan amasado, mollusks like braids of black mussels, razor clams, and cholgas, and freshly harvested fava beans. And I take advantage of the opportunity to get them talking. Just as they settle in, I force the question about the stench. They look at me strangely, with a face like: What’s wrong with the mainlander?

Sometimes they think I’m joking, until they notice my raised, questioning eyebrow, and they respond tentatively that they smell a kind of staleness, a mustiness.

“You’ve got to ventilate a little more and that’ll fix it. It’s not a big deal, Mari girl,” one of them says.

But it doesn’t bother anyone; it’s not a problem for anyone.

“I could live here, look at this view,” another comments.

Please do, you’re welcome to the curse, I think.

“That’s just Chilcowe’s humidity for you,” the last one explains.

It’s not just the humidity; what interests me is that smell. I’ve become so short-tempered and I hate being that way. I can’t stand myself. I didn’t come here to be a lost soul, though I don’t say that to anyone. I almost never open my mouth, and so I end up swallowing that bitterness, too. At the end of the day, I hug Pachakuti’s belly until I fall asleep and forget for a little while about the smell haunting me.

A FEW DAYS AGO, Pascale’s sister, Meli, and two of their friends stopped by the house. Elena and Kalfü, whom people call “Wapi” because of a band they’re in with that name, are music lovers who work at the island’s radio station, Radio Lafken. They curate the songs, compile the news, and handle the production. “Wapi,” in Mapudungun, means island, which is another way to refer to Chilco.

The funny thing is that almost no one differentiates between them around here. When either of them appears in public, people greet them like this: “Mari mari, Wapi,” “Hello, Wapi,” “What’s good, Wapi.” Their identities are fused together in their collective creation. They’re the passionate type, hearts ablaze with an arsenal of ideas. Sometimes they test out their experimental projects on the least-listened-to late-night programs; they have a selection of electronic tunes, old whale songs, and recordings of the roar of the sea mixed with out-of-context phrases by dead poets from Chilco. These games generally don’t align with the taste of the islanders, who tend to be a bit more traditional and conservative with their rhythms and lifestyles.

Their only devoted fan is Don Gastón Antillanca, the lighthouse keeper. He’s a middle-aged man who hardly leaves the lighthouse and barely sleeps. For those reasons, he’s a faithful early morning listener to the radio, as well as to the sounds of the surf and the horns of cargo ships. The girls say that, once, he came to the station asking for them. Moved to the point of wanting to meet the people who curated the nights of music, he thanked them and gifted them some buds from his harvest. And ever since then, every so often, they get a generous little baggie from Don Gastón.

Over these past few weeks, I’ve learned that on the island, everyone does a little bit of everything. And they’ve all known one another since they were born. That truth might be more suffocating than the vastness of the sea. You can’t hide, unless you live in the lighthouse. In spite of this reality, the lives of Meli and her friends have unfolded at their own pace, between Chilco and Bahía. They went away to study but came back to their birthplace. They never doubted it, unlike Pascale.

Here, the population is made up of children and adults, its two extremes. There are no teenagers, no young people; they’re all on the mainland, studying or working. And those who leave Chilco generally don’t return. In that sense, the island isn’t very different from other forgotten territories. Pascale, Meli, and the Wapi are an exception for this reason, an unusual phenomenon of return, like the pink-footed shearwaters that come back to nest.

THAT NIGHT, AS I listened to them analyze the island and tell stories from when they were kids, we opened a few bottles of artisanal pulku. When I saw them relaxed, a little more foulmouthed, I hit them with the same routine of questions about the smell. Pascale coughed and glared wide-eyed from across the table, but I pretended not to notice. Elena, who was enveloped in clouds of smoke, between marijuana and tobacco, was quick to respond. She was slurring a little, and her voice sounded hoarse from the alcohol.

“Sometimes, when it’s my radio shift in the super early morning, I like to tune in to AM stations. Just for fun, it’s like entering another dimension. I know the mainlanders say strange things about the island, but when you grow up with the fantasy, nothing really surprises you…”

“Okay, Elena, remember this isn’t your paranormal program. Mari asked you something very specific,” Pascale interrupted, trying to guide the conversation.

“No, no. I’m not going to talk about anything paranormal, relax … We won’t scare her.” She cackled. “I wanted to say something else. On those stations, the things that get the most airtime are evangelical programs, ads for moringa, and healing commercials—like for cults. Speaking of which, have you all heard about the cult on the west side?”

“Those are just rumors. No one’s seen anything. People say they’re alien worshippers or gossip about their having a leader. But folks like to speculate. I really don’t know much more, although people are always inventing things about the west. It’s like it’s the dark side of the moon, but Chilco’s version,” Meli responded, in a more lucid tone.

“All our conversations end up hinging on Elena’s obsessions. Can we move on?” Pascale said.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I’m just a little scattered. All I wanted to say was that I was up in all of that yesterday, playing with the AM radio stations, and I heard an ad that asked: ‘Can you smell more than usual? Is your sense of smell heightened? You’re probably depressed! Call this number, something-something,’” Elena continued, waving her hands in exaggerated gestures and slurring a bit.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying—you lost me with the cults thing,” I said to her seriously, also a little drunk.

“What I mean is that I didn’t know the two things were related, but it seemed like an interesting idea,” she tried to explain, pronouncing things slowly.

“Yeah, but what does that have to do with the smell?” Kalfü asked, lying on her back on the floor as she played with one of the snails that had come in through the big window. Pachakuti watched her attentively from the corner, wagging his tail, waiting for his turn to be petted.

“That, I mean, maybe Mari is depressed. Don’t you all see it? That’s why she’s more sensitive. Mari, maybe you should get yourself checked out,” she snapped, looking at me as she finished.

After that comment, there was total silence, for at least a few uncomfortable minutes.

I felt a pressure in my chest, as if a sharp piece of quartz was trying to exit my body. I felt surreal, foolish, betrayed. I shouldn’t have said anything.

Get checked out? What the fuck did that mean?

Like I was making this problem up, like the smell was some internal panic. You know what, Elena, I’m not depressed. Maybe a little disoriented, a little lost. I feel like I don’t fit in, and you all are the reason. Sometimes I don’t even know what they’re talking about. I feel very alone in this corner of the world. It’s not easy to come here with so much baggage; it’s not easy to leave my family either. I’d never been so far away for so long. It’s not like I can just hop on the bus and show up at my awicha’s house, have a cup of tea, and that’s it, fixed.

There is an ocean in between.

There is an immensity of salt.

There is a sea that swallows everything and is devouring me.

Maybe my jumbled emotions seemed a little extreme. But for days I’ve been out of sorts, as if I have storm surge inside of me, so deep it can’t find its way out. I had so many things I wanted to say to her, even though once again I didn’t open my mouth. My furious thoughts just get stuck between my tongue and my teeth. In that moment, they were all waiting silently for my response, even Pascale. What did they want? Maybe for me to scream, overdo it, burst, or just reply. But I looked back at them, tightened my lips, and sighed.

The rest of the night I concentrated on dancing with Pachakuti and getting drunk in silence.

I DON’T HAVE THE energy, nor the strength, to argue. I don’t want to be the city intruder. I’m not even as impulsive as before, I’m so exhausted. I used to sit and cry in the center of the rug out of pure frustration, grief, suffocation. But not anymore. I give up.

What people say makes me doubt the intensity of the dampness and the capacity of my senses. They make me doubt myself and everything I know.

Maybe I really am depressed.

THE RITE OF THE SEWERS

Long before I moved to the island, I lived with Pascale on an upper floor in Capital City, like almost the entire working-class population of the country. Crammed onto a continent that fed us and, in return, devoured our lives, we worked late, between filing cabinets, building skeletons, and construction sites, to be able to pay the rent that rose scandalously month by month, plus utilities and the endless bills. Back then, the general language of the country had been reduced to monetary policy, inflation, and the consumer price index. We were barely making it from paycheck to paycheck. With all that in mind, we decided to sublet one of the rooms. We lived in an old tower, on an edge of the city’s central square, in the historic center. On cobblestone streets that treasured their colonial architecture and the buildings constructed centuries ago by the country’s Criollo elite, displacing our ancestors to survive in reservations on the outskirts.

Ironically, we’d situated ourselves on a part of the city map that, over the years, had become one of the most affordable corners to rent. Surrounded by neoclassical palaces and galleries in indisputable abandon, the area’s faux-European air had been tailored to the aristocratic whims of the time. As the white castes moved farther east, their dilapidated mansions became accessible to the marginalized populations of the present.

WE HAD A SMALL room we initially wanted to turn into a workshop, but, as with so many other projects, we abandoned it half-finished. Ultimately, the room ended up accumulating a lot of junk. It looked like a museum of lost objects, though without the tidy elegance of a catalog. Street and bus signs we found while wandering around the city, tossed-out furniture that might live a second life, old toys without batteries waiting to be resurrected, cookie tins, glass jars for storing other unclassifiable objects. Every item was a possibility, even if it was inert.

A sofa bed, winter clothes in summer, summer clothes in winter.

And those pieces of glass polished by the sea until they look like salt crystals.

Nothing organized or classified, everything piled up.

Faced with the bleak economic outlook, we decided to prepare the room to sublet to another person.

IN CAPITAL, FROM ONE day to the next, it became impossible to live alone or buy into the idea of independence. Our salaries were consumed by essential bills, food, rent. It’s not like we were interested in accumulating wealth or luxuries either, we were just carrying on in the way we were raised; we survived because there was no other choice.

Almost all our friends shared what we, out of necessity, got used to calling home: a little fragment of an apartment or a house subdivided into small rooms for the new members of the neighborhood. We were itinerant families, dysfunctional in a state of permanent improvisation. In a way, we were assembling communities with the common goal of resisting real estate speculation and voracious gentrification. The slogan of the right to housing seemed to us like a fiction from the sixties, a utopia. It all sounded very fair and beautiful, but it was light-years from our present. No one had a room of their own. Gone were the days when folks could buy a decent house. We were content with a roof, a stove with enough gas, and a bedbug-free mattress.

WE POSTED A RENTAL notice online, and a few days later Laura arrived, an artist and industrial techno music DJ who never slept at home. She spent her time traveling to a bunch of countries and lived in our apartment on a purely artistic whim. She said she’d studied musical composition and fine arts at some worldly creative school; I don’t remember exactly where. Obviously, someone like her could live anywhere she wanted, but she chose to live right in the bowels of downtown Capital and create sound maps of the city’s sewers. At least that’s what she kept saying. She was working on a piece that sought to link together the sounds of the old pipes and ducts in Capital City, like a kind of urban vernacular. It seemed like a strange project to me; deep down, I just distrusted this kind of work. Or rather, distrusted people like her. More than anything because she talked down to us, like we couldn’t understand what she was saying about her work, even though she couldn’t fully explain it to herself.

I’d listened to her music a few times, but I had a hunch that Laura was actually some kind of undercover investigator. She looked more like an ethnographer from the last century than an artist. Maybe she was both; what do I know. I sometimes imagined her as a contemporary Martín Gusinde, recording us with her Tascam like her ancestors did with wax cylinders. Playing an adventurer, our savior. She could play Career Barbie if she wanted to—learning the languages that, barely a century before, her grandmothers wanted to cut out of us.

She asked us too much about our origins, our family customs and rites. Things like that, in those categories, with those labels. As if Positivism itself was descending once again, setting an experimental artistic trap for our times. At first, I threw little jabs, like: “So, are you planning on teaching a doctoral seminar on our lives?” “Are we in the bibliography of your thesis?” “How much do we get per presentation?”

But she never understood my jokes. Or she pretended not to. Hypocrisy was more comfortable.

She sometimes interrupted us without any delicacy, without expecting greater intimacy. I don’t think it was just her awkwardness; ignorance wasn’t a good enough excuse. Rather, it formed a part of her lineage, her way of perceiving the world, regardless of how progressive she painted herself. At least we weren’t home at the same time very often throughout that month, and she was never late with her share of the bills. In the end, that was the only thing that mattered in our precarious economic state.

Everything could have been tolerable; I had no choice. I repeat, everything could have been tolerable, except for what came next. One day, I caught her secretly recording a conversation. I’d just gone to make myself some tea in the kitchen, and there, behind the partition dividing the room, Laura and her Tascam, like a single entity, a cyborg anthropologist of the present, recording a conversation Pascale was having with some family. The discussion switched languages, between Mapudungun and Chilqueño, occasionally with laughter, sometimes in a more severe tone. Not even I dared to interrupt that intimate space; I’d just listen to the cadence of their voices from a distance.

I was furious. I screamed and insulted her and threw the recorder on the ground. I didn’t think about it; rage overwhelmed me. She apologized, said that it was out of curiosity, that she wouldn’t use our voices in any of her works.

“You’d better not,” I threatened.

I still don’t know if her promise was sincere.

WE STOPPED SEEING HER when the demonstrations against real estate companies began. One day she just left the country. She moved to New York or some city that sounded like that. Paradoxically, she left just as the rumors, the whisperings of the land, erupted in an outcry. The whole city was a language of murmurs, shouts, and songs.

She took her strange machines, devices out of some futuristic guidebook, and left an envelope with money. Enough to pay for the month. No more, no less.

I’ve never understood why people like her find it so difficult to ask questions, have a conversation, or seek permission. Supposedly they study, read subaltern theories or whatever else it is they read. But it’s as if they never understand the most basic part. Deep down, they continue to see us as museum pieces, a tourist anecdote, or, worse still, their spiritual salvation. We have to live up to their ancestral fantasies, as if thought and transformation exist only outside of our peoples. Maybe, if you don’t carry it in your body, in your memory, you’ll never, ever be able to know how it feels. Being taught doesn’t mean you learn.

PASCALE TOOK IT ALL more lightly when Laura left, having dealt with similar issues for years in one way or another. For me, on the other hand, it was exhausting. After the anger and rage, I felt sad, devastated. As if a murky certainty was rising from the depths of the well and sinking me into the waters beneath it. Then, the guilt appears, followed by the imagined scenarios: in which I opt to back down and not venture into fury, to hold my too-quick tongue. I think, in a way, I’m surprised to find myself acting like my awicha, and that realization disturbs me. Pascale gets it. We’ve been living together for years, navigating each other’s moods. We’ve woven our knots into the fabric of a family story, the wounds that cling to the folds of our skin, the refuge of laughter as our ideology.

Like someone with another century of life experience, Pascale dried my tears, kissed my shoulders, and made me a hot drink with sugar and lemon balm. “For the hurt.” And I felt tiny, like a bacterium trembling under the glare of a microscope, needing the movement of her sister bacteria to confirm her existence. Not out of a sense of inferiority, but rather with just the right kind of lightness to cushion my fall. With the gesture, I knew the soft branches of a leafy thicket were beneath me, ready to catch me as I crashed to the ground. There was no need to play the part of an awqalla, a weichafe, some unbreakable spirit. For what?

“It’s okay, Mari, don’t cry. You know, now that I think about it, maybe we should’ve written her a song in the indigenous sewer language—a farewell to Laura,” Pascale said jokingly.

“And what would the lyrics in that language say?” I dried my tears and responded with a swollen face, trying to stop crying.

“I mean, I have no idea, but something she’d spend years trying to translate. Imagine it, she might even publish it. The Vocabulary of the Sewers by DJ-researcher Laura. Like the colonizer missionaries or her grandparents—really one and the same at this point.”

“A mix of Mapudungun, Quechua, and Aymara, with techno in the background. We could have even formed a little band. Maybe we missed the opportunity of our lives,” I joked back, much calmer.

“All because of your ‘aboriginal’ character, your unbreakable spirit, Mari. You could’ve told her that in your ‘tribe’ it was a friendship ritual.” Shifting tone to imitate my voice, Pascale continued. “‘Look, Laura, right, right, this whole tossing someone else’s stuff out the window thing: in my village, it’s the ritual protocol to ask you to be my friend.’ See, now, that would have been a more intelligent response.”

“I get it. So, the problem is my character. Think about how even to that there’s a pseudo-ancestral response. I could’ve told her it’s all inherited from Awicha Flor. Now I wish I’d have been like, ‘Look, Laurita, your art’s cool and all, but in the end, it’s still about how your grandparents ordered the killing of our grandparents, right? I mean, I know it wasn’t you directly, but didn’t you benefit from those deaths, from those thefts? So, give back the land, Laurita.’”

“That was a good response,” Pascale replied enthusiastically, pointing at me like I’d hit the nail on the head. “But don’t feel guilty. It’s in the past. Although, for next time, Mari, let me give you some advice. If you want to throw something, you should aim it directly at the window; all that frustration has to have more significant consequences,” Pascale said, moving as if to toss an imaginary paper airplane into the air.

“Did you know that word for hitting something—‘achuntarle’—comes from Quechua? ‘Chunta’ is the name of a tree that was used to make arrows. That’s why ‘achuntar’ in Spanish means to hit the mark or get something right. Other words, too, like ‘cancha’ for field, ‘chascona’ for messy hair, ‘callampa’ and ‘huincha’ for mushroom and ribbon, even ‘yapa’ for freebie. And there’s so many more.”

“I love the word ‘yapa’; it’s pretty, I like how it sounds. It’s like childhood joy. That little extra, a bonus with a little more love. Yapa bonus food, yapa bonus candy.”

“See? Not everything is Mapudungun.”

“Look, Mari, don’t use this as an excuse to start a competition. I don’t want to offend either, but you know. My people are the majority,” Pascale said, winking.

“Hey, hey, careful now. In this country, they may be the majority … but not on the continent. Anyway, just because there are more of them doesn’t mean they’ll win if we’re divided. Who has won on their own? They need non-separatist alliances.”

“Feley, feley. That’s true. I’ll concede the political coalition-building strategy to you.”

“That’s why you’re with me … right? But let’s get back to the original battle.”

“May, let’s get back to what’s important. What would the chorus of our song say?”

“I know, I know … imagine, a villera-bachata-trap mix, with lyrics that start like this: ‘Being an artist doesn’t take away your whiteness, amor.’”

A RHYTHM IN YOU

Living in the capital in those days, I traveled to Chilco for a few weeks every year, because for Pascale it was home, the familiar sea. Little by little, something began to change. Every time we’d get to the island, I’d feel guilty. The feeling grew in the secret cracks inside me. I felt it more intensely when I watched Pascale’s hands disappearing between the waves, touching the water as if spinning the foam into thread. In front of the ocean, it seemed as though Pascale’s body had never wanted to set foot on the bridge that tied this life to the lives of others. I’d be overwhelmed then by the idea of being responsible for that distance, of being the one who kept Pascale on the mainland, making up a life outside this island’s floating territory.

When I thought about this, I quickly tried to move on to something else, because I wanted to enjoy being on the island, too, and take a break from the capital’s problems. No permanent moorings, just small apartments every summer. The guilty feeling struck me like a lightning bolt, the wisdom of Yatiri ancestors. I didn’t feel it in everyday life, only unexpectedly, when we returned to this piece of land surrounded by the ocean, and my eyes would glaze over contemplating the coming and going of the boats.

Pascale never said it out loud—in fact, Pascale would never say anything to make me feel guilty, let alone uncomfortable. Our thing was joking at length, quip after quip, without any real offense. But on Chilco, the pain was obvious. Pascale’s sadness seemed almost palpable; I saw it whenever we made eye contact, or at least, that’s what it seemed like from where I was standing. And I, instead of asking about it directly, would fire off a few jokes to lift the mood and chase away the ghost of nostalgia.

I ALWAYS DO BETTER on a tangent. I have an innate talent for diverting topics, to the point where people forget about the original idea. It all starts with being interested in and asking about the little details, comparing things to other stories, or interlacing the story with some shared memory. Then comes exaggeration with the hands, the funny faces, the gestures. I can even do different voices, and I have a mostly funny repertoire of imitations, depending on the audience. But people get difficult sometimes.

Pascale cries and laughs more, as if both expressions were the same thing. Even though I’m the one who makes the jokes at home, I don’t laugh out loud as often. On the contrary, I’m the one who always cries at everything. Maybe that’s my problem, being infectiously funny but not enjoying it. I use quick quips to avoid talking about discomfort.

It’s never really something I do consciously—I’d say it’s a pattern my body falls into to protect itself.

Maybe so as not to delve too deeply into what hurts.

With Pascale, I’d use it to avoid listening to the sad stories and the sorrows of exile, because they devastated me. Forced laughter was the tactic, in opposition to the crying.

FOR ME, THE MAINLAND was everything. I liked the idea of visiting the little island occasionally, but not to stay, not to live on it. There was something that always gave me away or signaled my status as a tourist, a hardheaded intruder, as if I failed to make some gesture with my body, the absence of which accused me and emphasized some noncompliance with the islander profile. But coming here offered me other perspectives; above all, it helped me get closer to understanding the complex experience of being uprooted. Throughout my life, I’ve known many people who were native to this place or their descendants. Or descendants of the first colonizers who had migrated from the mainland. So many fled Chilco, but as they did, melancholy killed them. They never found their place; flight was in their blood. They wrote songs, poems, made movies about this corner of the world. Always the same things out of the mouths of the Chilqueños: the lost land, the living memory, the forced migration to survive.

I couldn’t lie, I was nothing like them, even if I imitated them.

At the beginning I wasn’t aware; I hadn’t noticed the differences. But Pascale had—and decided to bring it up a few years ago. It was in one of those loving moments when the urge to share secrets or sad childhood memories rushes to the surface. The moment when our wounds cease to tell an individual story and start to intersect. As if on the border between touch and the roughness of desire, transparency emerges. One closes their eyes, their fingers move, exploring the other’s skin; a hand plunges into unfamiliar flesh, a veil falls like a vine and undresses us.

“You can tell you’re not from here; you’re such a mainlander,” Pascale said, laughing.

Before responding, I dove between Pascale’s thighs and jokingly bit the skin in a small act of revenge, because I couldn’t understand that this was real. Then I said:

“Seriously? Ugh, okay. But tell me, how do you know?”

“Hey! Don’t bite so hard. Oh I don’t know, Mari, it’s in lots of little details. Promise you’re not going to get angry?”

“Wow, like it’s so terrible! Tell me, I won’t sulk, promise.”

“Well, for example, the way you speak. The way you walk, the way you laugh. There’s a rhythm in you that doesn’t belong with who we are here.”

Pascale said it with a certain solemnity, like it came out of an anthropology manual. I imagined those chronicles by old ethnographers with titles like Families, Customs, and Traditions of the Chilqueño Indians. After that, I forced myself to laugh, because I didn’t really understand what was being communicated in that moment. I only did it to avoid saying, I knew that was going to sting.

Ah, a rhythm, I thought, or said.

But what is a rhythm in people?

Is it a movement, the pulse, the dancing of a body?

I SUPPOSE THAT, INSTEAD of believing Pascale, I began to evaluate myself. I looked in the mirror and talked to my reflection. I started to observe how the people I knew conversed.

Little by little, I started to feel like an alien—but in the city, too. I didn’t fit in with the Chilqueños or the Capitalinos.

Then, the manner, the gestures, the faces that separate us became an ocean.

CHILCO IS MY ABSENT ORGAN

Before I got to know Pascale, Chilco was foreign to me, and way too sad a place for a vacation. The island had more bars than schools, libraries, or doctors’ offices. And it wasn’t that big. You could tour the main attractions in a few days, though some corners are always elusive. That’s the difference between the eastern part and the western part. There was a small urban area in East Chilco, where you’d find a few paved streets, an old lighthouse, an old-fashioned town center with its plaza, a radio station, a small harbor, and some headless statues. Conversely, West Chilco was untouched jungle, forest, hills, beaches, and dense overgrowth. And cold—it was very cold.

I’d visited the island a few times with my friends long before Pascale’s presence in my life, but on each trip, we were left with a bitter, difficult-to-explain feeling. We talked about it but never managed to come up with anything very coherent. I don’t know, it was as if the dense fog worked its way deep into our lungs, and a deep sense of melancholy gnawed at our necks. It wasn’t that I disliked it; rather, it gave me an uneasy feeling, along with a kind of stabbing pain in my stomach. Something like a sense of foreboding, but with grief.

Maybe this is what being anxious feels like?

I remember running my palms along the fronts of the big old houses, feeling their textures, the porousness of the wood, the peeling paint, the loose tiling. I visited emporiums of products that no longer existed: buttons made of ceramic, metal, and glass, with figures of little animals or coats of arms for invented countries, natural macramé cloths, and delicately woven lace. Wool dolls, tin boats, and lead soldiers. Shops with palqui crosses, aromatic incense bundles, four-leaf clovers jutting up between clay pots.

The path was covered in a reddish, muddy earth that sticks unforgivingly to rain boots. A miniature world with too much rain, wind, fog, and woodsmoke. Maybe it was the ash-gray cloak over the objects. Everything so enveloped in mist it drowns. Leafy glades and their dense undergrowth. And an immense ocean upon which nothing was visible but salt water and small, faded little boats floating over waves that push you back to shore.

The feeling of confinement was impossible to ignore, despite the breadth of the sea.

I’D GO INTO THE bars where people seemed to kill the afternoons, each with their pint of chichón or malt on the table. There, clusters of men in navy-blue or black blazers, adorned with hats and gold buttons, their white shirts worn thin by time, and raw wool sweaters with stitches stretched from use. If you glanced around the scene, you might also make out some dusty ponchos and work boots.

Walking in there was like stepping into the archives of Raymond Depardon or Armindo Cardoso, a collection of photographs of trips through small towns and villages in the south, in an era of dreams. I knew of those photos from the archival work at the museum, all thanks to Leila. Without her prompting, I’d never have seen them, because those scenes were veiled in this country, as if they told a story someone wanted to hide, deny, or twist. As I looked them over, I felt as if all the men from this territory appeared in those images; their faces, their eyes, their hands flashed through my mind.

“Beyond its food, one learns a lot about a country by silently cataloging it in a noble light,” Leila told me once. I never forgot the phrase, because it explained issues as profound as they were disconcerting, especially for a migrant like her. Leila was my only friend at the museum job, a companion among shelves, nitrile gloves, and dust. Did I already say dust?

IN THE FAVORED BAR, there was always very little movement, save for the nicotine-yellowed fingers and the hands sculpted by their work, dancing in the air, speaking a silent language of smoke. Serene eyes, sunken in wrinkles. The blackest of black eyes. Weathered bodies, tanned by salt and years. Quick-tongued and singsong among themselves, silent to foreigners.

Back then, I’d listened to their fantastical stories, paying special attention to their accents, to the languages stained by other languages, and I drew profiles on napkins. They had a natural talent for talking in circles, revitalizing the conversation with quick jokes and family stories. Ghosts, love, and the devil were common themes. Sometimes they were silent for a while, until someone, without any discomfort, jumped back in. And then they’d start again, without shifting their attention from the komikan pieces, the cards, or the checkers. Other times, the silence was interrupted when the door opened by itself. Someone would blame it on a breeze or the wind, but then cross themselves and say: “There’s that lil devil. Be gone, Wekufe!”

THE WOMEN AT THE bar looked lonelier. They preferred to stare out the windows, write letters, or read old newspapers. They greeted one another with an almost imperceptible gesture, moving their heads vertically and raising their chins. Then they’d go back to exercising their eyes. Perhaps they were waiting for someone they knew to enter through those old wooden doors. Or for their daughters to return. Or their lovers. Or their dead.

Expired calendars, photographs of women in bikinis, and mirrors for ghosts lingered on the walls. A few dusty decorations, like conch shells and ships in bottles. An always-on television broadcasting soccer and the news, but without sound. Just scene after scene, playing out, keeping them company. A ball moving from one goal to the other and tiny little men defending the impossible on an expanse of green. Or muted anchors miming distant events, whose subtitles always included the words “fear” or “controversy.” I felt ashamed that the TV served as a mouthpiece for Capital; everything it featured seemed to have to do with a distant country, surrounded by walls, very far from this seabound place.

For this reason, the muting was a conscious choice. The sound of those old bars always came from Lafken Radio, which, unlike the news on TV, reported on what was happening on the island and not in Capital City. Inclement weather, power outages, nautical accidents, flooded streets, shipwrecks. Waltzes, birthday greetings, and songs in English, like one by Gilbert O’Sullivan that they listened to like a mantra: To think that only yesterday / I was cheerful, bright and gay. All as someone in the background lets out a howl before diving back into their bottomless glass.

THE PEOPLE IN THOSE bars looked at us like what we were: tourists, but slightly less annoying. They were neither forward nor friendly. Still, there was room for balanced coexistence for those who had permission to listen. That tacit consent hinged on the fact that we weren’t a pushy gang of gringas or snobs pretending to be friendly. We weren’t that different from them, save for the rhythm and, of course, the ocean. But it was also because we didn’t live on the island; we didn’t interrupt its daily life or transgress its great hell. We had no intention of stealing their lives or their stories. We were just a group of unknown women they’d probably never see again. Meanwhile, they enjoyed having spectators, someone who listened to them, even in the complicity of silence. The law of the bar was the more pints there were, the louder they spoke, as if they were putting on a play or some event for us and the few disoriented seagulls who walked in as if they owned the place. The birds watched, pecked a few crumbs off the ground, and then flew back up into the sky.

So, if the island seemed like any other outpost with fog in its gut and a spine covered in foam, what was the difference between this piece of land and any other abandoned town on the map? Since I was a girl, I’d heard folktales about the island: alien abductions, strange scientific experiments, stories of indigenous resistance, and sightings of strange animals. Every time anyone mentioned Chilco, it was to refer to its extraordinary peculiarity. Something ineffable, they said. All the myths, all the exoticness in one place. There were tons of stories associated with this territory: magnetic fields, witchcraft, secret communities.

I don’t know, maybe they were responses to the unknown, to the inexplicable.

After I got to know Pascale, this perception changed radically.

I learned another story, one I was never taught in school, much less at home. I understood that all the hot air about magic on this land was ignorance, fetishism, and New Age delirium. Or worse, those things were strategies for making others invisible. It’s not that everything was a lie—weird things happened often—but the story always depended on its narrator’s perspective on existence.

Little by little, my vocabulary began to include words like “dispossession,” “colonialism,” and “genocide.” Chilco had been the last island to be colonized. It achieved total independence from the crown and never submitted to the encomienda. It went through rebellion after rebellion to defend itself from the mainlanders and their strange forms of justice. Consequently, it became a territory marked by massacres, repression, cover-ups, imposition, conquest, and—perhaps this is already known—the installation of an oligarchy. Uprisings can be uncomfortable for the story of order. Dissent scares those who write the histories of states. Which is why they seem to opt for the dullest version: cross out, delete, forget, lie.

I TRIED TO UNDERSTAND the pain, even though it was foreign to me.

After that, nothing seemed quite so foreign.

Chilco was a crawling body, an absent womb, a missing arm.

Chilco was an organ I hadn’t grown, and, suddenly, I was incomplete.

ANCESTRAL ALIENS

“And tell me, what would’ve happened if they’d never been forced to submit?” I asked once.

“Well, it’s our job to imagine that responsibly,” Pascale said seriously, like a Lafkenche version of Malcolm X.

“Sure. Maybe they’d have reached the moon sooner,” I said, grinning sarcastically.

“You mean space conquistadors?” Pascale said less seriously, laughing and weaving strands of hair into a braid.

“No, I mean—of course not. Not conquistadors, never that. Imagine emancipated inventors reaching space, like NASA, but without the gringos. Something like an indigenous NASA for liberation. More internationalist than ever, because it’s interspatial, right?”

We laughed out loud, imagining the possibilities of space travel with indigenous astronauts inciting rebellion in galaxy after galaxy. That night I dreamed of a project like that.

In the dream scenes, I appeared on the mainland in a replica of my awicha Flor’s neighborhood. There was a folk festival in the streets, featuring Tinku dances blended with other forms. Wiphala flags flew in the background. Rivers of fluorescent colors danced in choreographies of diabladas, kusillos, sayas, caporales. Hats, pom-poms, ribbons, and feathers. Vibrant fuchsias, yellows, and greens tinged the urban landscape.

Among the wind and percussion instruments, the sounds of the cymbals and the brilliance of the brass, the people raised altars of worship high above their shoulders. In their hands, the crowd held lit candles that they set into lacquered bracket mushrooms. And instead of saints, Christs, and virgins, they’d erected sculptures of indigenous astronauts and their ships on the altars, which looked like pyramidal temples. The space figures’ suits were not white overalls or intergalactic metals, but robes and cloaks bathed in gold and inlaid with precious stones, like in Incan portraits. Above their heads, like a kind of helmet, they wore woven mascaypacha that covered their faces, except for their eyes, which were protected by goggles like the ones carved from animal bone by the Inuit and Yupik.

The colorful mass continued with its dances and music, the celebration and its pagan worship. Until, suddenly, the rejoicing was interrupted by a high-pitched sound from above. All of us, blinded by the brightness of the sun, tried to look to the sky.

Between the clouds, a great ship floated above us.

Slowly it descended toward the earth.

The people, scared, started to run from one side to the other, abandoning the carnival in their frenzy. Through the chaos and disorder, someone shouted into a megaphone. The woman seemed to be in charge of the celebration, with two infinite braids under a little black hat. The chola leader looked like my grandma. She was and she wasn’t, at the same time. I saw everything as if it was a movie; I was present but couldn’t participate. The woman adjusted her long fuchsia skirt, steeling herself, and said:

“Enough already, do not be afraid! This is what we’ve been waiting for—for so, so long.”

The pyramidal ship landed, and from the inside smoke wafted out, smelling of burning herbs. Through the clouds, a group of astronaut chieftains, Mallku-style, greeted us, in a mix of Quechua and Mapudungun. In the dream, I understood them perfectly; they were saying something like, “We have triumphed, we are free.”

They laughed, embraced, and kissed. Everything from the joy of “afafan” to the exaltation of “jallalla.”

A SUMMARY OF BIRTH ON THE MAINLAND

My upbringing took place at the other extreme, entirely on the mainland, and city-bound. I was born surrounded by volcanoes, hills, and sacred huacas, the expanse of which I couldn’t fathom. My horizon wasn’t the sea, but rows and rows of streets, businesses, and apartments.

Rivers of lights, endless avenues. My life was skyscrapers because I’d been raised in the air; I’d lived in a row of identical towers ever since I was born. I didn’t know what it was to feel connected to a piece of land. I didn’t think much about it either; I didn’t feel helpless, because, in the city, I was never alone. All I had to do was stick my head out the twentieth-floor window and bam: its scream, its cumbia, its reggaeton. Its smell of arepa, its collective late-night chatter at three in the morning.

In the city we were mutts, without ancestry. We’d grown up in a melting pot of a capital, a concoction of nuances, accents, and languages. A climbing vine that yielded more cuttings than seeds and continued to sprout, despite the incisions. The scars were caked in layers of time, like the wandering, waterborne particles and small fossils that accumulate over silt and stone to form shapes like sculptures. In them, you can find traces of animals and plants, imprints from the wind, streaks left by ice—scraps of a memory gleaming for future times. The moment will come when some being yet to arrive digs into the fossils of our days and, by the hues of our stones, recognizes this, our amalgam.

Maybe I never gave much importance to the question of our origins, because at this point in history, I see something beautiful in the mix. I grew up in the identical towers of La Chimba, slender little apartments stacked thirty floors high. Vertical ghettos, they said on TV. Home, we called them. The buildings were raised atop burials, funeral offerings, and indigenous ruins that rose up like ghosts. Even as the steamroller of industrial machinery forged a new tower, it couldn’t quell the uproar. They lived with us. Maybe we couldn’t see them, but the splinters of their homes, the shards of their pottery, the buried symbols were there, integrated into the concrete of the apartments, whether in an air bubble caught in the binder or a tiny fiber embedded in the aggregate. Still, tracing our ancestors archaeologically was almost impossible or, rather, wobbly and uncertain like a three-legged chair, because fatherlessness was the common religion in our region.

In my case, the only certainty was Flor, my maternal awicha, who came from a province near Cusco. Our little piece of Peru reaffirmed itself in the traditions of communal effort: providing food to the folks who arrived and found themselves lost in the city. In all things culinary, nothing compares to Doña Flor’s hands, smeared with huancaína, yellow chili, and purple chichita. Awicha, grandmother, mamita, our matriarch. A woman of tiny stature, heavy and strong like the pyramid of the Huaca del Sol. The same lady who wears a scapular of Taytacha of the Earthquakes, has a pocket inside her bra to store her money, and lets it all go to the rhythms of Los Destellos and their psychedelic guajira. She also knows a ton of words in Quechua and Aymara, although she pretends to have forgotten when I ask her directly. The Andean voices just come out of her from time to time. Her tongue acts by itself, it doesn’t ask permission, that’s how she learned to use it. But I’d better not even think she’s an Indian, she insists. And then she becomes super nationalist about Peru. And she says the Indians and the communists are the worst, gives me the whole “those terrorists” rant and everything, after which I just nod, tell her a joke, and carry on doing my thing. Instead of saying what I think: Mamita Awicha, you might be more Quechua than Peruvian.

But the doña is complicated, just as the histories of peoples are complicated.

Mamita Awicha speaks, drawing out her words unhurriedly, pausing rhythmically on the vowels, and pronouncing each s meticulously. Our language diverges on this detail; she finishes the words, though at times stumbling over the sounds. Our relationship unfolds in these kinds of conversations, like a daily ritual:

“I bet you, Mamita Awicha, that the Taytacha you talk so much about is just Inti himself in disguise,” I say, teasing.

“Oh, coomme onn, mijaa, how silly. Don’t bug me now; I’m sure you’re bored. Why don’t you run and help in the store, since you’ve got time,” she says, laughing, drying her hands on a flowered towel that’s older than she is.

BRIEF, WOBBLY GENEALOGY

So, our family’s history can be summarized as follows:

First Part

Flor Quispe Espejo arrives in the country as a little girl. She works behind closed doors as a domestic worker for twenty years for an aristocratic family, with surnames from the First Government Junta and certain central avenues in Capital City. A family thought to be white among whites. Q’ara among q’ara, and others who think and swear themselves to be q’ara. In the process, she becomes pregnant by absent and deceitful men. The result: two daughters, Rosita and Camelia. She is fired because “the maid’s room was for one person, not three.” She moves to a room in a tenement located near the river that runs through the city, in the heart of the migrant neighborhood, right in La Chimba. A little adobe house, small room. With the severance she receives, she sets up a cart selling ceviche and orange juice, which through tireless work is transformed into the neighborhood market: “Doña Flor, Andean Taste.”

Second Part

Rosita Quispe, teenage daughter of Doña Flor Quispe, meets a man, “X,” while she’s helping out with her mother’s business. After a brief flirtation and secret romance, with promises, songs, misspelled letters, walks hand in hand, quick sex with few orgasms, she becomes pregnant. History repeats itself; the young father runs away. Flor advises Rosita not to chase cowardly deceivers, and they decide not to recognize the absentee’s last name. From that pregnancy, Marina Quispe Quispe is born.

Third part

Marina hasn’t the slightest idea who her father or paternal grandparents are. She’s born in a tower in La Chimba, because Bigger Real Estate demolished the tenement where her grandmother lived and all the ones surrounding it. The company also buys everything else in the area to build identical towers with many, many floors. In exchange, Marina’s family is given a five-hundred-square-feet cubicle in a tower with 377 apartments. Two separate spaces, a kitchenette, loggia, ceramic floor, one bathroom, access to a pool that’s always closed, an elevator under perpetual repair. And just one bedroom for the grandmother, mother, aunt, and granddaughter.

Luckily, Flor, Rosita, and Camelia Quispe never leave the Doña Flor market. In fact, if it were up to Mamita Awicha, to be able to work more, they’d sleep on the bags of bulk food like shaggy cats resting on their bellies in the sun.

By the way, allow me to introduce myself: I am the famous Marina Quispe Quispe, but they call me Mari.

AN ORDER TO THE UNIVERSE

I’ve moved houses three times, and regions once:

La Chimba, in Capital City.

Historic Center, in Capital City.

Chilco Puel (or east), on the island.

All my friends have lived in more places than me, small rooms in student housing or the communal life of renting a little house or an apartment with a few people to survive the real estate crisis in the big city. Only now do I think I really understand the small fortune I had, and didn’t appreciate, until I arrived on the island: being able to count on the protection of my awicha, Rosita, and Camelia. To have them to think of as home.

I can mark the passage of years on a mental calendar that spans the sensory memories of all the places I’ve lived. Sometimes I’m brought back to smells or flavors, to the way something feels or sounds. It’s as if I’ve learned to interpret the world through fragments or shards of my senses, through pieces of reality; the process of groping my way along, testing things, and diving in. I suppose it’s a thing that happens to all girls, just more intensely to some. In my case, it feels as if my hands, ears, tongue, and nose make a jumbled mess as they conspire to give order to the universe. Maybe this is all because of how important meals were at home, our paying close attention to the choice of ingredients at the market, feeling their ripeness, smelling the herbs. After that, learning the slow preparation of food. The broths that must be left to sit and the concentrated flavor that results from patience. Stirring and thickening, smelling and tasting, these were determining factors that forged my character, my way of perceiving and knowing since I was a little girl.

THE LITTLE APARTMENT IN La Chimba is blue cotton pajamas hanging on a tiny balcony, smelling like Popeye detergent. That detail takes me back to my childhood. The smell of my mother, Rosita; her body emanates smooth sweat mixed with the aroma of bar soap. Her jet-black hair smells like chamomile shampoo. The rhythms of the grasses swaying in autumn wind. I was eight years old at the time. The voices of the kids in the afternoon, the whistle of the teapot, the bread in the toaster. The cracked sugar bowl, whose fissure I cradle in the palm of my left hand. Aunt Camelia saying goodbye, holding long hugs before her shift at the market; I hear the tone of her voice, I smell the aroma of her jasmine perfume. The peach skin I press against my tongue, like a piece of sweet velvet. The imprint of school socks on the skin of my calves. The absence of baby teeth like a curious void I observe in a small mirror and touch with the tip of my tongue, smirking in solitude. The smell of shoe polish, strawberry-flavored toothpaste, and the pleasant feeling of spreading glue on my fingertips.

THE FIRST MEMORIES OF the apartment in the Historic Center appear with the fluttering of pigeons and the sound of the cathedral bells. A sweet aroma, the smell of vanilla cookies and coconut wafting through the windows. Rolls of pan amasado from the bakery on the corner, bus horns, patrol car sirens. Inside the apartment, the aroma of coffee. An unmade bed I caress with my hands, white sheets, wrinkled but soft. My bare feet walk on the cold parquet floor. This, for example, also takes me back to the first time I stayed at Pascale’s apartment, the first night I woke up next to Pascale. Warm, thick lips. The beating heart. I touch the constellation of moles, the scarred face illuminated by the morning sun. A long kiss, tongues feeling each other, recognizing each other. The sweat. I feel the warm bruises on my legs, on my waist, consequences of our outpouring, of joy. A foreign neck, shoulders, back, like a choreography the body learns to identify and integrates like a new inhabitant. Places that defiantly hide themselves, others that surrender, docile. Fall asleep, skin to skin.

ON THE DAY OF the catastrophe on Gran Avenida, we’d already been sharing that home for a couple of years. Pascale was preparing a gourd of mate; I was grinding a little fig coffee before leaving for work. I was late and in a bad mood. The night before, there had been a shooting in the Plaza de Armas, and I was exhausted. They said that the confrontation was over territory issues. A brawl between evangelicals and the union of living statues. Tremendous mess, sex workers, comedians, hawking qhateras, and even the Polaroid photographer with the little llama got into it. We stuck our heads out the window, but we just heard people yelling. That lasted for hours, so we returned insomniac to the soothing whispers of the sheets.

In the morning, as we sipped quickly, we heard the bad news. All the morning shows carried the calamity: What was once a building now looked like a hill of ashes. Everything nearby was draped in a grayish veil of dust and cement. The background was full of people moaning and screaming, and the sirens of ambulances and fire trucks.

Since that day, the aroma of fig coffee brings me back to that memory.

We didn’t know it at the time, but the worst was yet to come.

MIJAA, DON’T GO FALLING IN LOVE

Prior to the disaster, there were a few years we used to call “the gentle times.” Not that everything was sunshine and roses, but compared to living through the tragedy—you get it. Pascale and I managed to live for a few years in that false calm. A period during which, every time I visited my awicha, my mom, and my aunt—a triad like a three-headed Mama Killa—they’d put me to work. I was never treated like a guest, despite no longer living under their roof. You couldn’t talk to them if you weren’t helping, washing dishes, prepping bags of mixed salad, sweeping, or doing the books.

Their hands were always dancing about, as if their tiny bodies gave movement to the world through their sense of touch. I don’t remember ever seeing the three of them still or sitting together, not even at holiday dinners. There was always something to do. If one of them caught me looking at my phone, she’d send me to deliver food to the neighbors, have me review the books or tidy the merchandise, even though I was visiting. Especially my rigid Mamita Awicha, who gave me a baffled look whenever I took a seat. A single word from the doña was enough to get the show back on the road.

I always say this, but: If you get to know them, they can be really exasperating. As the years go by, one learns to pretend, to perform a way of working. One develops survival techniques to camouflage oneself from others. Sometimes, just to be annoying, I’d sit on the wicker chair in the market and watch TV. Not even a couple of minutes would pass before I’d feel Flor’s piercing eyes, surveilling me sharply like a distrusting shaman. Then, to get back at me, she’d tell me that my haircut looked strange, that my clothes were too baggy, or that I looked like a boy.

I used to really butt heads with my awicha, responding to all her hurtful comments and getting angry for days. I think my grandma consciously encouraged a kind of exaggerated fierceness in me, so that I’d end up like them, because she considered me too docile. I heard that from her own mouth once, when I caught her and my mama, Rosita, arguing. At the time, I was still a teenager and wanted to meet my dad. I insisted to them that I had the right to know who he was, that they couldn’t hide the truth from me. That simple request became a sign of my fragility and a call to war. But my awicha Flor had the last word—nothing moved without her deciding. And for the doña, my father was dead, end of discussion.

“Mijaa, you’re going to listen to me very closely. That girl doesn’t need any more care than we give her. She’s wanted for nothing in this house. And she’d better not be ungrateful, especially since her dad is long gone,” she said to my mom, who only nodded her head, obeying her tyranny.

Maybe they were right. My so-called father never tried to contact me. Why keep begging? I think now. But I think I also had the right to be disappointed on my own terms.

THE DOÑA TRAINED HER daughters harshly and then tried to do the same with me. It was as if my awicha was a mother to all three of us. She scolded us in the same way for every little thing. Errors that might seem insignificant to others were outsize to her. Leaving a light on, giving the wrong change to a customer, falling in love. I sometimes felt like her third daughter. Growing up in the mix with all of them was confusing when it came to having a maternal authority figure. All of a sudden, my mom and my aunt would seem like my sisters, and my grandmother my mother. The de facto motto, not so subtly enforced, was: hard work, strength, and distrust of other people’s affection. Although my aunt Camelia is sweeter than my mami, Rosita, Rosita is not as tough as Awicha Flor. I’m not going to lie, they have a particular way of showing affection; I form a part of it, and it entangles me with them. It’s not that there isn’t love; on the contrary, it’s suffocating. At times it feels like a possessive relationship, a violent affection, with a dependency so deep that it makes it difficult to separate one from the others. A wild garden so lush that the characteristics of the individual plants are blurred.

Deep down, we get used to feigning detachment to keep going despite the harshness of the days. I never felt comfortable with the family ethos, but that didn’t mean I avoided the collateral damage from it. I feel like the kind of love they gave me wasn’t enough for me; I always expected a little bit more, a love that was more tender, softer. Or maybe I needed more affection than discipline. Fumbling, I armed myself with patience, always waiting. Maybe because I’m a romantic, or just because I’m part orphan. I followed them like a stray dog waiting to wag her tail, waiting for an affectionate hand. I waited for the opportunity to hang from one of their necks, begging for some affection. Aunt Camelia knew it and gave me especially long hugs in an attempt to redress the lack.

THERE WAS A TIME, while I was living with them, that I didn’t speak to my awicha for months. I was sixteen years old. Finally, we got into a shouting match in the middle of the street—yelling from one sidewalk to the other. Even the doñas from the other businesses came out, including María Isabel Mamani, who’d been bedridden for years due to an injury she’d suffered. A spell cast on her for being a gossip, they said. The word was, she’d dragged herself out as best she could, wearing her signature blue dress, just to witness the scandal front and center, only to end up bad-mouthing my awicha afterward. The doñas were in a yearslong competition over their markets, products, and customers. The same went for their daughters and granddaughters. Even the cats were caught up in the territorial dispute. The rivalry also implicitly meant that whoever imported more goods from Peru was more successful with the regulars.

That afternoon, as soon as I peeked into the market, Mami Flor hurled some green mangoes at my head, erupting in a litany of curses that was anything but holy. In that moment, I had no idea what it was about. All I could do was defend myself as best I could, deeply embarrassed as I dodged both the tongue-lashing and the fruit. Later, I found out that some regulars from Lima had gone and tattled to her.

“So, Mari’s into women, huh, Doña? Well, no wonder she isn’t going after whatshisname,” they remarked, snickering.

And my awicha’s face turned redder than the Diablada festival itself.

THAT COUPLE OF TOADS from Lima sold freshly squeezed orange juice on the corner by the cathedral. One day, they’d caught me in the square with the bea-u-tiful Estrella Yupanqui, a classmate I’d liked since she enrolled at the school. I loved everything about her. Her contagious laugh, her handwriting, her organized notebooks, her smell like cherry perfume, her soft skin. That morning, we played hooky and sat on the only available bench.

She started caressing me, there among the evangelical hymns, the retirees feeding pigeons, and a life-size, beat up–looking Mickey Mouse dancing cumbia. We shared a menthol cigarette and headphones as we watched, entertained by the square’s absurd, improvised theater. She came closer, took my hand. I’d imagined that moment for weeks, working up the courage to kiss her. That sunny day was the perfect occasion. I took her chin gently, looked into her eyes. She smiled; I kissed her. Estrella responded. Her smooth tongue tasted like a Kojak sucker. I shivered.

I never worried about anyone seeing me, much less thought I was doing anything improper. Other than the pastors’ sermons preaching about our souls burning in hell, comparing us to the prince of darkness, it’d all been wonderful. That afternoon, I passed by the market and the memory of my first kiss transformed into mangoes flying at my face, courtesy of my awicha Flor. The funny thing is, it wasn’t even about kissing a woman. I just wasn’t supposed to fall in love; she couldn’t have cared less about the gender. Because love for them had been the source of their misfortunes. And I, the one who had the fewest candles at that funeral, took my revenge silently, patiently. In my own way, I did everything possible not to follow the path they had set out for me. I did everything possible not to learn her trade, so as not to end up working nonstop in the blessed Andean Taste market.

At this point in our story, I prefer to laugh at these little tragedies. Every family has to have its own ghosts and green mangoes soaring through the air. Finally, Flor relented. Camelia relented. Rosita relented. I relented. We all did, at least a little bit. We all grew up, troubled and dramatic. We’re different, even if some traces will always be there, unchanging, because the doña is the doña, with the temper of a thousand devils. And when it comes to loving conflict, she does. Beyond that, according to her, no one has suffered like she has, but her sadness is a secret; it’s deeply intimate. I’ve never seen her break down, much less show her tears in public.

Over the years, her complaints shifted to my work decisions. Awicha wanted me to study business administration in high school, but I went for secretarial studies. Honestly, it was all the same to me; I didn’t really understand what either one was about. I did it just to avoid agreeing with her all the time.

When I started my job at the museum, she said my work wasn’t serious.

“How can you just put up with having a boss and spending the whole day in front of the computer like some slacker? You’re made to be in charge, mijaa, to watch over this little store and see it grow, not just go around obeying the owners.”

Everything that wasn’t just the way she wanted it couldn’t be anything other than indolence. And for this nearly eighty-year-old lady who didn’t even sit down on Sundays, her granddaughter “must have taken after her very own father”—even though that man is almost entirely a mystery in our lives. But today, when she starts up with that again, I respond, immediately:

“Listen, Mama Awicha, don’t start. We’re all just daughters of the Holy Spirit and Taytacha Inti here, you know. We went over this—don’t come at me with surprise lectures at this stage in my life,” I say, smiling.

And I hear Doña Flor’s laughter echoing among the cans of Gloria milk and Aji-No-Moto packets.

It could be that, in this family, we paper over everything with laughter, even what we don’t dare to say.

II THE DEVASTATION OF THE DEVASTATION

CHILCO ARCHIVE 3. History and Geography

Chilco is a small island with a subtropical climate, located 116 miles west of the mainland, parallel with Capital City. It has a population of approximately 1,300 inhabitants, according to one of the last censuses. It is accessible by light aircraft or ferry, which means travel time can vary from thirty minutes to four hours. Its inhabitants mostly work in fishing, in shellfish harvesting, or in the industrial part of the port of Bahía, the mainland city closest to the island.

The oldest human remains found date back to the year 1200, mostly from pre-Hispanic contact between the Reche-Mapuche, natives of Southeast Asia, and Polynesians from Oceania. Archaeological investigations have unearthed ceramics, metals, bones, fossils, and textile fragments.

As a result of the uprisings and rebellions of the indigenous inhabitants, the island never formed part of the Spanish crown, transforming itself instead into one of the insular territories with the strongest indigenous resistance. During the centuries of colonial invasion, it was able to sustain its social, cultural, and political autonomy. Chilco was colonized belatedly when the republic was established.

During the second half of the nineteenth century, the state attempted to convert its lands into a penal colony, but the effort failed due to the opposition of the island’s inhabitants, who resisted by raising the so-called Chilqueña Rebellion of 1863, where a large part of the Eastern Governorate (also known as Puel in Mapudungun) was set on fire.

According to colonial chronicles written by missionaries and soldiers, its name is pre-Hispanic, formerly known as Chillkowe (place of chilcos) or Chillko wapi (Chilco Island). Its name refers to the wetlands that make up the insular geography, a slice of natural freshwater springs surrounded by the sea, an environment throughout which chilcos of all existing varieties flourish.

COLLECTIVE DEMOLITION

As our time in the city came to an end, we experienced every phase of its decline. The continent was rotten, and the empire was beginning its demolition. It wasn’t a metaphor; the many years of overpopulation, usury, and through-the-roof growth were nearing their end. The monotony of the unfinished landscape was returning to its starting point. And it all began with the collapse of the identical towers, the horrible accident on Gran Avenida. A cluster of towers collapsed, and scores of people died. The neighboring walls were plastered with photographs and the names of the deceased. Some bodies couldn’t be unearthed; there, along with the cement rubble, lay their parts, their memories. That enduring corner with cranes and apartments was now a mass grave, a void that swallowed us whole. We were overcome with grief, anger. Because we were so numb, the obvious eluded us, helplessness grew like lava, volcanic stones in the pits of our stomachs.

This beginning smells like fig coffee, limescale, earth.

The experts spoke of collapse due to poor design, material fatigue. But the painful truth was that this could have happened to any of the infinite buildings that populated Capital City; every construction company was somehow linked to Bigger Real Estate, Inc. They were responsible for decades of collusion and corruption. Their bosses, with their gringo faces, began to appear constantly on the most-watched news programs, griping about the lack of private investment and the other economic problems that plagued the industry. They weren’t satisfied by real estate speculation alone. After the collapse, official company documents and emails were released. A group of serious journalists had infiltrated their highest ranks, and, after months of investigation, they threw their grenades. The stories revealed fraudulent partnerships, cost-cutting on materials, unethical practices, and noncompliance with environmental regulations.

When the information went viral, the protest movement exploded.

Then the clamor, the tumult.

Everything felt like trying to drown a sob in a pillow, only to have it overflow out to sea.

There was so much pent-up anger that people didn’t wait for another tragedy. The masses, armed with their own tools, began to destroy: the dormitories, the tiny matchbox-size apartments, the studios, the vertical ghettos, the functionally furnished units. We became twenty- and thirty-story buildings, staggering and collapsing in the middle of the city. The reality is, if we hadn’t done it ourselves, an even worse catastrophe would’ve come. But it was delirious. I still feel the warmth of others on my flesh, like a fantasy, the dream of forming a body, a single body, like a mycelium extending its tendrils to consolidate a symbiosis.

I never imagined living through the devastation of the devastation, with hammers, rebar, and makeshift clubs in hand.

Those days made a din like the rumble of industry. Through the joyful shouting, something like the noise of a construction site emerged, except our aim was quite the opposite.

The neighborhood smelled of sweat, of wet earth, of firewood.

We were all covered in dirt, in sawdust.

Faces stained with ash but smiling.

DURING THE FIRST WEEKS, there were optimistic people saying this was the end of capitalism, that we’d finally figured it out, that the neoliberal model was crumbling. Suddenly, Los Saicos felt like the soundtrack to the present. The crowds danced in the streets, pulling loose rocks out of the road and dragging around speakers in grocery carts. Mesmerizing, makeshift sound systems sang out: tatatatayayayaya, let’s tear down the train station, demolish, demolish, demolish, demolish.

Things happened impulsively. You’d be walking calmly when you’d suddenly hear a low murmur in the distance. Then you’d see a band of shadows build a spontaneous barricade of debris from the neighboring apartments. The shadows would pile up the rubble like mountains or volcanoes in the middle of the avenues, then transform into bodies watching the fire. And suddenly, someone would produce a speaker out of nowhere and the world would go crazy. They danced without stopping, held hands, formed circles, and spun faster and faster. Jumping, hugging one another. It was a pagan rite of insurrection.

Without realizing it, from one moment to the next, you’d become part of the circle, the dance, the crooning, the fire. You’d close your eyes and be hugging a group of strangers who wanted, dreamed, and sought the same things as you. The despondency and the misery faded into simple, necessary possibility. A buzz moved through avenues, into parks, on tongues.

Some focused on recording and archiving our collective memory of those days. Before everything was distorted, erased, falsified. They wrote books quickly, created podcasts and YouTube channels, shot documentaries, and took photos. There were specials on TV and films to raise awareness. Liberation Cinema, Cinema Novo, Third Cinema. Pure socialist realism, agrarian reform, militant aesthetic, as if it was a return to the ideals of the Latin American revolution, with art, counterinformation, and propaganda.

Everything that had been dismissed as pamphleteering returned as a revolutionary avant-garde gesture to foster collective awareness. There were weeks of opinion columns and interviews with historians, political scientists, philosophers. People held rallies, marches, lectures, and small street carnivals.

We appeared in the international news as an example of a popular uprising. Motivated to imagine a new world, we allowed ourselves to dream, as if beauty and utopia were possible at the same time.

And, beyond that, as if we might deserve them.

AT LAST, WE COULD dream about the city in a different way; we fantasized about that possibility. We gathered in masses like streams of boiling oil, torrents demanding justice. We were neither warriors nor sufferers. We were infected by fervor, a fever, an inexplicable force that delighted us. I guess this is what it feels like to be moved by a shared idea, to want to make waves beyond the buildings.

For months we camped out in front of the headquarters of Bigger Real Estate, Inc., with protest and expropriation banners.

Mine read: “Wasi & allpa: the house belongs to the one who dreams it.” Our home, our earth.

Pascale’s read: “Nütuayiñ mapu.” We reclaim the land.

We wanted to believe in a future, and we latched on to the movement, the wild affection.

To the land of everyone for everyone.

THE BEGINNING OF THE SINKHOLES

Events unfolded quickly, adding to the feeling of strangeness, of uncertainty. I had this constant stomachache, a knot in my belly that barely allowed me to sleep. It was as if something had lodged beneath my ribs, the tendril of a writhing vine, especially noticeable during terrible nights.

I never thought I’d witness something like this. I thought that other generations would live through these kinds of experiences; that they would happen first in other countries. We have a preconceived image of war, an image of the end. We grow up with these ideas; we’re inoculated with them in different ways year after year. Still, the images of horror in our imagination are always scattered over some unfamiliar location, or through an inert past. In an unreachable beyond we barely know how to name or place on the sprawling map of humanity.

OUR PROBLEM BECAME ALL too real when companies abandoned their offices and stopped collecting rents, dividends, fees of any kind. The same companies that had enriched themselves with real estate speculation and snatched away our dreams of owning homes, that had left us to exist in minimal, miserable spaces—those piece-of-shit usurers—had fled. And the worst part was that, in their escape, we thought we’d caught a glimpse of something brilliant. We even celebrated it, because we needed a victory to hold on to, a myth to keep our desire alive.

Most of the identical towers were left without any management or utilities to pay for. Within days, whole city blocks were left unguarded. There were no police; there were no soldiers. Save for our elation at the rallies, the city in ruins looked like a neighborhood for ghosts. This lasted a couple of weeks, until the massive blackout hit the south of the city. All the neighborhoods on the outskirts were plunged into absolute darkness; the landscape became a vast, gaping wolf’s mouth, illuminated by candles and barricades. It was then that we knew: not only had the real estate companies left, but the owners of the electric companies had also deserted us.

A few weeks after all the businesses decamped, the earthquakes began. At first, we weren’t fazed, because the earth moves every day in this country. A slight vibration almost felt like part of its essential pulse, but it was unsettling when the shaking didn’t stop. There were the small ones that we barely felt. And then there were others so strong that we had to cling to walls, trees, other people’s shoulders. We undulated to the rhythms of the earth’s crust and its telluric shaking. The oscillations got longer.

Some were just underground noise, like bees humming from the beyond, while others seemed like the roars of unimaginable beasts dwelling in the bowels of the earth. Sometimes the noise was so loud, it shook the windows, the furniture, the dishes. We raised our voices so we could hear one another.

That’s when I got scared.

There were people who spent all their time listening to the noises; they concocted conspiracies and paranormal theories and shared amplified recordings as if they featured the language of the dead. The whole mood of the struggle became tense and charged, between the earthquakes and the constant noise. We found ourselves in that interlude between agitation and dread when the first sinkhole appeared in the earth. It was a perfect circle, huge, deep. We didn’t know what to do or how to interpret it. All kinds of speculation took place: a gateway to hell, the end of the world, mine tailings, the revenge of the business owners.

What we know for sure is that many people left the streets then and decided to return to churches or meet in spiritual communities, as if the abyss opened by the sinkholes was also in our bodies, burrowing toward secrets lost in our unconscious or the past. I felt intense anger in that moment. It made me want to shake, slap something, wake up. But people need something more than a revolution to believe in. You need certainty to abandon fear. When I look back on that memory, I think we were naive. It’s not that I’d believed in the specific end of something—much less of the world. But I’d had a fleeting hope: that we’d transform the story of the defeated, the narrative of the losers.

THE GOVERNMENT AND ITS panel of scientific experts didn’t reassure us much either. The official institutional line, and that of the media, stuck to the “natural disaster” version. It seemed shamelessly obvious to me. They had a meticulously prepared and rehearsed script, a performance of power and glory. They spoke of a fracture in the earth, an invisible geological fault that snaked beneath the city’s surface.

Years ago, this issue had been in the news, so they took those old stories and dressed them up as if they’d never gone away, all to sustain their indifferent testimony. This way, they washed their hands of the real estate disaster, too, and distanced themselves from any political responsibility.

Blaming nature, the unreachable, elusive other, was their trump card. They used the discourse of unpredictability, wildness, remoteness. There could be no negotiation about cataclysms with an entity that was beyond us, beyond civilization. Nature was the barbarian, the untranslatable otherness of the present.

As if we weren’t a part of her, her arms, her organs, her vegetation, her breath. As if in the excessive distance between our species, we couldn’t decipher her language.

IS THAT YOU, PACHAKUTI?

At first, we helped one another. We cooperated, played bingo, held raffles, had potlucks. We gathered supplies, collected what little we had, provided support. On this continent, we were so used to disasters, to living under calamity. We could well withstand a major earthquake, tsunami, or a volcanic eruption as long as someone cracked a joke to lighten the mood and offer the right amount of comfort. And maybe, with some luck, we’d make it out safely. Almost by accident—because we certainly weren’t trained in any way. Staying alive was part chance, just like our births, just like everything in this universe.

In that moment, I imagined us jumping like gymnasts, twisting a few times in the air, and although we stumbled and nearly lost our balance, we managed to regain our footing. Given how shattered and fragmented we were by then, a geological fault could easily be seen as normal.

Those first weeks felt like a magnitude 1,000 earthquake had laid waste to our lives. We held on, cried, laughed, continued. Until the sinkholes appeared in other parts of the city, and the possibility of being saved slipped through our fingers.

Then horror reigned.

The city was destruction manifest; our steps faltered over a terrain pocked with craters, like a planet or satellite in disarray. I felt like an astronaut trying to walk on a distant celestial body.

I’d spent years contemplating the visible face of Killa—our moon. White, yellow, gray, reddish. Since I was a child, I’d imagined faces in the interplay of shadow and light; Aristarchus, of course, was already there. The large crater, the most luminous of the lunar landforms, was named in honor of the classical astronomer who embraced the heliocentric model of the solar system. Aristarchus also became our first urban sinkhole, the name of our initial cavity. Thus, the hollowed, the excavated, the empty began to erode words, languages, boring into the knowledge we thought we had.

Buildings on the ground, ash, waste, towers of garbage.

Mud mixed with stones, glass, and concrete.

Mounds of dead animals, missing children, ghost trees.

A CAPITAL SKETCHED IN pieces, with enormous holes that devoured everything that was already in ruins. We were terrified; we walked on tiptoe. Everything was fragile. We became distrustful, violent, hot-tempered. Little by little, the political movement began to splinter, radicalize, revolt. Each faction claimed to be right, to have a revolutionary identity and, therefore, to have the truth. Small groups competed for imaginary power in an imaginary city.

What had been a rebellious urge had degenerated into a pitiful, narcissistic struggle. Hunger came; the little food available rose in price. Looting and massive riots started everywhere in the region.

The government reacted with a curfew, dirty-water cannons, drones, and tanks. The police and the military reacted with torture, rape, and point-blank shooting.

The government didn’t respond; it attacked.

NO ONE CAN DENY that we were tired, we couldn’t take it anymore. The atmosphere was unbearable. We were waiting for something to happen, any gesture to exhaust the foolishness of the pain. We yearned for divine action, an alien attack, the descent of the Virgin of Candelaria even, anyone who’d show up and be able to stop the tragedy.

I don’t know, the apocalypse or the final judgment.

Please, let this be the end of the world.

The arrival of Viracocha, a pachakuti.

Treng Treng and Kai Kai.

But no.

We were completely helpless. There were no answers, there were no certainties, there was no relief, because the end wasn’t coming. Everything was destroyed, the rubble threw us to the ground, and we had to get back up, like amateur boxers obsessed with victory.

THROUGH THE CHAOS AND despite the deaths we had to keep working, keep producing. Life became absurd. It might seem far-fetched that we felt compelled to keep existing even in the face of such senseless circumstances—until you find yourself there, with your hands buried in the depths of disaster. And you can’t stop—not from pain or fear. A breeze of normalcy comforts us amid the desolation. Out of nowhere, you realize: the trees that still cling to the earth continue to wave their branches in the wind. The surviving ants have dug new underground tunnels through which they transport their leaves. Snow lingers on the mountaintops. These small acts of history are also part of the testimony of the sinkholes. The tiny, insignificant narratives no one will record in the grand encyclopedia of the catastrophe.

The only certainty was that at any moment we could be sucked into a hole in the ground. Gone without a trace. And though it might seem foolish, the one thing keeping us steady was the obligation to work and also participate in the demonstrations to restore the few buildings downtown the fault hadn’t yet reached. Every afternoon, after work, I’d pass by there to bring bread to those holding out; we’d gather rocks from the road and paint protest banners until nightfall. Exhausted, we tried not to fight among ourselves.

We did these things for weeks, until Pascale was fired. It was only a matter of time. The construction company declared bankruptcy and didn’t even pay severances. This happened to more and more people, accused by colleagues who still defended the interests of the real estate companies.

Yes, the movement was immense, but its righteousness never made it absolute.

Losing that job was the first push toward the possibility of escaping. Resisting on the mainland stopped making sense when reinforcements were also needed on the island. One day, Pascale realized there was no choice but to leave Capital for good. At this point in the story, however, this was just an idea, a suggestion. The thought hadn’t yet been shaped into a decision. The necessary words to express it hadn’t yet formed in Pascale’s mouth.

This is why I only learned about this wish much later.

WHEN THE HISTORY BOOKS are written or a historical documentary is filmed, the events of an uprising are recounted. There’s talk of heroism, stories of great deeds and massive defeats; the country’s supposed heroes and great rebels are fictionalized in grandiloquent phrases. Facts about the number of deaths are provided, and biographies of the martyrs are printed. But nobody, absolutely nobody, says that resisting and fighting is exhausting.

We tried; I promise. But we couldn’t take it anymore. My eyes were burning; my face felt swollen, hot. We dragged our crumpled bodies, our muscles worn by fatigue and sleeplessness.

Sometimes we went days without sleep.

Our grief was a beast with a multitude of heads, devouring our defeated hearts.

EXPERIMENTAL ARCHITECTURE

Most people we knew wanted to get away from Capital City as soon as they could. The problem was they had nowhere to go. There were places that might stay habitable for a while, maybe for decades, but they weren’t a certainty. Even the most everyday of activities was now unstable on the grid. It had all been built to stifle us, to make us forget rest and produce without looking back. Each one chose the bodies, the music, the lights to immerse themselves in rhythm and brilliance—to have a place to land when night falls, or the mantle of isolation threatened to swallow you. You could spend years of your life in it, bodies, music, lights. In a loop, almost without thinking about it. Fleeing the void, stuffing yourself with lovers, tongues, dances, songs, eyes that gleam as if through prisms. Drugs, alcohol, food. We never imagined that this lifestyle, as deeply ingrained as it was in our skin, would also come apart.

As the expropriation and demolition movement progressed, speculation and bidding on the stable buildings in the east also surged. It became impossible to afford rent in that area, far from the sinkholes; every day, we saw more families living in tents set up on the perimeter of the collapse zone. The more fortunate ones occupied the old offices downtown, but the conditions were still overcrowded. Luckily, our building was one of the oldest in the city. Its antiquity was our salvation. The way it was built, with all its intricate connections, had enabled it to withstand; the construction was rock-solid. Though there were still some minor failures, like a few collapsed sections, some broken glass, and cracks that crisscrossed the roof, these were small things compared to the ruins that surrounded us. The ground hadn’t given way either; there weren’t any sinkholes close by. The important things remained intact, despite the earthquakes.

With the repairs we improvised among the neighbors, the structure held on. The building was condemned as unstable by the government. This meant that Bigger Real Estate’s insurance was responsible for covering our expenses and, incidentally, the state would grant them a generous compensation for their “losses.”

We managed to prop up the parts that were collapsing with lightweight materials: cholgúan hardboard, corrugated sheets of calamina, Pizarreño panels, and Internit fiber-cement. Everything was useful: old pallets, fruit crates, egg cartons, Styrofoam, even garbage bags. Our neighbors, for the most part, had grown up in tightly packed neighborhoods, blocks of tiny, matchbox-size apartments, shanties on stilts, and illegal add-ons. Picking up construction tools was subsistence memory, part of the peripheral learning that comes from building houses from scraps. Those born with nothing make wonders out of scarcity. Rig after rig, a Frankenstein of trash. Bodies that have withstood burned homes, floods, deluges, and earthquakes. A country built on encampments and obstinacy.

Even though it took us hours of collective work, when we still had energy left, we’d joke around. Despite the pain, we found a way to laugh. Some days we turned the hammers into improvised microphones and sang cloying old love songs; we learned salsa with the Caribbean neighbors and imitated the journalists who reported from the rubble of the city:

“Señora, it seems as though you’ve lost your house. Your husband’s been swallowed up by a sinkhole. And you yourself are living in a tent. Do you know where you’ll be spending Christmas?”

Nothing made much sense.

We weren’t making any great structural changes or spending what little we had. Because nothing was ours, and sooner or later, everything was going to collapse anyway. We often said that if we hadn’t been on the brink of death, we could have launched a venture into experimental Andean architecture: a touch of Matta-Clark head-to-head with Freddy Mamani’s beautiful “cholets.”

No dystopian future or anything; it was good times or death.

Our structures were to keep living, to avoid thinking about the abyss we carried within. So we hammered away like we were raising a barn. We cooked in shared pots, turned some great Amazonian cumbia all the way up, and enjoyed the occasional homemade liquor. That’s right, amid the scarcity, we also became fermentation experts as we shared the little stories that made up our lives.

This wasn’t a gringo action movie; no superhero was coming to save us.

Like I said, life can’t be put on hold.

You’re tired, but you have to keep dancing, eating, loving.

Because if not, you might as well die right there.

THE THEORY OF CENTRAL CONFLICT

At times, history teems with absurd events that lead to catastrophe: misunderstandings, turns of phrase, trivialities, and profound mysteries. Our shared enigma is that we never found out which accident triggered the first sinkholes. One day, just like they had appeared, they stopped appearing. And similarly, out of nowhere, so did the earthquakes.

The version spread by the neofascist groups that dominated social media, the newspapers, the TV news, and the press in general claimed it had all been caused by international organizations and terrorists installed in the indigenous territories. They claimed the same people who’d brought down the buildings in the movement after the initial collapse were also responsible for the chasms in the earth. But there was a problem with that theory: we were the indigenous people.

It’s true that a few of us who lived in Capital had been closely involved with the expropriation and demolition movement. But the origin of the sinkholes was a very different thing. We never set out to open gaping mouths in miñche mapu—our land. We had no intention of disturbing Viracocha. Ours was a fight against the real estate companies, against their structures of death and usury.

Also, save for a few bursts of spontaneity, we never had a very effective organization. We were always a monstrous, headless pulse, battling the apathy diligently instilled in our bodies. The struggle served as a way to unlearn despondency, a gesture of defiance against docility and the somber instruction of indifference. Ours was the path of disobedience.

That’s how it all started, a contagion.

In the end, the official narrative reiterated its story of order, with its established dichotomy intact. This was the point of the so-called Theory of Central Conflict, rhetoric that allowed the businessmen and the government to frame the popular movement as part of a terrorist operation, refusing to acknowledge its roots in widespread discontent. A narrative setup that pits good characters against bad, all with the intention of resolving the problem and facilitating a resolution. Using that cover, they also absolved themselves of any responsibility for the brutality and hypocrisy of the model they’d installed in the very heart of the nation.

On social media, over text, in every viral virtual format, we could read:

“The ETAFARC-FPMRSLFORAEZLN are to blame for the destruction.”

They recorded spam audio messages, explaining how those responsible had been seen in hoods, bombing the ground. And, obviously, even though they were hooded, you could tell they were migrants or indigenous people, or the poor. Or all of those at the same time.

My archivist’s impulse was to save everything. Below, I’ve transcribed some of that spam, followed by my interpretations, in the style of a little game that Leila and I invented during the terrible days:

“You can’t understand shit these Indians say. They don’t speak Spanish. Where do they think they are? This is the fucking Homeland. Here we speak SPANISH. God bless the homeland!”

This is to say that they find indigenous or colloquial language unintelligible. It’s implied that they’re advocates for some kind of fictitious lexical purity—paradoxically out of alignment with the colloquialisms they’re using. Additionally, they believe fervently in their homeland, which is to say, their country.

“They’re just a bunch of low-rent thugs, nothing but fucking broken blackheads.”

This is to say that the protesters are associated with a certain “brownness,” and that they’re being referred to derogatorily based on their membership in an oppressed group, whether due to their social class or origin. There is no differentiation based on gender.

“Because, because—just because. They’re always the same. I saw them. I heard them. I was there.”

This means that they’re always the owners of the truth, and for some mysterious reason, they’re always at the location of important events to report them in the media.

THERE WAS NO SHORTAGE of friends and distant relatives—even close ones—decrying the cause of the fires, the cuts, the occupations. They created virtual montages, image after image, in which an explosion in Asia or a bombing in the Middle East constituted the origin of the conflict—inescapable proof of our responsibility. Different kinds of viral videos, situated in far-off places, in other languages, with other bodies, other problems, suddenly became sources of accusation and denunciation.

At this point in the backlash, reflection isn’t possible. Everyone wants to have an unquestionable truth.

Nor was there any shortage of strikebreakers, like those who accused Pascale at work. The poor who wanted to wage war against other poor people. We began to live among tidal waves of fake news that barely seemed to register with those already convinced; even less with those who needed excuses to ratify their loathing. Anonymous groups of haters, hidden behind avatars of questionable creativity, posted outrageous symbols of hate as if they were chosen messengers. The very land that once witnessed the formation of the ancient chasquis of the Tahuantinsuyo now brought us artificially intelligent bots that spent their days and their programming capturing whole algorithms through repetitive actions. Driven by their polarized instructions, they advanced as a newly dominant force in our lives, subjugating discourse, meaning, and timelines. Aided by advertising, Fascism’s likes grew where everyone could see them:

public class Main {

public static void main(

String[] args) {

String

“Bomb emoji”;

“fire”;

“vomit face”;

“gun”;

“white fist”;

“flag of the Homeland”;

“military tank”;

“wall”;

“flag of the Homeland”;

“white fist”;

“gun”;

“heart+flag”;

“Homeland, flag, Homeland, flag”;

(“hashtag, hashtag, hashtag”);

   }

}

In the middle of this crisis of false information, an avalanche of people started to abandon their group chats. The social phenomenon of flight became evident in messages among family, friends, and colleagues. “X,” Soandso, or DoñaWhats’sHerName:

“Has left the group.”

“Has exited the conversation.”

“User ‘X’ has blocked you.”

There were those of us who doubted the whole geological faults story, since the real estate companies made millions in insurance payouts after the catastrophe, only to then continue building towers closer to the mountains. They just restricted themselves to doing business outside of the destruction zone, away from the desolation. They didn’t wait long to promote “sustainable,” “ecological,” and “organic” apartments, houses, and condominiums. Meanwhile, we, the inhabitants of downtown and the outskirts, lived crammed into the expropriated buildings, among the ruins and makeshift tents.

They took their pharmacies, their banks, their casinos, their gyms, their doctors’ offices, to the safe remove of the east and beyond. They started building a new, enclosed city, a reimagined metropolis they called EcoMahuida. And high up in the mountains, a huge sign in white uppercase letters read:

AT THE HEIGHT OF A NEW BIRTH

“Mahuida,” in Mapudungun, means mountain and forest.

That’s right, paradoxically, the very same people who’d labeled us terrorists were now stealing words from the indigenous languages they’d disparaged, for their own interests. And so began their elitist exodus. Today, closer to the mountain, closer to the condors, closer to the pumas, where there is still native forest and the river is born crystalline, new golf courses are emerging.

Only downtown and the outskirts had been abandoned, because they knew the ground could give way at any moment. The most heartbreaking part of this story is that everything carried on as before, but with an even deeper inequality.

The fractures and holes in the earth also pierced our flesh. The body that was once a collective, capable of coexistence, was dismembered. We were breaking apart like a cluster of grapes pecked at by a hungry bird under the sun.

We were the grapes, the bird, and the sun, all at the same time.

We hadn’t won, and we were totally exposed to the elements.

ANIMITAS

The day we found out about the new city EcoMahuida, I couldn’t contain my fury. All of a sudden, the joy of expropriation had become a terrible sham. They laughed in our faces. The continental machine continued functioning, but the landscape was different; it looked like a battlefield or the scar of a meteorite landing.

I didn’t want to direct my anger at anyone, because it’s easy to lose oneself in the ruins. Sometimes you unleash your temper, a sharp word ricochets off the walls, and everyone is injured by the splinters. So I told Pascale I was going out and wandered among the rubble. I walked and walked and walked, aimlessly. I stopped in front of the missing structures of what I remembered: that gallery, tree, store, house that existed in my memory and was now just a pile of debris.

Until that moment, I’d been so engrossed in the movement and the sinkholes, I hadn’t realized how many animitas people had raised to honor their dead. Despite everything, there was a place for mourning. This pain was the only thing they hadn’t taken to the mountains.

On several corners, different hands had built the little homes out of adobe, a mixture of straw and mud, to shelter their spirits among toys, flowers, and photographs. Along the edges of the animitas, hundreds of melted candles huddled together, and the dried wax formed strange figures on the ground, a white amalgam that never stopped burning. Without thinking, I dipped the tip of my index finger into the hot wax. It scalded me, leaving a blister on the pad of my finger.

It wasn’t as easy to erase a body as it was to erase a city.

Silently, I approached the plaques that hung from the little homes. There lay the names, dedications, and recent, very recent dates. Each letter was carefully carved in handwritten or Gothic script.

There were still no votive offerings, nor thanks for favors granted.

There were still no saints or miracles.

Just declarations of love.

FOR MY MAMITA OLIVIA SILVA CAYUMIL:

HER MEMORY WILL LIVE FOREVER IN THE STRUGGLE.

FROM HER DAUGHTERS AND HER GRANDCHILDREN WITH INFINITE LOVE.

TO MY DEAR WIFE, LUCIANA GUZMÁN:

I WILL NEVER FORGET THE FIRST TIME YOU SMILED AT ME.

I WILL LOVE YOU, BEYOND DEATH.

YOURS, INÉS.

LAUTARO RODRÍGUEZ CAMPILLAY, OUR LITTLE SON:

WE WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER THE BEATING OF YOUR HEART,

THE SOUND OF YOUR LAUGHTER AND YOUR FIRST WORDS.

WE ADORE YOU, MAMA AND PAPA.

I sat down in front of the last animita and my fury was transformed. I’m not exactly sure into what; everything was confusing. But I guess reading the dedications made me feel small. This love isn’t part of the official narrative of nations either—impossible. It overflows in its excess. We want to write the names of our dead, record their passage through this earth. Pronounce each letter until the sound stops being just an echo inside one body and spreads to others. Its fleeting nature doesn’t matter; its insistence matters. She was here, she held my hand. An animita is the invocation of her warmth.

I crossed myself and carefully lit one of the candles. And as an offering of prayer, I recited aloud the only poem I know by heart. Pascale gifted it to me on the back of a postcard shortly after we got together. The front was a two-color woodcut by the artist Santos Chávez. An orderly field of wheat, some strands bent by the wind, thin black lines over a red sun. Below, it said: “Gentle afternoon wind.” Since that first card, I’ve always imagined Pascale’s embrace like a gentle April breeze. On the other side, in a messy script, in black ink, a hand-copied poem by Adriana Pinda read:

My dead sprout within my body

with the sweetness of borage and tender palqui

uplifted

in the arc of death, I now am.

Like that wind, like the palqui.

Kiñe truyu, Pascale.

I WANDERED ON. BY inertia or bodily memory, I walked to Mamita Awicha’s neighborhood. She was sweeping the dust and ash from the sidewalk, a useless gesture, though she wouldn’t stop doing it. As soon as she saw me, she called to Mami Rosita and Aunt Camelia. Between the three of them, they set out to make me a passion fruit juice and a membrillo roll.

“Eat something sweet, mijaa. It’ll help. You’re skin and bones now. And those bags under your eyes, mijaa. I’ll bet you haven’t been sleeping. Here, I made this pot of potato ajiaco for you, too,” Awicha said.

I started crying again. I tried to eat, but sobs kept catching in my throat.

“Thanks, Awicha,” I said through tears. “Ugh, Mamita, I’m just so tired, even my stomach feels off. It’s like I’ve had a knot here for days,” I said, pointing to my ribs. “Do you have any herbs left? Or at least some of the regular tea.”

“There, there, I’ll make you some tea, but don’t cry, mijaa. It’ll wear you out. We still have a lot to do. Life can’t be all wins,” she said firmly.

“Oh, sweetie, it’s just so much suffering,” Rosita said, hugging me.

That was the first time in so long I’d felt her calmness wash over me like that. I stayed in that warmth, pressing my head into her shoulder. I tried to listen to the beating of her heart. That’s where my mom was. Not my older sister, not my awicha’s daughter. Rosita had always been a mystery to me, an enigma. Her high-pitched voice, her thin, slight body. As a girl, I was obsessed with the smell of her clothes, her sweet sweat, as if deep in that aroma, I might find the little piece of her I hadn’t met. The strange thing about my mom, it turns out, was her inability to let herself fall in love. I’d never seen my mother in love; I’d never known her as someone’s girlfriend, their lover. The only testament to her passion was me; her disobedience of maternal command, her defiance of authority, her outburst. Ultimately, what I didn’t know about my mother lay in the past, in the absence of a father’s warmth, and deep within me.

BETWEEN THE THREE OF them, they put together a little care package for me with everything that might help. Herbs, bread, vegetables, some clonazepam to help me sleep. Before I left, they looked at me for a long time in silence. Aunt Camelia came over and gave me a spoon plant cutting in a jar of water.

“Look, she survived, so you don’t forget what’s important,” she said. And I’m sure that Mama Rosita’s eyes were watery, but she held back her tears to give me strength.

That time we couldn’t joke.

Everything there smelled like vegetable broth and sweet fried food, like pastries to soften the pain.

I LEFT WITH MY care package, my improvised knapsack. As soon as I reached the corner, a skinny little dog wagged his tail at me. His ribs were visible and he was missing a leg. It seemed as if he was white underneath it all but was dusted gray like the city in ashes. I bent down and gave him a piece of bread, which he swallowed in one bite. I petted his back and the mutt flipped over so I could rub his belly, too. He made me laugh.

“Wow, what a guy. One inch and you want a mile, huh?”

“Woof,” he barked softly, panting with his tongue hanging out.

“Are you hot? If you follow me, I can find you some water somewhere.”

“Woof,” he answered.

“I bet that’s a yes,” I said, and we went on together. The dog walked perfectly without his leg; it seemed like a distant accident, from another life. I wondered silently if his body remembered the missing appendage, his phantom limb. What feelings did his furry flesh harbor? Did he feel similarly about the animitas, the sinkholes?

I thought about that for a long time before I spoke out loud:

“Any chance you have a name?”

… (sounds of panting and the movement of three little legs following my footsteps.)

“I guess that’s a no. Look, we can get you some water at Señora Menche’s.”

I’d already arrived at the plaza in front of her building. In the gentle times, Señora Menche sold newspapers, cigarettes, and lottery tickets. She was what we all knew as a qhatera, a merchant. Now she sold homemade food for a few pesos. I remember she used to scare me when I was a kid, because, instead of a left hand, she had a hook. My awicha forbade me from asking her what happened.

“Don’t be rude, mijaa,” she told me. But the other children joked that Doña Menche was an accident-prone yatiri, a healer, and supposedly, a stray lightning bolt had caused the misfortune. I didn’t believe anything those nosy kids had to say, though. Plus, the lady came from the south: she’d be a machi, not a yatiri, I thought then.

“HOLA, SEÑORA MENCHE. HOW are you doing?”

“Hola, mijita. I’m good, thank God. But we do what we can in times like these. I see you’ve got company. Swapped Pascale for a stray?”

“Something like that. I was wondering if you might treat us to a little water? This little guy’s been parched for the last few blocks now.”

“Oh, no. And he’s missing a leg! Well, he’s one of mine then; we’re both good and messed up,” she said with a smile.

“I found him near my awicha’s place.”

“What’s his name?”

“He doesn’t seem to have one. I asked him, but he didn’t say anything.”

“Well, you’ve got to name him then, Mari. We all deserve a name,” she said seriously.

“Right, I thought the same thing. But I don’t know if I’m very good with names. Right now, I can’t think of anything other than ‘Pachakuti.’”

“And what does that mean?”

“It’s a compound word; it means something like ‘the world turned upside down.’”

“Ahh, like what we’re going through right now.”

“That’s what I was thinking. For now, it fits him like a glove, doesn’t it?”

“Pa-cha-ku-ti, I’ve already learned it. I promise I won’t forget it. Here, Pachakuti, I’ve got some water for you,” she said to the dog, who happily came over to lap it up. “Look how thirsty he was. Seems like he learned his name pretty quickly, too.”

“Thank you, Señora Menche. You know, I left home this morning feeling so angry, but now I feel a little better.”

“Don’t get too down, Mari. Chin up. You know they’ll never lose, but we’ll keep trying anyway. And, when you’re old like me, at least you can say that you were on our side.”

“I’d like to live to be an old lady … I didn’t mean that … not that you, ahh. I just have a broken heart. But it will pass.”

“What can we do? Us poor folks never fare too well with this justice stuff. Look, I have some pine nuts for you to bring to your grandma. She mentioned to me the other day that she wanted to try them.”

“Thank you, dear Señora Menche. It really helps to hear your voice. I’ll take those pine nuts and make sure they get to the boss lady.”

“You’re welcome, mijita. That’s what us old ladies are here for. Oh … Mari, before I forget, I have a message for Pascale.”

“Who from?”

“Just a message from me,” she whispered into my left ear. “Look, tell Pascale: ‘Don’t be afraid, everything can be learned.’”

I felt goose bumps on my neck then. All I could say was, “Oh, so mysterious!” And she let out a firm, self-assured laugh, as if she were betting on a winning number.

Loaded down with food, plants, and Pachakuti in my arms, I climbed the stairs into the building. I entered the apartment and greeted Pascale, who was wearing the same overalls from the day we met.

Pascale crouched to pet Pachakuti and, mouth open wide between surprise and tenderness, offered to give him a bath. I kissed that scarred forehead and said, “Don’t be afraid, everything can be learned.”

Pascale smiled back and, with narrowed eyes, asked suspiciously, “Are you saying that because of the dog?”

All I could do was shrug my shoulders uncertainly as I prayed in silence:

In the curve of lips

the warmth of tender palqui,

that smile will be enough to heal me.

Amen.

THE RETURN EMERGES

Then the dream of returning to Chilco began to appear more frequently on Pascale’s lips. Since we’d spent the previous summer in the family home, we hadn’t stopped talking idyllically about island life. At first, I thought it was an attempt at daydreaming, a passing fantasy, so I played the game, from one idea to another.

We used to go for walks along the cliffs, through the ravines and the narrow trails beside the cabins on the hillsides. Chilco was quiet, far removed from the bustling noise of the city, and yet it was a place where the incessant sounds of animals and seabirds seemed to follow you, like the whispers of ghosts. Yes, that part scared me sometimes, too. Maybe it was something in the echoing that surrounded us, or in that accumulation of layers and layers of sound. The voices of fishermen, the roaring of sea lions, the din of the waves, and the squawks of pelicans. It wasn’t necessary to see them to sense them there, a myriad presence accompanying you the length of your journey.

We’d look at the houses, the colors, the ocean’s salty splashing. And, as if we were kids again, we’d walk by and say: “I’d live in this house, I’d take this courtyard, paint the walls this color. I want that window with the honeysuckle vines, with fuchsia bougainvillea, with feather ferns. I’d adopt two dogs, a horse, a chicken, and three cats.”

And Pascale’s body—Pascale’s body moved, stirred by the wind, carried on by the scent of jasmine from the neighboring gardens. It was our most beautiful summer, far from the sinkholes, the deaths, and the soldiers. And amid so much pain and frustration, Pascale looked happy, for the first time in a long while.

The Chilqueños greeted us with a cordial distance, especially Pascale, whose childhood among the waves wasn’t recognized by everyone. They contemplated, looked at us curiously. Then, after observing us for a while, they’d exchange a few words with Pascale, whose language would meet theirs again. An intonation, a cadence, and hints of Mapudungun as a nod to custom in greeting. From there, the hugs, the ta kuifi, the questions about father and sister. Never about mother. Never about Antonia, the dissident ghost.

The distance from the mainland presented a new view of our days; a different filter fell around our shoulders, and we finally felt somewhat calm.

THE ISLAND WASN’T EXEMPT from the political crisis. On the contrary; it was rapidly becoming poorer, there were no real jobs, and there was a lack of food and basic supplies. The power went out daily. But at least we could sleep without nightmares, without the whirring of helicopters flying overhead, without the shrieking of the patrol cars monitoring our lives. It wasn’t innocence; we knew the place wasn’t a paradise. But we didn’t believe in hell either. Pascale would say that here, people got used to holding out as well as they could; they were familiar with scarcity and dispossession, with the memories of years of survival ingrained in their bones.

In Pascale’s family, they had a saying: “When there’s no light, make candles.” Sometime later, I discovered the phrase was part of the history of Chilco. It was inscribed on different objects, usually sheltered somewhere in the depths of every home. As I visited more houses on the island, I started to see embroidered burlap arpilleras, small engravings, and hand-carved wood pieces bearing that script. It wasn’t difficult to see that the history of Pascale’s family was also the history of the island.

The fact is, everyone there had to make oil and tallow candles during the dictatorship and at other terrible times, because even the death machine ended up forgetting about them. They’d been allowed to live on an eternal threshold: between a life sentence and pure suffering. The island’s electricity depended on a small thermoelectric plant and on the oil that arrived from the mainland every month. Any problem there ended up affecting Chilco. That’s how the candles came to symbolize something deeper, a turn of phrase to verbalize the collective desire for independence.

IN THESE CONVERSATIONS, WHICH wound together until we fell asleep, which shaped our dreams with their last words, Pascale would talk about the dream of returning. Out came a lifetime’s worth of stories, overheard in the island’s oral tradition, passed down from mouth to mouth through each generation of Chilqueños in an endless mix. And I was mesmerized by the adventures, as if the island still experienced armed struggles, pirates, treasures, indigenous uprisings, and epic battles. As if it were a completely different island from the one I knew.

I’m not sure if it’s because we talked about it just before our dreams and the touch of our naked bodies, but the idea began to take root in a corner of my being. Gradually, fantastically, Chilco no longer seemed like an impossibility. Then the words became like a piercing seed, a germinating desire that, with no regard for time, settled itself precisely in that barren cavity in my body—the organ I still had yet to grow.

FAKE VACATIONS

Even beyond the island, the impulse to abandon the known was starting to seduce me. I hadn’t led a particularly adventurous life; I’m the kind of person who’s worked at the same thing since I left school. Years among the same streets, rusty bus stops, legless pigeons, and old dogs. I liked living in an area where the streets downtown, at midafternoon, were packed with languages and food. I loved walking through the market, through the fair stalls, through the Middle Eastern fabric stores. I loved hearing how Arabic mixed with the Kreyol, Quechua, and Korean of my neighbors. I loved everything that existed in Capital City before the sinkholes.

I had so built up and loved the city in my head that I hadn’t even dared to look for my father or my ancestors in Peru. Much less had I considered going to reclaim my ayllu. Maybe it was out of fear of the strong women in my family and their choice to put down roots in an adopted city. Maybe I was afraid of becoming someone sad who moves constantly without feeling as if they belong. Or maybe it was just more convenient not to.

I just took short trips to other cities for a few days at a time, something not very different from the fake vacations we used to take from home, to go to the beach once a year. I say fake vacations because even what was supposed to be a holiday on the coast turned into an extension of the market. Every summer by the sea, Doña Flor, Rosita, and Camelia would haul merchandise over in their white Fiorino and set up makeshift stalls right on the waterfront. All it took was a colorful awayo, an awning stamped with the Peruvian flag, and a portable floor for Mamita Awicha to start hawking in her usual way, half sung: “Come get it, hooome cookinggg, come get it!”

On the vibrant Andean cloth, they displayed towels, sunshades, plastic buckets, and the odd little treat or two to satisfy any belly, like sweet chumbeques or ceviches.

I CLOSE MY EYES and go back to those days, to my postcard from my fake vacations.

The golden bodies appear, basking in the sun until their skin can’t take it anymore. The girls, throwing themselves into the waves, diving, diving, their hair wild in the foam. Towels laid out with impromptu picnics, three-liter sodas, beers, watermelons sprinkled with harina tostá, boiled eggs, and little palmerita cookies. The violet-skinned boys who pleaded with their mothers, refusing to leave the water until it was getting dark, excitedly showing them their wrinkled fingers. The sunscreen with its scent of coconut and vanilla on my skin, leaving that sticky feeling, that uncomfortable greasiness that splattered on my swimsuit. The aroma of the lavender talcum powder my mama, Rosita, would sprinkle on my thighs to prevent chafing, and the contrast of the sand stained with white dust. Every now and then, I’d avert my eyes to the ground or to the sea to avoid the oblique but insistent gaze of strangers who eagerly scrutinized the near nudity of a child.

Fortunately, I wasn’t alone. The three of them were there, always, they were there.

DAYS OF PEELING OFF burned skin, building towers with small coins, observing the world in sepia tones through my heart-shaped sunglasses and drinking ice-cold Inca Kola, imitating Awicha’s hawking song. “Hooome cookinggg, hooome cookinggg, hooome cookinggg.” And from my aunt’s speaker, the unmistakable voice of La Morena de Oro, saint of the devout Camelia, crooned: Come back, to fill the void you left when you went away … Don’t let me die without saying goodbye. All the while she moved her hands, as if they were bound by some kind of vow to mimic the rhythms of the sea. Then Awicha would say something about how if she kept wailing and carrying on like that she’d be overrun with white lice, and not even the bitterness of a natre tonic could save her.

I don’t know who my aunt was singing to.

So beautiful she was, in her cherry-red swimsuit.

I never knew her love.

Although, I once heard, or maybe imagined, that he was a now deceased scissor dancer from Ayacucho.

I’m not sure, though. My suspicion is part of one of those stories from childhood that today seem hidden beneath the rubble. The dust carries everything away.

IN THE END, YOU can’t run away, I think. I have Doña Flor’s disciplinary rigor so rooted in my body, so deep in the cracks, that I end up stuck. Awicha’s motionlessness can be a kind of sign; as with those who migrate and cling desperately to a territory, her feet grew roots that entangle underground, keeping her from returning to uncertainty.

ABANDON THE EARTH TO LOSE YOURSELF

On Chilco, there’s a rural primary school that brings together the boys and girls on the island. In reality, the whole of the academic institution consists of a fenced-in field with a couple of shipping containers that serve as classrooms to teach each successive generation of kids. There are no high schools, so the trip from Chilco to the mainland becomes a forced ritual for those who can or wish to continue their studies. The passage from primary school to high school is a fierce, emotionally charged rite that offers a kind of autonomy, a detachment from the matrix by force. They leave behind the womb of the island and enter continental adulthood. Most of them, whether for comfort or out of precariousness, go to live in Bahía, the first stop on the mainland from the island. There’s a specialized boarding school for them, with technical courses, which has become a kind of austere refuge for these newly formed families of teenagers.

At the end of their courses, the norm is to get a job in the port, serve in the military, or try to be hired for a position in the fuel refineries. This last destination is the most desired by both Chilqueños and Bahíanos; you can earn a lot in just a few years, but the effects are irreversible. Live with money, die quickly. Every worker in these industries has a body permeated by heavy metals. Blood poisoned with small particles of lead, blood like a river subjected to the toxins of a violent dam. Their skin is worn; their hands, leathery. The majority don’t live to be sixty years old. Their organs decompose into pieces, contaminated and cracked by arsenic, selenium, and mercury. But they can afford a nice house, a trendy car; they can buy all their neighbors a round of beers at the end of every month.

The priorities of those not born into the realm of privilege, but subjugated to the ideology of success, might seem incomprehensibly mysterious to those who dream of more romanticized worker profiles.

Joy and desire are just a blink in a tedious, automated life. It’s for this reason that there’s a carnival, some relief and surrender to banalities, as soon as the factory closes on Fridays.

THE OPPOSITE OF LEAVING the island was staying on Chilco and living as fishermen or shellfish collectors, like the Sea Weeds. Or you could invent something for yourself, like the Wapi band. Unless you had family money, an essential trade skill, or some kind of lifeline to protect you from misfortune, there was no alternative. This was the case for all of Pascale’s family, childhood friends, and classmates. But Pascale defied that directive, disobeying the norm imposed by the decided convention of the time to satisfy a different desire: to escape and not come back to the island or live in Bahía. The dream was to go as far as possible, for the journey to be long and continuous. Pascale pored over maps, made plans, and searched for remote and distant territories like those in the stories and poems Antonia read aloud at home. Pascale marked Xs in red pen on atlases and nautical charts. A career as an astronaut might have worked well, so long as the job was to escape. At that point, the dream was to get lost in the waves of other oceans, see the Bay of Bengal, the Sea of Okhotsk, the Persian Gulf. Pascale imagined listening to foreign languages and being immersed in the untranslatable, swaying with the ebb and flow of new smells and flavors. Not knowing the world and being unknown to it in return. Babbling in foreign tongues and eventually disappearing into anonymity.

Maybe that was the true drive, to self-destruct.

To be dissolved into the inorganic.

BUT EVERYTHING HAS A starting point.

The first thing Pascale did was shave, nearly to the skin. Body parts were squeezed with a compression wrap; a new tone of voice emerged. A different wardrobe was acquired. The strategy was to travel as a merchant marine, to get a place on the next ship. Everything seemed to be going well, until someone discovered Pascale. Confronted by the bewilderment of the indefinable, faced with the ambiguity that Pascale’s existence represented in their eyes, a couple of men began to attack. Then more joined them. A brotherhood massed, rejoicing in its power. While a few mocked, others cut a straight line across Pascale’s face.

The scar still marks Pascale’s forehead, a reminder of the razor’s cold shine.

The men hurled every insult their hatred inspired.

Faggot Indian

Devil boy

Fucking fairy

DOING EVERYTHING POSSIBLE TO escape, with blurred vision and clothes covered in blood, and badly limping, Pascale headed toward the home of Miss Graciela Ñanco, a lead teacher at the high school. Graciela was a friend and confidante during those difficult years. She was the only one who would help silently, without asking for anything in return, and she’d developed a friendly, almost maternal affection for Pascale. There’s something about the absence of a mother in the bodies of orphans, something like the echo in an empty room. You want to say words out loud, rehearse. To pack the absence with language, fill the unbearable with affection.

The teacher had sensed in Pascale that spark of confidence that some can sense in others, that intuition for reading destiny’s hand without knowing tarot. That’s why she’d always been there with a kind word of advice, a hug on the bleak days. The gestures that can guide, shelter, or even save a life.

She didn’t cry when she saw Pascale. It didn’t faze her either. She did what she had to do, as if she’d been coldly trained for that moment. Or as if she’d known something like that would happen sooner or later. She slowly peeled away the clothing stuck to Pascale’s skin with dried blood; she removed the compression wrap. She helped Pascale into the warm shower water, treated the wounds with povidone and alcohol. Made vegetable soup and lent clean clothes.

From that afternoon at Graciela’s house, between the shock and the tears, Pascale still clearly remembers the warmth of the steaming broth, and the mild flavor of the native potatoes.

IT TOOK PASCALE YEARS to reveal this secret to me. I think clinging to those details helped to lighten the weight of the beating and erase the hatred on the faces of the attackers. Pascale hasn’t ever said if anything else happened. An involuntary defense mechanism, a gray bog into which everything ends up sinking. When I finally learned, I fell silent. I couldn’t form a single sentence, not one word, until, after a few minutes, I awkwardly asked why they hadn’t reported the abusers. Pascale shrugged and said, “What for?”

The words sounded so bitter.

The next day, the teacher gave Pascale a ticket, some money, a ration of rokiñ for the journey, and a piece of paper with a telephone number.

“Lamngen, listen to me. This is my last bit of advice: don’t even think about staying in Bahía. Everything is just rotten here; the place is damned. This is a shitty town, and if you stay, sweetie, they’ll kill you. Better get away, far away from this hell. Look, last night I called my cousin Elsita. She can take you in when you get to Capital.” Graciela had said something like that.

Pascale nodded and hugged her for a long time. And, before anything else could go wrong, left the port for the mainland’s interior—to find refuge or get lost.

When Pascale left, no one resisted or stood in the way.

When Pascale left, the waves carried on with their rhythm.

The sea remained unaware of Pascale’s absence.

ALL THAT HAPPENED ABOUT seven years ago. The lives of a cat, Pascale says. Now, getting around Capital is easy, though living here didn’t mean becoming a mainlander, much less the city type. When asked about origins, Pascale talks about having a Chilqueño Lafkenche heart, a heart of the sea that won’t betray its island. Then, smiling charmingly, head cocked just slightly to the left, Pascale flashes a toothy grin and, with narrowed eyes, scrunches the scars, as if those marks were wounds from a prehistoric battle, a lightning bolt from another life. And with that beautiful knack for communicating about beloved things, Pascale then wraps us in Chilco’s atmosphere, brushing aside the outrages the mainlanders invented about the island, and describing that stretch of terrain as an inevitable destination, a landscape covered in white mist, wild fuchsia, and the deepest blue of the abyss, where every sound is also a galaxy.

These responses haven’t changed since we met, but I never get tired of listening to the soft sound of that voice. I can’t help but be shocked by the unruly landscape Pascale carries within.

It’s just … how could I not be moved by someone who carries the whole of an island inside them?

WANDERING CAN BE AN INTIMATE DESIRE

Influenced by Pascale, I started to entertain the idea of a wandering existence. Besides, just drifting or reinventing myself in some new life each felt like a way to escape the failed revolution of the buildings. I continued working as a secretary at the museum, but not because it was something I was unwilling to give up. I held on more because of the idea of stability that had been seared into my soul growing up. Having a job meant having dignity, which, of course, was the same as being a good person. You couldn’t slack off or wander aimlessly. For some families, that’s just how things were: there was no avoiding it; there were no other possibilities. My sentence was inscribed between obedience and custom. It’s true that materially, we couldn’t do much, but even dreaming differently was difficult. This is what happens with traditions; people follow them, they keep repeating them, they memorize them. Sometimes they don’t even ask why. In my case, the voices of Awicha Flor and Mami Rosita echoed and echoed: “Look, Mari, you study and work, and if there’s time, you cook for the week. Don’t even think about just loafing around the streets doing nothing, mijaa.” Or when I’d come back from my short trips with friends, they’d toss out: “Mijaa, it’s time to get back to the real world, come help out in the business—go handle the register for these folks.” Which all meant that adventure, audacity, and general leisurely downtime weren’t allowed for me. Or at least for women like us.

So I never thought of myself as someone who could just disappear on a trip or allow herself to question her working-class upbringing. Not that I’d considered whether I was even interested in being a good worker; I did it more out of obligation to my sentimental education, or maybe my emotional indoctrination. Also, for women like me, if you don’t work, you don’t eat. It’s that simple.

At my job, I did exactly what they asked of me. I didn’t chase a promotion or brownnose to gain leverage in a hierarchy that didn’t interest me. Nothing seemed more boring, even humiliating, than trying to climb the ladder in that way. I wasn’t going to scratch anyone’s back. On the contrary, I feel as if I’ve always clung to the smaller strands, to the imperceptible. In some ways, I try to go unnoticed by others. If I were given the choice, if it were really possible to choose, I’d prefer to be a:

Garden pruner.

Park caretaker.

Insect researcher.

Fossil hunter.

Naturalist illustrator.

At the museum I had an employment contract, and my basic rights were guaranteed; that was enough for me. I didn’t make that much money, but I also wasn’t tied down for that many hours. Flexible schedule, as they say. And that was my secret plan, my simple strategy. Have a life for petting Pachakuti, taking care of my plants, and drawing species from the different kingdoms. Maybe it seems obvious, seeking a balance between work, rest, and pleasure, but it wasn’t for the times we were living in, and even less so for my family. Those women don’t separate joy, intimacy, and the market’s sales. I don’t blame them. On the contrary, I try to understand where I come from. Being merchants, salespeople, is an indivisible part of their identities, of their triad. And my desire, that dark force, was very distant from theirs.

But here, you can’t choose the work you perform in adulthood; dreams aren’t possible when it comes to jobs. So my specific labors as a secretary consisted of:

Photocopying and scanning documents.

Entering data into an endless spreadsheet.

Greeting people.

Preparing coffee.

Managing the schedules of several people on the board.

Buying flowers.

Paying bills.

Sending emails and answering the phone.

Taking care of petty cash.

Writing minutes and documents.

Sending quotes/bids.

RECENTLY, THOUGH, THANKS TO Leila, I was able to get away from the tedium of some administrative tasks to work on maintaining and organizing the archive. The room was white, silent, with shelves full of boxes and folders of various sizes. And for some strange reason, that orderly arrangement brought me calm. Perhaps because it was exactly the opposite of my awicha’s garish business.

The archive room gave off a scent of old books, of ink, of wood. The first time I went in, I mentioned being fascinated by the mix, the aroma. “Oh, zanmi, friend, how romantic! That smell is like getting close to death,” Leila replied with a scientist’s smile, speaking slowly, trying to make sure I understood her Spanish pronunciation, in which her r sounded like a blend of l and g to me. Her mouth curved as if forming a small mound over which her lips reigned. And of course, I learned then that the smell was produced by a compound in paper called lignin, an organic polymer from the plant world. That aroma that I liked so much was nothing more than the gases released by the decomposition of paper fibers.

Loving that smell, without knowing it, was our devotion to ruin. Or to that which was in the process of disappearing. Paradoxically, in that moment, life itself was in rubble, marked by absences, on the path to absolute interruption. But our city didn’t smell of old books, rather of another type of death.

MY BOSSES WERE BROTHERS and also partners. It isn’t necessary to mention their last name; you can imagine it pretty easily, or try to guess. It’s just a matter of reading the signs on the country’s main roads. Two middle-aged men, a lawyer and a photographer who had also studied law but had given up on the legal jargon. The Museum of Natural and Social History was one of the many cultural spaces they owned, part of their “social mission for the democratization and dissemination of knowledge,” or so they claimed in their catalogs and on the website. The family’s grandfather, the patron, was an English philanthropist who, the story goes, fell in love with the country’s cultural heritage and founded the institution. Whenever they proudly shared this anecdote and their European heritage with notable visitors, Leila and I exchanged uneasy, knowing looks, because we were skeptical of such selfless love, especially from the continent’s largest collectors of pre-Columbian artifacts. In those moments, my zanmi would whisper, “Better just give back the gold,” and we’d laugh quietly to ourselves.

At first, I found it odd that most of the board members were in favor of the expropriation and demolition movement. I’d never have imagined it. Well, at the outset, because later everything became an uphill battle. This is how the world of the liberal elite revealed itself, the q’aras of progressivism. They had aristocratic pedigrees, white faces, extremely expensive clothes, and foundations in various artistic disciplines. Nevertheless, they didn’t get visibly upset with me when I came in late because of a protest or because there wasn’t water for the shower, things that happened like clockwork in a city without plumbing or sewers, as a result of the sinkholes. On the contrary, they said: “Right on, Mari, everything for the revolution! We’re right there with you all!” And they made hollow, embarrassing gestures in support, like raising their clenched left fist, or wearing a pin featuring a building in ruins, the symbol of the movement, as if they were consenting to our rage, as if they knew what it meant to stand in line for hours to fill a couple of bottles with water.

As if they really cared about us.

AT FIRST, I’D RESPOND with a terse nod of my head and a tight-lipped grimace, because I couldn’t find even monosyllables to express my fury. But then I opted for irony and shot back sentences like: “Yeah, it really is all thanks to you! What would we do without the support of people like you?”

And as if in recognition of my subordinate blessing, they’d smile contentedly in response.

Although they supported the political movement, they condemned the violence. And still, stamped at the bottoms of the posters for all their events were the miniature logos of mining, forestry, or hydroelectric companies, alongside phrases like “sponsored by,” “produced by,” or “presents.”

“Their homes are just too far from our communities, my cheri mwen, these blans will never know what it’s like to drink water from a contaminated river. For them, violence is just some stupid hurdle,” Leila would explain.

That’s how she is.

Her sentences can feel like being stabbed precisely in the center of the heart.

THE TRUTH IS, ALTHOUGH we were grateful to be there in the middle of the crisis, they weren’t doing us any favors. And I had to repeat this to myself daily, because beyond the little spiel I’d learned by heart, I felt a deep and irrational indebtedness—a sense of guilt for the position I held as everything outside collapsed. An absurd insecurity clung to me, mangling the words that dribbled like foam from my mouth. I knew it wasn’t my dream job, perhaps because my dream was just not to have to work in that way. Still, I could lose myself among the skeletons of extinct animals, listen to music as I pleased, and learn about things I found fascinating. I felt as if I was in a world that never even brushed up against the one I was born into—a universe that had been denied me. And with catastrophe surrounding us, we kept living because we dared not die. We were on the brink of the abyss, like those crops that withstand bitter frosts.

Everything was a performance, a great effort, even getting up to go to work.

It was all an amalgam of circumstances to maintain a certain balance, to prevent us from overflowing constantly, to keep us from falling into despair, shooting ourselves, succumbing to an overdose, or leaping into the void. And, after seeing old high school friends stuck in crappy jobs, with crappy salaries and crappy bosses, working among whale skeletons seemed like a thing of enviable beauty.

And above all the horror, there was Leila, my friend, my kullaka, my ñañay, my zanmi.

I loved listening to the tone of her voice, her rhythm, her language, her fury.

Her way of speaking pushed me to wonder: How do my words sound to others? What Andean traces are still in my voice?

I felt a certain synchronicity between us, as if between her island country and my absent ayllu, there were an invisible thread that linked us, a feeling of familiarity. Leila had been in this country for several years, but she was born on the beaches of Labadee, a coastal place in the north of Haiti. Labadee is a stretch of private peninsula governed by a mega cruise company. Her city, with its paradisiacal beaches, functions as a secret country for international tourists, because Haitians are not allowed to enter. It is a paradise for the rich surrounded by militias.

Leila’s entire family worked in that tourist complex, which meant that part of her childhood was spent catching glimpses of large ships, seeing strangers disembark on her white sands, and listening to different languages, trying to understand them. Leila only learned of another reality when she crossed the border to go to school. As she became conscious of her place in the world, she decided not to get involved in the tourism industry. She hated it. She hated having to dress up and shut up to placate the rich. She studied chemistry and became obsessed with the transformation of matter. She dedicated years of her youth to the analysis of cellulose. Between chance and obstinacy, she ended up in Capital City, in love with archive work, another form of passion for collective memory.

We became friends through our stomachs, both of us attracted to the smells of each other’s meals during our break time. We were the only ones who brought in jars with our homemade creations. Little by little, those few minutes of rest became a loving alliance. She offered me bannan fri, and I shared a pot-cooked pachamanca. She recounted details of the Haitian Revolution, and I told her the story of Micaela Bastidas.

Food was just the beginning of our love.

Isn’t that how it all starts?

Still, being with Leila often felt like walking on a tightrope, trying to find the right balance between affection and a feeling of being stunned, especially given her unpredictable impulses. She had no fear of dropping cluster-bomb phrases in front of the board of directors, who, not wanting to look bad, listened to her through diplomatic grimaces, biting their tongues. After all, Leila had saved them from years of poorly managed archives—years of terrible management in general. That was reason enough for me to admire her, her absolute dedication to the museum—something I knew from working so closely with her.

But the truth is, Leila, the bold one, always takes things one step further. Years ago, when we were still becoming friends, after a long meeting with the bosses, she whispered in my ear, “You do see it, right? How they treat the two of us. Here, you and I are their exemplary tokens. But you have to stay sharp, zanmi, you never know with them.” Then she winked at me, as if we’d made a blood pact to liberate all our ancestors.

I didn’t know what “token” meant, so I had to look it up.

There were about 14,500 results.

I read a few.

I also took time to watch some videos.

And so, little by little, life took on another meaning.

I wouldn’t say happier or sadder, but more honest. Maybe like a dead animal deprived of embalming, a dead animal with its decomposed entrails on display.

LEILA AND PASCALE GAVE shape to a strange sensation in me—something I’d always felt in the folds of my flesh but couldn’t express in words until I met them. Leila was a hurricane, Pascale a breeze. I found myself right in the middle of their two bodies of air. An inconsistent weather vane forced to adjust its orientation according to the environmental pressure. Then, the naive whisper of the breeze ceased to be a melody and rose into a harsh, dry gale.

It was as if my existence had just revealed itself in the form of a mountainous umbilical cord.

It was scrubbing the pumice three times over our skin, because we could never be pure enough.

It was the uncomfortable silence of my awicha, the extended stillness that came after a word in Quechua or Aymara stained her voice with its resonance.

VOWS OF POVERTY

After being fired, Pascale started doing freelance jobs, leaving the apartment every time someone needed help, especially for home repairs—which was often, because of the utter devastation in the area. We city dwellers became a useless mass; we’d bought so deeply into the idea of objects as fleeting and disposable that we forgot how to repair electrical appliances, pipes, and furniture. Hands with the skill to mend and restore became important then, and that’s where Pascale’s talent as an artisan came in, an inherited family trade.

Besides, faced with this kind of precariousness, we couldn’t allow ourselves luxuries. We survived on my salary and the little jobs Pascale secured. And every Sunday, religiously, we received a bag with freeze-dried chuño potatoes and a hearty shámbar stew from my awicha Flor, with a little note written in her perfect handwriting:

Mija, this dish is for tomorrow, so that you start the week off strong.

Following her daring culinary path, Pascale and I would cook big pots of legumes, potatoes, mote corn, and quinoa, enough to last days, and which we shared with our neighbors and friends. We got used to living with the bare minimum; we reduced all our expenses, which were never excessive even in the gentle times.

So we wouldn’t exhaust ourselves with all the sadness, one day, I decided to organize a little party in the apartment. I invited Leila and some girlfriends from the building. I told my family, too, but my awicha had to work, and it was my mom’s shift, so only Camelia was able to come. In the center of the house, I laid out a fuchsia-colored awayo, on which I put a piggy bank shaped like a little llama and what coca leaves I had left. I hung some Andean pom-poms on Pachakuti’s ears, and I wrapped myself in a white sheet that looked like a toga. I made myself a crown of red bougainvillea and wore my golden chola earrings. She barely recognized me, Leila said; I looked like an Inca version of Sappho. My aunt nodded in agreement, adding that I could have been the Lady of Cao herself brought back to life—tattoos and all.

Each guest arranged their contribution intuitively, as if we were improvising a quqawi picnic with beans, tortillas, toasted canchita corn, chili, and parboiled potatoes. Even a bottle of warm huajsapata appeared, a donation from Mama Awicha. The night progressed from laughter to feasting, with capfuls of the warm cocktail, dancing, and long hugs. Before eating, we sang a few songs, while Pascale blew along on the trompe and Pachakuti let out an occasional howl to accompany us. Thus, we inaugurated the dinner for our obligatory vows of poverty. We finished the meal with a few steps of some huayno and the kompa that Leila taught us. Before leaving, each of us dropped any stray coins in our pockets into the piggy bank as an offering for future days.

It was our last bet on fortune, our little candle amid a storm.

Yes, it was our usual potluck, save for the burst of laughter at the solemnity of the pagan rite and my performance as a poor shaman. Yes, back then, it was necessary to come together to laugh, because death and the thought of its approach were devouring those around us, and had already taken so many of our loved ones.

I don’t want to delve into that, because it’s heartbreaking. I’ll only say that there was a wave that swept away many beloved people, a blizzard of melancholy that barely allowed us to say goodbye.

Now, so far away on this stretch of ocean, I remember that night and want to go back.

I remember hearing them laugh, and feeling at home.

III YOU ARE WILD FUCHSIA, LIKE THE FLOWERS OF CHILCO

CHILCO ARCHIVE 4. Literature

Author: Wilhelm, Charlotte.

Title: Island Diary (1857–1868).

Ocean Publishing Co., Capital City, 1870.

Translation: Rosa Quilaqueo.

Chapter V: “Expedition to Fuchsia Island, Settlement of the Independent Natives.”

This morning, I happily enjoyed the south wind that rustled our clothing at gusts of eleven miles per hour. We set sail from the port of Bahía, ninety-eight miles from Capital City. As the ship finally made it across the inlet through the dense fog off the coast, we watched as the beam from the lighthouse faded into the distance. I felt vertigo and excitement; everything looked brighter with the sun’s rays over the ocean.

The ship billowed smoke like a steaming cup of tea; I recalled the chimneys of my city in winter. After five hours of sailing, I heard noise and a commotion from the sailors, and I rose and went up on deck. We were in front of Chilco or Fuchsia Island. “Chillko” in the language of the island Indians means “watery,” according to the notes and writings of the missionaries of the Company of Jesus.

My eyes simply could not take in all the wild beauty of these lands. The island was covered in forests of fuchsia blooms and crisscrossed with streams; the landscape captivated me, especially the lushness of the jungle, which seemed almost untouched. I peered off the ship, hoping to spot either the natives or their huts, but I could just barely make out the bright colors of exotic birds and animals I had never studied before. As the ship approached, we heard the roaring of sea lions and enormous waves crashing onto the rocks.

The captain decided we would spend the night at anchor just off the beaches of Chilco. The next morning, the sky was clear. And though there was no storm, an unusual wind disturbed the waters in such a way that it scared the crew. In spite of the conditions, they raised the sails to balance the ship. The waters churned violently, and the rough waves grew larger and larger.

I insisted to the captain that we not leave the beach, as I hoped to acquaint myself with the territory of the uprising. However, when we attempted to land the ship at the base of the nearby cliff, we heard a loud bang and the sound of drums; then we saw smoke signals coming from various points on the island. As far as I could see, there was not a soul; nothing, save the expanse of the impenetrable jungle, green and pink, the immensity of nature. The frightened sailors began to pray and beg to go back to sea. So, before the machine could complete its hard starboard turn to the south, I took out my notebook, and with charcoal, I drew as much as I could, carefully capturing the geography. I sketched the high hills surrounded by forest and the ruins of ancient forts and churches on the seashore.

According to sources, the island today is without a governor or a priest due to the conflicts with the Indians. Nor has a ship landed there directly for more than a year, for fear of the rebellions of this race. No news was ever received of the last boat that arrived on these beaches; the great machine and its crew disappeared. Terrible stories are told about this tribe, and its primitive nature and customs. Some fearful sailors say that the Indians eat human flesh in sacrifice and believe in false idols, which explains their savage temperament. I don’t believe them.

As I drew, we were amazed by a great spectacle of whales and dolphins swimming very close to our ship. On the horizon, an English whaler chased them to harvest their blubber. I managed to outline the main shapes and jotted down as much as I could about the island, as well as these colossal sea creatures.

The following morning, we continued our journey toward other island territories that, they say, also lack governance and God’s presence.

THE HURRICANE I AM

On one of those afternoons of intense work in the city, I ran into Pascale as we were both heading home. We met on the corner, Pascale winked at me, and we both smiled warmly. With the little bit of energy we had left, we went up to the apartment, heated up food, and lay down on the mattress to have lunch. Our entire love story could be written on that mattress. The tenderness, the beauty, and the ferocity.

Pachakuti, out of nothing but bad habit, came to sniff our dishes and quickly lay down next to me. With resignation, he realized there was nothing for his demanding palate. He licked my hand and barked, then emitted something like a grrgrr woooof and went back to gnawing at his bone.

As a ritual, we’d talk about our workdays, the previous night’s dreams, and random observations from the day. We’d spend extra time on conversations we heard in the streets, important news, or the movement’s political meetings. And without premeditating it, we began to talk again about Chilco and the tranquility we’d experienced the previous summer on the island.

“Ugh, maybe we’re idealizing Chilco because of all this horror,” I said. “I don’t know how people survive wars and just continue with their lives,” I sighed.

“Maybe … maybe. But that’s what animality is about, Mari. Sometimes we humans think of ourselves as something else, apart—we’re riding a wave between narcissism and naivete,” Pascale responded, petting Pachakuti’s back; he wagged his tail in approval.

“It’s not that I’m naive or narcissistic, I just never stop surprising myself. I don’t know. Well, sure, I know. Rationally, I understand that animals do everything possible to survive. I see it on the street and in the museum, you know? Just look at those ancient skeletons and how they’ve been worn down over the years. But doing it, really feeling it in my body, in my flesh, that’s very different.”

“Look, we’re alive now, right? They say that, eventually, a war comes for every generation. But, Mari, what really worries me is something else…” Pascale paused, intertwining the fingers of both hands as if weaving with an invisible thread, then, following a deep breath, went on. “I realized recently that I can’t live or die without the sea.”

I stayed silent for a long time, chewing my food slowly. Then I took a breath, wiped my lips, and responded:

“If that’s what you want. We can arrange things and take a trip at the end of the year. Maybe we can stay a little longer this time. Your dad and Meli would be happy.”

I said all this as if I were calm. But inside I felt agitated, because I understood what Pascale meant about returning and I was deliberately distorting it. I was avoiding the confession consciously, because it scared me. I’d fantasized about escaping Capital City. I’d imagined traveling through the different regions, but it wasn’t a real decision. I followed along with the dream of returning because I believed that’s precisely what it was, a dream. Now the truth had confronted me.

“But I feel like that’s too many months away. And I don’t want to just go on a little visit or a vacation like I don’t have a home there. I want to go as soon as possible, Mari … The truth is, I feel nervous about staying here,” Pascale said seriously, finally.

A home there.

A home there.

That phrase resonated like an echo, ripping me apart inside.

Wasn’t our mattress also home?

Wasn’t I…?

I went on.

“But … but, Pascale, there’s something I’m not getting. There are things we have to take care of here first. Here I have a life, a job, my friends. There’s my family. What are we going to live on there? Or do you plan to live with your dad? Or, don’t tell me you want to work in the refineries?”

My voice rose, and the questions sounded like accusations.

“Mari, damn … It’s not like that. I guess you’re not understanding,” Pascale said, looking at me with a kind of sadness.

“That’s because you’re all over the place—honestly. You’re not making any sense,” I shot back hotly.

“Hey, enough! I don’t want to fight. Can I tell you how I feel or does only what you have to say matter? Seriously, I wish you’d understand how complicated this is for me. It’s not all clear, I get confused, too, it’s not easy.”

And since sometimes the hurricane I am comes out without asking, I continued with the unbearable, uncomfortable questions, tearing the scabs off wounds revealed to me in private. I’d be lying if I said I knew what happens to me, because I haven’t the slightest idea, but a terrible anger emerges. It’s like a competition. And I go on and on, until someone cries or screams or slams the door. I cloud easily. Maybe the answer is my childhood with a ghost father or the way I was raised by my awicha Flor—as with almost everything in my life. Then again, it might just be me and I’m just going around blaming everyone else for this volcano that I carry around inside my beating sunqu.

“Sure,” I said. “And do you think Chilco is going to accept you now? Those people can’t even look you in the eye! They barely greet you. You can’t just idealize that island because you were born there, Pascale. People are shit everywhere, but it’s worse in small towns. There’s no escape in that sea. They see you’re a different person now, or, do you think it doesn’t show? Going to visit is a different thing. They put up with us because they know we don’t live there.”

“Stop, stop, Mari,” Pascale said, bowing and raising both hands as if making a shield to protect against me. “That’s enough. I’ll just say one last thing, because I don’t want to argue anymore: I am the same person who grew up on Chilco.” Pascale got out of bed and went to the kitchen to make an herbal tea. Pachakuti quickly followed, as if he was taking sides, and I felt betrayed.

We kept arguing because it seemed to be revealing new information and I can’t stop myself until I get to the crux of the problem.

But everything gets tangled, between tones, words, and concepts under other concepts. What you said versus what you meant. What you said and how you said it. What you just didn’t say. What you said and what the other person understood.

I sensed a deep-seated unhappiness looming beyond the present uncertainty.

I felt as if there was still some other longing or sorrow being concealed from me.

All at once, Pascale seemed to have no desire for anything the mainland had to offer.

And I …

I was part of that mainland, too.

BETRAYAL OF THE CAUSE

Then winter came to the continent. The few remaining trees shed their last dry leaves. The city was plunged into a permanent darkness, between the clouded-over sky and the cement dust and plaster that seemed to cover every surface. A world draped in shades of leaden gray. The cold settled in, and the tents, windowless buildings, and makeshift structures became problems. We had no way to heat the rooms, the streets, the walls of our bodies. Some people made fires in barbecue grills, burning garbage and charcoal, while others wrapped themselves in layer upon layer of clothing.

With each passing week, the expropriation and demolition movement seemed more like a forgotten balloon on the ceiling of some party. It reminded me of one of those kids’ birthdays where everyone chooses a balloon, but somehow there’s always one that gets lost, shrivels up, shrinks, and in the end is left deflated. There was no hope in the protests.

Fewer and fewer people came downtown, and the area was besieged by soldiers. We were tired of the deaths, the abuses, and the unjust arrests. Everything was working again, now with more drones, helicopters, surveillance, and sinkholes. The landscape was desolate, a model shattered by the state of emergency and usury. Families begging for food on the corners. Boys ate dirt and girls ate ashes.

No one could hear the thrushes announcing the arrival of morning anymore.

It was difficult to return to that reality after so many months battling, after finally believing in something.

AMID THE DISILLUSIONMENT, PASCALE found a new job.

Large supermarket chains and official government offices had abandoned the downtown area. There was no cash in circulation. There were no ATMs, gas stations, or liquor stores. All the small businesses had closed—even smuggled merchandise like loose cigarettes, cooking oil, alcohol, knockoffs, and bags of flour were barely selling. My family survived by going back to the Peruvian food carts. Doña Flor couldn’t believe that, after so many years of sacrifice, she had to go back. But, like people who have suffered and worked themselves to exhaustion before, she got back up. She swallowed her pride; she had no choice. She wiped away her tears of rage and went out onto the street again. She kissed her scapular and started to ration meals. At least the apartment in La Chimba was still holding up. “Oh, Taytacha, just so many things for you to look after for me,” Awicha would say.

And indeed, the absurd could become more absurd. Our capital was devastated, but day after day we were bombarded by advertising from EcoMahuida, the new city. A golden plane crossed the sky above our heads, leaving trails of chemicals that looked like handwriting in the clouds. And in them, messages of luxury. The letters cohered for a few seconds before disappearing into the sky’s gray. This vanishing announcement felt like the latest thrust of the empire.

H

“HOME.”

“Freedom and warmth.”

“Confidence for your future.”

“A new land awaits you.”

“We are the promised land in the heart of the mountains.”

“Best Place to Live in the Homeland.”

Every so often, they’d drop stacks of flyers, brochures, maps, and plans. Organic-looking triptychs with blond families smiling in their evergreen gardens. Homes, plots of land, and unaffordable penthouses. Circular structures of metal and glass, artificial lagoons, yachts. A city of the future was being born in the contours of the Andean mountain range, a rebirth, growing out of another dimension.

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And from the sky, fluorescent helicopters plowed through clouds, broadcasting the same amplified ads on an incessant loop. A soft, cloying voice reverberated through the loudspeakers:

Imagine your fall mornings cycling along mountain trails, enjoying a peaceful summer kayak down the river, or cruising on a yacht in the lagoon. All without leaving your condominium. You can visit our beaches, wander through our hills, or train at our club, complete with a gym, golf courses, and tennis courts. Everything you need is just to the east of the capital. Discover the life you deserve in the paradise of EcoMahuida, our rebirth in the heights.

We couldn’t understand what kind of bad joke this was, when we barely had enough to eat. Leila said they were looking for people who could still take on debt at fifty-year terms with impossible interest, targeting those fortunate enough to cling to some minor employment, so they could fantasize about lives beyond the ruins. But to me, it didn’t feel like an invitation to live there. I doubted they wanted us as neighbors. Instead, it seemed we were being asked to be spectators to their vengeance, their victory, their opulence.

I didn’t doubt the banality of their cruelty.

Unless it was all a social experiment, a work of theater, some kind of performance that had gone way, way too far. This is how we came to question the reality of the sinkholes as a natural disaster and became obsessed with the idea of a plan orchestrated by Bigger Real Estate. For centuries, they’d burned native forests, indigenous communities, protected lands, nature sanctuaries: fire to the coigües, the ashes of alceres. The flames swept away millennia-old lives. Suddenly, the known landscape became a veil of smog, a light, now slow to cast its shadow. All to construct building after building, tower after tower, apartments that were impossible to afford. So it’s not as if these businessmen had a history of honesty. They’d already established their model of destruction in the gentle times. And a little before that, their ancestors had enacted their own version of the same, with strategies like “pacification” and settling “deserts.” Our idea didn’t seem so irrational, because in the face of disaster there was no other way to understand; we trusted in our instincts and in the subtle grooves of history.

TO LOVE AS IT ONCE WAS

At the new job, Pascale had to perform the same kinds of tasks required by the freelance work, but now under a fixed-term contract. A uniform, along with clocking in and out, became mandatory, and to top it all off, a portion of each paycheck was earmarked for a pension fund run by the owners of the very companies that had fled to the east. Which is to say, there was no possible future, but Pascale still had to pay for one. The company was a construction firm in charge of new real estate projects higher up in the mountains, providing services for several condo developments in the new city. After being selected for the position, Pascale sent me a message:

“We’re going to die, but I found work.”

But that’s not the worst part.

The worst part is that I was happy.

I responded with an emoji of a smiling kitten, a heart, and streamers. I also sent a GIF of a little dog, similar to Pachakuti, happily and tirelessly chasing his tail, like an Ouroboros. Then I waited for the end of the workday with a bottle of smuggled wine I opened to celebrate. I was trying to convince Pascale that having something stable in the middle of a crisis was a good sign. We couldn’t allow ourselves the privilege of independence. As I said it out loud, I realized I then embodied everything I feared in my awicha and Mama Rosita.

Walking in, Pascale didn’t even seem happy about the special “reserve” cabernet I’d worked so hard to get. It’s not as if it was a syringe of heroin, but I’d had to venture into the murky corners of La Chimba, talk to the River Mafia boys, and pay triple for the special occasion. Triple and my little gold chakana medal that Mama Rosita gave me when I turned fifteen. Despite the shortages, the River Mafia could get whatever you wanted—but it wasn’t easy to get to them. Sometimes their soldiers assaulted you long before you could negotiate with the powers that be.

But I had a friend in a high place, Miguel Ángel, who was one of their leaders. We’d studied together at school in the gentle times, and his taita was famous for selling the spiciest rocoto chiles in the market. Now the two of them were part of the smugglers’ network; they could get you everything from internet access cards to precise doses of ketamine. Both had a kind of familial fondness for me because my awicha was always sending them food and little treats. Luci, Miguel Ángel’s mother, died young and had been a close friend of my aunt Camelia. Her death had been a mystery to everyone; suddenly, she fell victim to a strange, devastating illness that caused her pain throughout her body. I remember as part of her funeral, the hearse decorated with red carnations stopped in front of the school, and we all waved white handkerchiefs while we sang “Esta Tarde Vi Llover” by Armando Manzanero. That same day, the head teacher had held a quick rehearsal of the lyrics and melody to say goodbye to her. When the hearse moved away, we all cried as we sang: “I saw the autumn arrive, I heard the sea sing, and you were not there…”

For my awicha, this death was deeply moving, she had a soft spot for Señora Luci, maybe because of her youth. So at the funeral she prayed for the deceased and promised that every Sunday she would send a couple of dishes to her husband and the child. “Ayy, it’s just that widowed men can be so helpless, and they get even worse with sadness,” the doña would say. And as if it were a sacred obligation, she faithfully fulfilled that promise until Miguel Ángel turned eighteen.

As soon as I settled in to wait on the bridge over the river, two soldiers wearing kusillo clown masks approached. They looked at me for a long time and then dropped their woolen hoods. Then I recognized them. I knew them, too—Illari and Katari—from school, although they didn’t remember me. I gave them the money I had, but they quickly fixated on my medal.

“Ey, the chakana, too, then we’re good,” said Illari.

I looked him straight in the eyes, without fear.

“What are you looking at? I said: the chakana.”

“But I know you, Illari. Remember school, with Miguel Ángel? Don’t pretend I’m a stranger now, man.”

“That doesn’t matter, the coins aren’t worth anything anymore; it’s an order from higher up.”

“I mean, it’s not like it’s from Tupac Amaru,” I replied.

They grinned, and the diamond and gold in their grills glinted like shards of our ancient empire. After a little while, Miguel Ángel arrived in a chullo beanie, a tracksuit, and a fuchsia sequined jacket. He looked like an Andean disco piñata. He quickened his pace and snorted kallpa from his fist, a silvery powder that gave an immediate boost of energy and didn’t cause the suicidal hangover of cocaine. Some called it “mummy’s breath.” He quickly wiped his nose, hugged me, and said:

“What are you doing here, old friend?” The other two were surprised and looked nervous.

“Buying from you.”

“May I offer you a little kallpa, my dear kullaka?”

“Look, Miguel, thank you, but the truth is that right now, I’m either getting high or getting drunk. There’s not enough life left for both, brother.”

“So, what’s the boss lady want? I have pisco, té con té mix, chilcano, gin, whiskey.”

“None of that; today, I want to celebrate. I need a fancy wine, but your khunpay here just robbed me.”

Miguel Ángel shot them a stern look, and the distressed boys apologized profusely. But they didn’t return my quinceañera medal, the chakana that had cost my mother so many pesos. They handed me the bottle of wine, and, as a bonus, they gave me a few cards to connect to the internet. Miguel Ángel explained to me that the bit about the coins was true; the work was really difficult, and the silver from before barely had any value. Only gold mattered for smuggling operations; somehow, we’d returned to the golden years of our ancestors.

I OPENED THE BOTTLE of wine and, confronted with Pascale’s seriousness, began to recount my mishaps in La Chimba. “You can’t imagine the adventure, amor, it was like traversing the Inca Trail.” I didn’t get a response. I told the story of the late Luci, my first experience with death. But nothing. In spite of my attempts at conversation, I felt as if I was talking to myself. I tried to liven up my monologue with a few jokes, to lighten the mood; still, I barely got a grimace and a light snort in response. Nowhere in the world would they call that a smile.

Pascale quickly downed the glass and headed to bed, stopping to dryly wish me good night: “Pun may.”

That tongue had never sounded so bitter.

I WAS LEFT ALONE with the bottle, illuminated by the only bit of candle we had left. I cried but muffled the sound with a cushion. Outside, someone was listening to “Eyes Without a Face.” I sat on the floor and Pachakuti threw himself over my legs. Don’t call me on the phone. To tell me you’re alone. I didn’t realize I’d finished the wine until I fell asleep under the warmth of the dog, to the velvety voice of Billy Idol.

In the morning, the lyrics kept echoing in my head: Love what was once. So alive and new. But it’s gone from your eyes. I looked in the mirror, sad and hungover. My lips looked as if I’d smeared purple maqui berry and chichita on them.

During the weeks that Pascale worked for that company, we barely spoke.

It seemed as if our lives were in ruins, too.

CHOOSING NUDITY

After that episode, we didn’t speak for days. We exchanged only cold, polite greetings, without delving further into any kind of conversation. Silence can be a knifepoint in the most vulnerable places in our body, and Pascale knew it. When we ran into each other after work, Pascale seemed sad and more listless than before, coming home some days only to fall onto the mattress like an exhausted little seal. I woke up one night because Pascale couldn’t sleep. I don’t know if it was nightmares, or sleep paralysis, or just insomnia, but I couldn’t take the tossing and turning, or the hot sweat sticking to my skin.

“Sheesh, can’t sleep again?” I said wearily, lighting a candle. Pascale’s braid looked like a dark snake on the pillow.

“If you don’t sleep, neither can I, and tomorrow I have to get up early.”

“Right, sorry for waking you up; I didn’t mean to. I’ve been having nightmares all night.”

“Maybe it’s time to talk?”

And that’s where it all began.

Pascale didn’t want to work for that company, didn’t want to live here. I said we were privileged to have a roof over our heads and jobs with contracts, that no one was really happy in those difficult times, that we were all just doing the best we could. I reminded Pascale that at least we hadn’t suffered any consequences from the protests, or lost a loved one in the sinkholes. I finished by saying that Capital City had given Pascale the ability to be authentic, to not have to pretend or be deceitful. “Here, at least, you can walk freely through the streets,” I said.

Yes, I twisted everything.

Salt in the wound, salt in the wound.

Using the word “freely” was like firing on Pascale.

And so we argued again in an ugly way.

Very ugly.

Pascale said I was prejudiced, that it was hard to understand how I’d adapted so well to this collapsing system, that I was unrecognizable. How could I support expropriation and oppression at the same time? Directly from that mouth, I heard it was people like me who were responsible for Bigger Real Estate still being around.

Pascale said I’d better not talk about belonging on the island, or what happened in Bahía. And if anyone was fragile, it was me.

“Who are you to lecture me about deceit, Mari? You wouldn’t last even half a year living in my body. You have no idea.”

Pascale had never spoken to me that way, in that tone, with such fury.

It hurt my every vertebra.

Mouth closed, Pascale turned away.

I could almost hear the little pieces crunching inside me.

And of course, I got angry, but also with myself.

Who was I really?

What had I become?

THE NEXT MORNING, THE alarm clock rang. I hadn’t slept. I’d spent the night thinking, turning our words over in my mind until the sun came up. I invented worlds, dimensions, possible timelines. The ruminative reflection of the insomniac.

I was afraid of Pascale’s going back, of the island’s reaction.

But I was also afraid of losing Pascale’s love.

Maybe that was all—the abandonment.

Suddenly, Pascale seemed like a different, alien being, as if that display of strength was the complete opposite of what I’d always thought to be true. Since we started our relationship, I’d been attracted to a fragility, a temperance I perceived. I’d go so far as to say it was what made me fall in love with Pascale, although I’d never said that out loud. It was a view nurtured by opposing examples: strong and explosive women like Flor, Rosa, and Camelia, who seemed indomitable, enormous. Next to them, even I seemed like an insignificant being. But Pascale wasn’t weak. I mistook sensitivity for something else. Fragility was the story I’d invented to take care of Pascale, to understand the flight, the lack of a mother, the transformation, the love for me.

What we love is that fractured part of ourselves.

AS SOON AS WE woke up, I told Pascale not to go to work. I made a little fort under the covers, like the makeshift homes I used to build as a child, and I clung to Pascale’s skin. I begged: abandon the company. I said that place didn’t deserve Pascale’s hands, back, love for fixing things. I said we could survive on freelance jobs, that we didn’t need that much money, that we’d find a way to get by; I begged: please forgive me. I didn’t want to be a traitor, but I didn’t know what the fuck to do; I had never felt so much uncertainty.

Pascale reassured me with a soft kiss, and I responded roughly with another one. Then I nimbly climbed on top, sliding down until I reached Pascale’s belly, navel. Sweet sighs, accelerated breathing, the acidic taste of lemon verbena. My tongue along Pascale’s neck then, swallowing sweat. My lips press against legs, skin, Pascale squints and moans with pleasure. We strip and writhe, work our way inside. Fingers, shoulders, back, wet. I think of ripe figs, their purple skin and pink flesh studded with seeds. I observe Pascale’s face from above silently, the black eyes and dark skin. Pascale kisses my breasts; I push my knees in from either side, enclosing thighs and hips from above. My fingers gently open Pascale’s lips. I touch teeth, feel for tongue. Ours intertwine. The touch and the wound, a gentle rocking from soft to firm. Pascale grabs a handful of my hair, pulling my head back, making my neck stiffen and bringing our lips close. Our breath collides; our moans reverberate as if we’re wild animals. Pascale’s beauty unfolds there, in that horizontal body, like a warm breath poised to transcend the present.

I’ve always been awkward; I don’t know how to express my feelings without causing pain.

That’s why I choose nudity.

HOW DO I SAY I don’t know how to live without the mainland? I was born and raised there. I knew the city was absorbing what little energy we had left after work, and that the expropriation revolution had collapsed, as had the hundreds of buildings that had once been someone’s dream. A uniform dream in gray, beige, and brown. The color of an accountant’s office, the color of notaries, the color of censorship. Nothing was less seductive than living in Bigger Real Estate’s lack of imagination and the void of eroticism produced by a bunch of engineers and architects who were traitors to the cause. But despite it all, it’s what I considered home. And in one way or another, our people had managed to give color to those dull walls and make their existence more bearable.

Not only did they overwhelm our energies, but they also forced us to give up the idea of permanence. We’re a nomadic group of people out of obligation, to whom no one has given certainties or meanings. It’s up to us to believe, based on the memories of others, because we don’t know the meaning of that which lasts. The landscape we live in is falling apart; what we once loved is vanishing. Tomorrow seems to us an obsolete discourse, a privilege of past decades. Now we often hear: there used to be a river there, dolphins swam there, we drank clean water there.

There we dreamed; there we fell in love.

There we built a home.

But in the agony of this world, we don’t even have the right to the word “there.”

NOTHING INTERESTED ME ENOUGH

I basically got my job in the museum by chance. Iris, my head teacher from high school, was from Lima and adored my awicha Flor. She used to buy all her sweets: the suspiros, the mazamorras, the encanelados. When she found out I was Flor’s granddaughter, she encouraged me to get good grades and I did it; it’s not like it was that difficult, but for a teenager, the temptation of the street was a matter of life or death. You see what happened to Miguel Ángel and his soldiers. Iris was my lifesaver, like Graciela Ñanco was for Pascale, although my problems were minor in comparison.

Drawing more than writing in notebooks, not having a father, and loving other women were typical stories at school. Even if some girls, in their adulthood, deny that shared desire we had for one another and—why not say it—even for the girls we considered enemies.

Iris took so much care to encourage me to be an outstanding student that I felt a responsibility not to let her down. Again, the self-imposed demand to do good for others. So I tried; I set my mind to studying and put all my energy into ensuring academic rigor. At the other extreme, I had the advice of my awicha and Rosita, repeating every blessed day that I couldn’t get pregnant, that I had to study, that I should come to see them, and so on. An inexhaustible mantra of duties. Finally, I graduated at the top of my class in Secretarial Studies from Vocational High School No. 5 in La Chimba. That achievement granted me the privilege of choosing any internship from among the school’s collaborating institutions.

Just a week before I applied, the principal of the high school called me into his office. An older gentleman with the voice of a radio announcer and a smell like a car engine. I entered the room timidly, and behind a large wooden desk were he and Señorita Iris, both smiling enthusiastically. They said they had an incredible surprise for me and were excited about my future. They showered me with flattering words, and the principal improvised a brief speech about personal efforts. The phrases echoed: “overcoming poverty,” “triumphant merit,” “the desire to progress.” It’s like he needs my vote or something, I thought.

As he said: “Señorita Mari, not all students from neighborhoods like yours, let’s say … from your background, strive so hard to succeed. But you, against all odds, are an example for the rest of the school to follow. Im-pres-sive!” He moved his lips, and I translated: “Despite being the granddaughter of poor immigrants, the daughter of a single mother, you did it. We had no faith in you, but look at you now.”

I faked a friendly smile as a gesture of gratitude, but deep down I felt inert, without any desire to imagine a future. I wanted even less to think about adulthood. At that moment, if someone had given me a mattress, I would have thrown myself onto it unapologetically. I still hadn’t figured out what I wanted to do when I left high school; the only decision I’d made was to not work in the doña’s store. During those years, nothing interested me enough. I just wanted to go unnoticed. The truth is that, beyond the interest that I’ve expressed in some important people in my life, no idea or objective has been transcendent, save for the demolition movement. I think it’s been the only time I’ve ever felt a fire in my belly, the only time I’ve understood the word “passion” associated with a cause.

And as it turned out, the surprise that the principal and the teacher were so proud of was that they’d secretly recommended me for the position of secretary at the Museum of Natural and Social History, and, because of my grades, I’d been immediately accepted as an intern. I didn’t even have to apply, doubt, mess up, or make decisions. It was a real relief.

At that moment I thanked them, although I felt a little carried away by the circumstances, like an inexperienced peregrine falcon that allows itself to be swayed by the wind. At seventeen years old, with my recently acquired knowledge in typing, electronic forms, and databases, I was prepared not to follow in Mamita Flor’s footsteps.

I was an unpaid intern at the museum for three months, then I took over a position for a year, and afterward that was extended for two more years, on a freelance basis, which I had to invoice them for. And that’s how it was until the official secretary didn’t return. They said they fired her for going on leave for too long; she had severe depression. Given these circumstances, they offered me a permanent contract.

At first, my job was limited to entering numbers into an old computer, buying flowers, and serving coffee at board meetings. Little by little they assigned me more responsibilities. Bids, mail, petty cash. One day, someone explained to me that those numbers I had been so carefully entering were actually people. But not just any kind of people. It depended on the study: expelled migrants, exiles, people who’d been tortured, disappeared detainees. I spent some time doing these things: arranging index cards, transcribing letters, answering the phone. Those gentle times seem like part of another woman’s life. Which is to say, I know I was there, I followed orders, I carried out my duties. I went out with girls, had sex, danced at parties, and even had fun. I know I had a life, but at a distance it feels like someone else’s, as if I’d been on autopilot for years and suddenly woke up in another body.

I spent a season that way, until Leila blew in on her irresistible gale.

And everything changed.

Yeah, I haven’t mentioned it. Leila and I had a fleeting romance, but we didn’t work out. Her deluge didn’t rhyme with my hurricane. And my outbursts were even less compatible with hers. It was an era of many slamming doors, street scenes, and dramas. We ended up exhausted after fights and arguments. Her friends said: “I told you so.” And they launched into explanations about the incompatibility of our astrological signs. Although honestly, none of it matters to me, because I know that everything is going better now. I think our love was always more of a friendly infatuation; we forced ourselves to try a different kind of desire and failed in our brief experiment as lovers, but at least we came out alive and without too many injuries.

We love each other in a different way. We take care of each other, we worry, we listen to each other, but we decided to avoid the unhealthy affection that might have been ours.

Then, a few months after that resolution, Pascale appeared.

And Leila’s gale became a breeze.

TWO SEA CREATURES

In the gentle times, Leila got the museum to invest in more solid shelving for the archives. Now I think about how absurd that request sounds; needs from those years seem like dreams from another planet.

My job was to contact a construction company.

I called the first number I found in the classified ads, and that’s how Pascale got here. At first, I was surprised; I didn’t think anyone built like that could do woodwork. Pascale didn’t exactly look the way I imagined a carpenter or even a craftsperson should, which is of course because I had certain prejudices about who could carry out tasks that required strength and dexterity. As soon as Pascale got to the reception desk, I noticed clumsy movements. I wondered if this person had ever done any carpentry before, although I also imagined the possibility of some kind of scam. Awicha’s distrustful instincts operating in the recesses of my thoughts. Within a few seconds, I’d decided on the first option, so I made an effort to be kind and, in the process, interrupt my inherited mistrust.

“Hi, how are you? My name is Mari Quispe, I’m the museum secretary.” I extended my hand and smiled.

“Mari mari, Mari, I’m Pascale Antilaf. I’m here for the remodeling job.” Pascale smiled broadly and shook my hand—cold skin.

“Yes, yes, Ma-ri,” I said, separating the syllables of my name and pronouncing it very slowly, and just in case, I repeated my name another time. “I’m Ma-ri. Does that make sense?”

“Yes, sorry.” Pascale smiled. “I tried to make a joke, but I’m a little awkward when it comes to stuff like this. I greeted you in Mapudungun: mari mari. I don’t know—I thought it was funny to say it three times … because of your name. Again, sorry about that.” Embarrassed, face flushed, Pascale’s head bowed.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault, I’m really ignorant with languages. At least I learned something new. My grandmother is Quechua, and I’ve known a few words since I was a kid, but I don’t know a lot about other languages,” I said quite honestly. “So, are you Mapuche or a linguist?” I joked.

“Ha, definitely not a linguist.” Pascale smiled again. “I’m Mapuche Lafkenche from Chilco Island. Sorry if that was weird; I got here a few years ago and I’m still trying to get used to the humor, or lack thereof, in the city. So … if your grandmother is Quechua, you’re also Quechua … or no?” Pascale said this looking directly into my eyes, pushing aside a lock of hair that had fallen and carefully settling it behind an ear. Pascale’s hair was straight and black, hanging sleekly down and culminating in a long, spiraling braid, like an anime character’s. One earlobe was adorned with a large silver fish hanging from a wave. I felt a tinge of embarrassment as our eyes met, so I diverted mine, focusing instead on the earring and the pink dots on the overalls Pascale wore. This memory makes me blush a little, because we got so tangled up in our back-and-forth that the conversation unexpectedly ended up forging a kind of bond between us.

“Well, it’s sort of complicated, the whole being Quechua thing, because the truth is I really wasn’t raised that way. Look, my awicha, which is to say my grandma, hasn’t ever acknowledged that she is, but deep down I know. It’s a known thing, beyond being obvious in our last name. But it’s a long story. Maybe a little all over the place for you, but the boss lady is complicated. And I suck at explaining things,” I said awkwardly, letting out a nervous laugh. “By the way, I really like your earring.” I pointed with my index finger.

“Oh, yeah, it’s a challwa…”

“A fish!”

“You know that word?”

“Yes, well, it’s Quechua!”

“No, it’s Mapudungun.”

“I swear on my mamita awicha it’s Quechua.”

“Jeez, they’ve been fooling me my whole life.” Pascale laughed and went on, “Well. I guess we’ll just have to investigate, because I’m not entirely convinced,” as if setting up a possible future.

“You’re in for quite a few surprises, then,” I replied defiantly.

“Oh, really? Anyway, this earring or chaway is a challwa, a silver fish, a memory from my island. I can’t separate myself from her, no one can leave Chilco; it’s impossible. The same way we can’t separate ourselves from who we are, right?” Pascale responded more confidently, winking and adjusting the bag resting on my desk. With that wink, I felt myself melt a little.

“Yeah, well—story of my life. But I don’t want to dump my traumas or childhood problems on you. It’s too early for that. Anyway, your earring, your challwa, is beautiful. I like fish, although I’ve only been to Chilco once.” I lied, so as to not make Pascale uncomfortable by saying it was an island that made me feel a kind of sadness—I’m not really sure.

“Yeah, well, it’s not a very touristy place anymore. Fewer and fewer people are visiting. A lot’s happened that’s scared people. Anyway, Mari, can you tell me what I need to do?” Pascale said, abruptly cutting off the conversation.

“Of course! Sorry, I always talk too much. I’ll explain it right now, then. We need to install some library-style shelves; the old ones are in pretty bad shape. My colleague Leila can explain better. But first we need you to sign these documents. I sent the quote back to your supervisor, so once we have this paperwork out of the way we’ll be all set. The job is over there.” I gestured in the direction of wing A, where the great skeleton of Sofia, the last blue whale, was.

“Ohh! It can’t be. Is that the skeleton of a blue whale?” Pascale asked with the amazement of someone seeing something they love for the first time.

“Yes, her name is Sofia. Or rather, that’s what a group of students in a contest named her a while back, and it stuck. She’s been in the museum for something like ten years. And she’s not just any blue whale, she’s actually the last one. The one that beached in Bahía. Do you remember when that was in the news?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know they had her skeleton in Capital. I always thought she’d been protected somewhere in Bahía.”

“If you want, you can touch the bones carefully, but don’t tell anyone I gave you permission. She’s beautiful, isn’t she? Have you always liked whales?”

“Yes, yeah, totally. We used to see them on Chilco, but there haven’t been sightings for many years. I must have been six when I saw the last ones. But for the whales to disappear, something must be really wrong in the world, don’t you think?”

“For sure. I was never lucky enough to see one alive. Pretty fortunate that you got to. Maybe you can make a wish on Sofia. People who come to the museum say she grants them.” I smiled.

“Like a genie whale, huh?”

“Yeah, something like that. Or a goddess whale. Maybe…”

“I like that better, although she could also be a sacred spirit.”

“Ah, well, I don’t know much about sacred stuff.”

“Do you know the story of the trempulkalwe?”

“No, never heard of it. What’s that? Trem-pul … ke?”

“They’re the whales from a Lafkenche epew—sort of like a story. Since we’re going to keep seeing each other around here, though, and because I like you, I’ll make you a deal for the future. Another day, I can tell you what that epew is about. Just promise me you won’t ask the internet.”

“Promise.” I smiled.

Pascale walked slowly toward Sofia, then under the large skeleton to look closely at the bones. Both bodies together, like two extinct animals. Pascale caressed the bones in the cetacean’s center, as if trying to find the place where her heart used to be. A blue whale heart can measure up to five feet, weigh six hundred pounds, and pump twenty-one gallons of blood with each heartbeat. Pascale palpated down the backbones, the fragments, the iron bars keeping the structure intact. The heart of a blue whale was the largest in this world. There weren’t any hearts that big left gliding through the ocean.

Trying not to be obvious, I was doing the same thing to Pascale’s body. I studied the gestures, the movements, imagined how that heart might beat.

I felt fortunate then, to contemplate the presence of these two sea creatures.

And thus, simply, something inside me caught fire without causing any pain.

“ELLA BAILA SOLA”

Pascale spent almost two months remodeling the entire A wing of the museum, where Leila worked daily. That space was the home of her collections, photographs, and small unclassifiable relics, for which my zanmi was charged with finding shelter and protection. During the remodeling, we formed an intense and beautiful triad. Pascale bonded with us over food, through the stomach. We shared our every break, exchanging music, books, and meals.

To celebrate Pascale’s last day at the museum, Leila suggested we go to a bar. After we left work, we ambled along Los Adoquines until we reached the historic center of Capital. Leila’s favorite spot was in one of the alleys near the square; it was called Ella Baila Sola. Yes, after the band. It was a small diner–style place with red walls and antique wood furniture. The decorations consisted of neon words and a large teardrop-shaped lamp hanging in the middle of the room. The owner, Isabel, was a beautiful transgender woman obsessed with the poet Idea Vilariño. She read a few verses to every person who entered as she took puffs from her golden vape.

As soon as we walked in, she greeted us effusively, kissed us, and recited the lines as if she were an actress in a theater:

We search

every night

tirelessly

through heavy and suffocating lands

for that slight bird of light

that burns and escapes us

with a moan.

Then she gave us a little pink piece of paper with the poem handwritten on it. The slip had a sickly sweet smell of perfume that made me dizzy. Leila took it quickly, halved it to make a little boat, and put it in my pocket. “It’s for you, cheri mwen, a wish for your future,” she whispered close to my ear. And after a couple of seconds, she said out loud: “The holy word of Vilariño!” She raised both hands to the sky in a gesture of worship. Isabel and Pascale laughed. We settled in at the table by the window and ordered three micheladas with a good splash of Tabasco. From where we were seated, we could see the stamp shop El Penique Negro, a spot Leila often visited to offer advice about how to protect their collections from dust. She was like a memory activist.

We had a going-away gift for Pascale. For weeks, we’d been putting together a little box like a portable archive about Chilco. We collected, classified, and organized information. We transcribed files, colonial chronicles, old dictionaries. We scanned prints, illustrations, and maps. We compiled a lexicon of affinities. On a label we wrote: CHILCO ARCHIVES. And below the word “Contents,” I wrote: “For future days, for fateful days.” We gave Pascale the box and some nitrile gloves as a gift. Inside, we’d arranged numbered, letter-size Kraft paper envelopes. Each one had a title and contained various documents in the following order:

/Etymology of Chilco/

Record typed on a typewriter with information from old dictionaries from the museum library.

/Flora/

Botanical print with a naturalist’s illustrations of the species of Chilco.

Record of characteristics of the species and medicinal uses.

/History and Geography/

Record with an extract from The Atlas of the Physical and Political History of Chilco. Author: Rivera, Fernanda. Publisher: Imprentas Sociedades Americanas, 1995.

/Literature/

Letter with a fragment from Island Diary (1857–1868). Author: Wilhelm, Charlotte. Translator: Quilaqueo, Rosa. Publisher: Ocean Publishing Co., 1870.

/Lovers’ Lexicon/

Typewritten record with multilingual vocabulary.

Words in Quechua, Aymara, Mapudungun, and Creole.

Arbitrary selection by Leila and Mari.

/Illustrations/

No. 1: Print of Chilco Island, year 1619. Artist: Unknown.

No. 2: Engraving of Chilco Island, year 1854. Artist: Unknown.

/Music/

Cassette with recording of singing in Mapudungun, transfer from wax cylinder. Author: Llafken, Llanquiray.

Year: Late nineteenth century.

Typewritten record with Spanish translation.

/Cartographic Material/

Print with nautical chart. Hydrographic Institute of Bahía. Year: 1954.

The night passed calmly. Pascale and Leila chatted enthusiastically about their islands, reliving anecdotes starring the well-known characters from each region. I listened to them closely as I took long sips of my beer. I’d scattered a few napkins across the table on which I’d been sketching their profiles in blue ballpoint pen, and from time to time I nodded at what they were saying. Nonetheless, inside I felt a kind of dejection. I’d no longer see Pascale during the week, and something about our daily life would be fractured. I wanted to say we could continue seeing each other, that we’d keep up with this inexhaustible conversation, with this three-way relationship. And more importantly, I wanted to say: stay with me. But I didn’t dare. Leila noticed my silence and said:

“You two look alike.”

“You think?” I responded, wrinkling my face with an expression of doubt.

“How so?” Pascale said.

“Don’t get angry at what I’m about to say, it’s not an insult, seriously. I think you share a similar sadness.”

“I’m not angry. But I am surprised, I guess. Is the sadness that noticeable?”

“No, actually it’s not that obvious. But there is something in your ways of escaping, of relating. On that subject, have you kissed already or what?”

“Leila!” I yelled, scolding her.

“What? I’m just curious. I won’t get upset,” she said mockingly, shrugging her shoulders.

Nervously, I raised my glass and proposed a toast: “To your islands!” We clinked our beers and stared at each other for several seconds. Pascale drank, set the glass on the table, and looked at me again with a slanted smile. In the background, Isabel and others recited:

Skin, with its silky warmth, asks for nights

and a kissed mouth.

THAT NIGHT I STAYED at Pascale’s apartment for the first time.

And I never left that mattress, which, after a few days, became ours.

THE LETTER

A letter lay on the mattress. Pascale wasn’t home and hadn’t come to bed. Instead, there appeared slightly crooked, somewhat round characters, drawn in black ink. Pascale’s replacement was a note. I felt a pain in my chest, a sharp stabbing. I could hear my own ragged breathing, as if I were some other body. I called to Pachakuti and we wrapped ourselves around each other, lying together in a warp of skin and fur. I stayed horizontal for a long time, without moving. I didn’t dare read the letter, fearing it’d be the last time I’d hold something that smelled like Pascale. Then, like a revelation, like those threads of dreams that burst suddenly into daily rituals, I realized the letter smelled like old books, because Pascale also kind of smells like that.

And I was scared that if I read the letter, the smell would disappear, too.

As I lay mired in that inertia, it got dark outside; I got dark.

THE NEXT DAY, I awoke to a lap, lap, lap. As soon as I opened my eyes, I saw Pachakuti’s tongue on my face. Lap, lap, lap, the language of his tenderness. I got up, fed him, brushed my teeth. The actions of every morning were small ceremonies to avoid sinking. But instead of showering, dressing, and getting my things together to go to the museum, I once again surrendered to the horizontal vice of the mattress. In pain, not all paths lead to pleasure.

Time to read.

Now, really, I thought.

Dear Mari:

Some time ago, I’d have preferred never to go back to where I was born. But today, I feel like the sea is calling to me in a way I can’t fully explain, it’s hard. Maybe it’s true that we don’t know how to communicate with each other, but I’m going to try, I promise. First of all, I want to tell you: I’m fine, don’t worry.

Something is stirring, moving and fluttering, deep inside me. I can feel it between my chest and stomach. I know what you’d say: that fluttering thing is a wish. But I tend to think it’s the landscape. No, I haven’t gone crazy. Do you know what I mean? I feel like the territory is calling to me in a voice, or rather, with a sound, like I can hear the heartbeat of its body, its pulse. And what moves inside me is its vibration. All of a sudden, my body becomes a sounding board, its instrument. Don’t laugh, I know you can understand it, even if it sounds strange. I am talking about exactly the thing you repeat to me so often: the landscape you carry, the landscape you bear. I feel like that landscape lives in my intestines or I form part of its core. I don’t know. Maybe this is what it means to be Lafkenche, to have a heart of the sea.

What I do know is that I have to overcome my fears. And this letter is to resolve the silence that I’ve cowardly maintained; it’s also because of the fear I feel about returning to Chilco permanently. I’ve never lied to you, but I’ve kept silent, and you don’t deserve it. The truth is, I’ve had dreams I haven’t told you about. And they scare me; I’m afraid of the future—if we can trust it. I’ve realized I’m part of a purpose that’s beyond me. That’s what I fear—that we can’t decide everything, much less control it.

In these dreams, I see myself on Chilco, riding on the shiny back of a black horse. Its coat shimmers and I can feel its warm breath on my skin. Sometimes it’s like we’re just one body, a wild animal. I also hear voices in Mapudungun asking me to return. I can clearly hear an ül, a song in the voice of a papay, an older woman I don’t know, who repeats: iñche pepakeymi, iñche pepakeymi, I’ve come to see you, I’ve come to see you. As I try to concentrate on her music, the entire island changes from wild fuchsia to a brilliant blue, a lapis lazuli blue. It’s an intense blue, an impossible blue. A bluer blue than I have ever seen. And I feel the sea like a lightning bolt coursing through me. My heart is also blue, my hands, my body.

And I see you in the distance, Mari, yes, you appear there, in a dress that you never wear. That dress Aunt Camelia made you, with the flower curtain that you found pretty. Your dress ruffles in the wind, Mari, your hair, too. You are on the hill, on the hill behind León’s house. But you’re not blue, Mari. You are wild fuchsia, like the flowers of Chilco. That’s where I wake up.

I know this is all difficult for you, that’s why I’m not asking you to come with me. You must decide your own life. I understand that you want to stay with your family, at your job. Still, I want to say to you with all my love: Capital City no longer exists. The waria is no longer the place where we fell in love. We no longer even have the beauty of the movement we clung to.

If this were our ending, I’d think we’ve been fortunate; we found each other. We’ve loved each other in this world, even in these ruins. Because you know very well that there are people who never make it to love (nor the sea).

I love you,

Pascale

I read the letter several times and cried; I cried every time I read it again.

Suddenly, I heard a noise by the entrance. I was scared, but I didn’t have the energy to figure out what was happening. I pulled the wool poncho I was wearing over my head, as if it could make me invisible. Pachakuti ran toward the door. Through his barking, I could hear a whisper. I uncovered my face, and at the threshold of the hallway, atop the usual overalls, was Pascale’s smile. Suddenly, hands on my temples and Pascale was leaning in to kiss my forehead. I stayed there, in that kiss, for a long time. I felt the lips like a small sun. Then, in response to Pachakuti’s enthusiasm, Pascale grabbed his front paws, and they danced a waltz to the rhythm of an imaginary tune.

“You didn’t go to the museum?” Pascale asked me.

“I couldn’t, I don’t feel well; I feel kind of sick,” I lied in a whiny voice, pointing to my throat. “I think I need to rest.”

“Look, I brought you purple chichita from the doña. Maybe this will make you a little better.”

“Oh, yum, that’s what I needed.”

“You want a little bit?”

“Yes, but more than a little bit … Hey, Pascale…”

“What’s up?”

“Where were you? Why didn’t you come to bed?”

“Ah, damn, well, last night we stayed at the construction site; we ran late, and it felt dangerous to come home in the dark. We didn’t want to risk it with the curfew. The soldiers are on high alert. At the job they were saying they’ve locked up a ton of people, so we thought it’d be better to just sleep up there. I sent a message to you with Señora Menche, but I guess it didn’t reach you.” The last bit came out softly, in a way that sounded comforting.

“Shoot, no, I didn’t see her yesterday. I left the museum late; I got caught up in the archives with Leila.”

“There you go: it was all just a mix-up.”

“I don’t know. I feel like you and I are constantly mixed up lately. Pascale, I was really scared. I actually thought you’d gone back to Chilco.”

“Mari! All my clothes are still here.” Pascale pointed to the closet and laughed tenderly.

“I didn’t even look around the house. I saw the letter and my mind just clouded over completely; I couldn’t get up.”

“Mari, I know you’re scared, but you can’t just lose yourself like that. You have to be lucid; you have to be strong, especially now.”

“I know, and I don’t want to seem fragile, I promise; I fight against it every day. But being abandoned is especially hard for me, Pascale. I’m like that song about the little dog who waits and brings a bird to the door as a gift.”

“But, Mari, I’m here, the bird thing isn’t necessary, okay?”

“Yeah. It’s just a way of saying it.” I laughed more freely.

“So, you read the letter?”

“Yes, I read it. I also cried a lot, you write beautifully, love, but it was sad. I’m afraid of everything, of leaving, staying, living, even dying.”

“Mari, I can’t stay, I’ve already decided it. It hurts me not to return to Chilco. I have some important responsibilities there. I’m afraid, too; you’re not the only one.”

“It all just feels surreal; I feel so indecisive, Pascale. It’s like I’m trapped in one of those old TV game shows, where they ask, ‘What would you do if it were the end of the world?’”

“I know. It is completely surreal. Nobody planned for this or saw it coming, we know it’s absurd. That’s why I feel like I’ve got nothing to lose by trying. On the contrary. And even if it were the end of the world, here in the city, everyone would just keep working, nobody stops here.”

“You can’t blame people,” I said in a resigned tone. “Everyone looks for ways not to think about all this shit, you know.”

“May—you’re right, it’s another way of filling the sinkholes. But I’m talking about you, Mari. What will you do if it’s the end of the world?”

“… Well … How do you say ‘Let’s go’ in Mapudungun?” I asked.

“Amuyu.”

“Amuyu, then,” I responded with a sigh.

IV NOTES ON AN ISLAND LIFE

CHILCO ARCHIVE 5. Lovers’ Lexicon

Lamngen: Mapudungun for “brother” or “sister.” This is also the way people of the Mapuche community refer to one another.

Awqalla: Quechua for “a person who walks causing terror,” from the root “awqa,” meaning “enemy,” “rival,” “warrior.”

Weichafe: Mapudungun for a warrior or defender.

Awicha: Quechua for “grandmother.”

Feley: Mapudungun for “it’s fine,” “that’s right,” similar to “okay.”

May: Mapudungun for affirmation or confirmation, similar to “yes.”

Wekufe: Mapudungun for a harmful spirit in Mapuche cosmology.

Taytacha: Quechua for “Our Father,” a central deity associated with earthquakes.

Q’ara: An Andean term (from both Quechua and Aymara), meaning “naked.” It is used to refer to white people or those considered white.

Viracocha: Central deity in Inca mythology associated with creation and renewal.

Treng Treng y Kai Kai: Mapuche figures in the form of snakes, originating from a flood myth, representing the balance between earth and water.

Chasquis: Quechua for messengers in the Inca Empire.

Machi: Mapudungun for a healer and spiritual leader.

Ta kuifi: Mapudungun greeting meaning “long time.”

Kiñe truyu: Mapudungun phrase meaning “a kiss.”

Ayllu: An Andean term (from both Quechua and Aymara) for a traditional community, lineage, or clan.

Kullaka: Aymara for “sister,” “companion.”

Ñañay: An Andean term (from both Quechua and Aymara) for “sister,” with affection and tenderness.

Huayno: Traditional Andean dance from Peru.

Kompa: A popular music genre from Haiti that blends African rhythms with Caribbean and Latin influences.

Chakana: An Andean term (from both Quechua and Aymara) for the Andean cross, with symbolic meaning related to cosmology.

Khunpay: Quechua for “helper.”

Trempulkalwe: Mapuche for a group of sacred whales that transport souls.

Ül: Mapudungun for a traditional song or chant.

Papay: Mapudungun for an older, respected woman, implying a wise elder. Also, a term of endearment for a mother.

Waria: Mapudungun for “city” or “town,” contrasting with traditional rural environments.

Iwa: Spirit of protection associated with Haitian voodoo.

Mama Killa: Quechua for “Mother Moon.”

Llellipun: Mapuche ceremonial ritual prayer for permission or protection from spirits and ancestors.

Quipu: Andean system of record and communication composed of knots on colored threads.

Fewla: Mapudungun for “now.”

CHILCO ARCHIVE 6. Illustrations

No. 1

Author: Unknown.

Type: Print.

Year: 1619.

No. 2

Author: Unknown.

Type: Engraving.

Year: 1854.

THE SILENT TREATMENT

Before I moved to Chilco, my awicha got angry. I decided to break the news to the three together one Sunday during a family lunch, to take advantage of the warmth of full bellies and postprandial chatting. I thought it would be easier to digest the surprise after a meal, so I got straight to the point. Camelia and Rosita wished me good luck with some resignation in their voices, but Abuelita Flor stayed silent. Then she got up from her chair and decided to ignore me; she didn’t even say goodbye. Her silence was her ruthless anger manifest, the disappointment she saw in my future. I’d have preferred some unholy scream, a green mango flying through the air.

My mom said: “It’s okay—she’ll get over it, don’t pay her any mind, it’s her silent treatment, mijaa. You know how she is; don’t worry.” But I couldn’t keep calm with that kind of agony coursing through my chest. Inside I thought angrily, she’s doing the same thing to me again, I’m not going to give her the pleasure, she’ll see. Even though my body just wanted an “Everything will turn out all right,” though. Uncertainty was a restless snake in my intestines.

I’d been on Chilco for a few days when I got an audio message from Aunt Camelia. She said Awicha had doubled down on her anger. She didn’t want to speak to me. To make matters worse, she’d scolded them for letting me leave. She told them she didn’t agree with my ideas, and how could I think of abandoning them, that my home was in Capital City, not on that crappy island. The first few days, I was devastated, but in the end, I put on a proud front and went weeks without writing or calling.

Leila didn’t like the news either. She couldn’t believe that I’d give up the museum and, in the process, our daily intimacy. I said I’d made a decision, and that ultimately it was my life, not hers. She acted confused for a couple of days, and then she also chose silence.

The last week in Capital City was horrible. Instead of worrying about the trip and dealing with all the things that were pending ahead of the move, I found myself wounded.

But then, without any warning, Leila showed up at the bus terminal. She and her mound mouth. Her eyes were swollen and red. Until that moment, I’d never heard my name screamed desperately. She and her yellow turban. She ran to the platform. We hugged one another, three bodies clinging, entangled like a braid in a harmony of differing proportions. I wiped Leila’s tears and felt more salt than water on my fingers. I imagined her face sprouting little crystals. She and her smile. Quickly, she handed me a cloth bag and gently squeezed my hands. Inside lay a little figurine of a woman decorated with stars and a dragon on her shoulders. It was her iwa protector, a kind of spirit. I’d seen it on the altar in her room. In the gentle times, we’d stay tucked in her bed, and from there, I’d curiously observe the objects she’d carefully arranged around the room. I imagined the journeys made by the pieces that accompany us, the migratory routes of those small treasures that encourage us in moments of helplessness, wherever we end up living.

She knew that, which is why she gave me her fortune.

BEFORE I GOT ON the bus, Leila whispered in my ear, “Cheri mwen, you’ll always have a place to come back to. I’ll be waiting here.” Then she hugged Pascale and warned loudly, “Zanmi, you’ll be sorry if you don’t take care of her. Di’l tout sa ki nan kè’w, tell her everything you have in your heart.” Pascale held Leila’s hands as if they were a defenseless little animal. Sheltering them, as if forming a small nest, Pascale brought them in close and replied softly: “Piwkeyeyu, poyen wenüy. I’ll carry you in here, my dear friend.”

Since we met, Leila and I have never been apart for this long.

I’ll never forget the image of her out the back window, her hand extended until it disappeared.

There is nothing sadder than saying goodbye to an old love, I thought then.

WITH MY AWICHA FLOR things were different; it took us a little while to reconcile. In the end, I took the first step. One day, my anger passed, and I started sending her videos: first of a guinea pig dancing cumbia. Below I wrote: “I’m small, don’t eat me,” an inside joke we’d shared since I was a child. On that occasion, Flor had bought a couple of live guinea pigs at the market to celebrate my mama Rosita’s thirtieth birthday. I thought they’d be my new little brothers, but when I found out they’d be sacrificed, I freed them, unleashing the fury of the invited diners.

But Awicha didn’t respond to my signals, despite how funny they were. I was about ready to give up on resolving her tantrum when I received an audio message.

It was her voice.

They were her words.

She said: “Oh, silly girl, k’aspi chaqui!”

Her affectionate way of calling me “skinny legs.”

I smiled.

ANTONIA’S ESCAPE

Pascale and Meli were raised by their father, León. A man with a broad back and a serious demeanor. He works as a carpenter, and in what little free time he has, he dives, fishes, or goes out to collect shellfish. Every day he gets up at dawn and performs llellipun with his bare feet buried in the sand, facing the exact spot at which the sun rises above the sea. He scatters an offering of flowers, gives thanks, asks questions or makes requests. Half in Mapudungun, half in Chilqueño. Sometimes his prayer seems like a song; he repeats some words, elongates syllables, as if he carries the cadence of the waves in his body. The first time I heard him, I was surprised, but I tried to hide it. An inner voice said: You’ll never know what it means to love this sea.

I felt a deep shame at not knowing anything at all about what was happening. But more than that, at not knowing anything about myself. Who was I and what was I doing here? In that moment, everything I knew disappeared, insignificant, in the foam.

The whole of the mainland and its trivialities dissolved into sinkholes, with its voice echoing in the background before dawn.

PASCALE’S MOTHER’S NAME IS Antonia. A woman from the mainland, a landscape painter. She came to the island young, having just finished university, eager to enjoy her first vacation alone. As the months passed, though, she decided to rent a workshop in the center of Chilco and ended up staying there for a few years. It was through this that she inevitably met León, who would frame her pictures using pieces of wood he collected from fallen trees.

Antonia abandoned their home on Chilco when Pascale was just starting high school. On the day of her flight, Antonia woke up before dawn. She made breakfast, cleaned the house, cooked a big batch of pulmay, and watered the plants. She took Pascale to school and dropped Meli with their neighbor. Finally, she left a letter on the table and boarded the last ferry to sail in the afternoon.

She never returned. She never called.

Pascale doesn’t know if they were happy; nor does Meli.

When I ask, León shrugs his shoulders in resignation.

IN PASCALE’S FAMILY, THEY don’t hate Antonia; she’s just a mystery, a complete stranger. Sometimes we look at old photographs from when she was young, holding the babies in her arms. Her lilac dress, her long brown hair. There doesn’t seem to be anything off about her. Pascale has her lips; Meli has her eyes. I try to meet her gaze, examine her body position, looking for traces of some secret, desperate remnants, but I find nothing. The imperceptible thing about damage is that it can manifest itself in the most minute details we become accustomed to. A subtle kink we can’t discern without enough sensitivity. That’s why it’s crucial to refine our perception.

In León’s house, Antonia’s paintings still hang in mañío frames. The family tells stories about her without resentment. The peculiar thing is that her belongings are still there, arranged on the furniture as if she were another inhabitant of the home. There are small sculptures, ceramic ornaments, cloth dolls. And yet, no one holds a grudge against her, and I find that difficult to understand. Pascale says that’s because I’m from the mainland. If I were from Chilco, the idea of abandonment would feel less distant to me. I say it’s not about the territory, but the family. But maybe those are inseparable issues.

ANTONIA IS WHAT THEY call a dissident on the island, an outsider who fell in love intensely, but the bitterness of the island got the better of her. She couldn’t stand the many years of ocean, distance, and dislocation.

Or at least that’s what they say.

At first, I didn’t doubt this version, although all that harmony made me suspicious.

I didn’t doubt it, because it was also the story that Pascale told me.

WHAT SPROUTS NEAR THE WATER

We’re at a small dinner at León’s house. Here the objects smell of smoke, of firewood. There are several important guests, some authorities on the island and family friends. I don’t know them, but they all seem to feel grateful and almost lucky that Pascale has returned. People approach us, look at me out of the corner of their eye, and ask for different kinds of advice. They even ask questions related to medicine; at least that’s what I think I understand. This surprises me, because I didn’t know about that passion in Pascale. In the spontaneous dialogues, suggestions arise—an endemic herb here, the precise cutting of a root there. Drink the infusion every few hours, tenderize the leaves and crush some seeds. I try to concentrate on what they’re saying without seeming rude, but they switch languages quickly. I rehearse the words I don’t know; I repeat them like an echo inside me.

Chilqueños share a common language, like a tangled quipu that darns them from within. This becomes clear not only when certain words are mentioned and in their pronunciation, but also when they talk about the island in front of strangers, as if they’re all equally afflicted by something. Pain or joy in some part of the body. They talk about Chilco with a very different depth. It’s not far off to think that they conceive of the island as another living being, whether in its entirety or in fragments, one that shelters them and, at the same time, casts them out.

In the center of the house there’s a long wooden table. From the color, I assume it’s myrtle, but I still don’t know how to distinguish the different kinds of native trees. I have a little notebook where I sketch and take notes about the species that inhabit the island. Each new thing I learn is a forest that grows. In Capital City, at best there were some espinos and a few lingues, although most disappeared as the sinkholes advanced. I’m lost in this thought, with my gaze fixed on the table, when León stands up to toast. “Waypa!” he says as he raises his glass. Everyone repeats the same word in chorus. I move closer to Pascale and say, “I guess that means cheers, right?” but at that moment Meli interrupts us and my question doesn’t register. Pascale responds with a hand gesture, a rotation of the index finger, which I interpret as “Tell me later.”

I try to listen to the conversation León has with his friends. The men of the island are diplomatic, and yet distant. They talk, think, and laugh among themselves, but when I intervene, I get the feeling they’re not paying attention to me; they barely look me in the eye, as if my being there were an accident. I feel as if I’m still treated like the tourist from past summers, like an intruder who arouses no fear. I don’t know if it’s because I’m an outsider or because I’m a woman. Or maybe both.

If it weren’t for the Wapi and the Sea Weeds, the weak sunlight would take even longer to warm my body on this island.

PASCALE WORKS WITH LEÓN, both as a carpenter and to fish. After they’ve spent hours at their jobs, we’re left with little time to talk, even less than we had on the mainland. Maybe this makes me feel lonelier, although deep down I know loneliness is a fiction. Because here everything grows and intertwines around us: insects pollinate, birds announce rain, fungi emit electrical impulses to communicate with other species. My existence is not isolated from these layers of time strung together, from the multiple forms of language that spread through the cracks in the earth.

The inhabitants of the island remain absorbed in their work all day; there’s always something to start or finish. The fields and the sea require patience and sacrifice. The art of cultivation demands an inherited memory, knowledge that clings to other possible lives. The dance of hands among leaf veins and seafoam arises from the memories of those who planted and sailed, shaping this landscape of burgeoning forces.

Maybe that’s the rhythm I’m missing.

My absent organ is a countermeasure to urgency.

The unhurried recognition of what sprouts near the water.

THE PEOPLE OF CHILCO show a lot of respect toward León and also, consequently, toward Pascale; at least that’s what it looks like. And I thought everything would be more hostile when we settled in; one less thing to be prejudiced about, I think. The conversation continues at the table, although few words are exchanged. It seems more like a speech by León to which every so often someone adds: “Feley.”

I drift off into reminiscing about the gentle times. Suddenly, that obscure smell interrupts my memory. It’s intense for a while, then faint. I’m about to say something about it, but I find myself caught up by the sentence: “There are people who never get used to seeing the sea swallowing everything,” León says, and looks at me. Since I wasn’t paying attention, I don’t know if I imagine his eyes on me or if he’s doing it on purpose. I’m stuck, suspended in the air. I feel weird. I lower my eyes and awkwardly crack a joke, but no one laughs, no one understands. My laugh floats there inert, loose, stupid like an echo bouncing off the wooden walls.

I get up from the table and go out to the terrace, leaving the door open. I can’t stop thinking about that sentence: What was he trying to say? What did he mean? Pascale watches me from afar and smiles. It calms me down. Both eyes close in a slow blink, like a cat’s. This is our secret gesture of complicity. I respond with an air kiss.

I light a half-smoked cigarette lying alone in a large mollusk shell. I don’t know the name of this species either. Maybe a little smoke will dull the stench.

I CONTEMPLATE THE PANORAMA from the outside. My whole stay here has felt this way: from the outside. No one noticed when I exited the homey scene, except Pascale. There, inside, they continue talking. Although now their expressions are serious. As if the course of the conversation has changed since I got up. I want to hear; I strain my ears. Once again, the language I don’t understand. “I have to be patient,” I repeat to myself. But then I have a strange urge. Without thinking, I enter the house, walk up to the table, and say:

“I think that, just like you can love deeply, you can also give up just as intensely.”

Everyone’s response then is a wave of silence.

They all stare at me in astonishment; even those with their backs to me turn to look. But there is no possible understanding, there is no translation. I’m on a different rhythm and I feel a terrible shame. I said something that I should have explained several minutes ago, but now it’s a dislocated phrase, like a single brushstroke separated from the landscape. The witty, precise quips arrive late. The appropriate answers are spores spread in other languages, not my own.

I’ve become accustomed to adorning tragedy with little jokes, so much so that the deep things take a while to come out of my mouth. But on this island, it seems that part of the tragedy is also me.

Although maybe I’m just exaggerating.

VEGETAL DESIRE

Once Pascale talked to León and Meli about returning to Chilco, all the pieces were quickly mobilized. León offered us Pascale’s old room, but we politely refused. My only requirement for coming here was: “I need our own island on the island, I need privacy.” Pascale agreed.

After a few days of searching, León gave us the good news. He’d found a place. I couldn’t believe the speed, the fortuitousness, but Chilco wasn’t Capital City, and although it’s an island, there’s still more land than people. When León called, he said that he’d contact the owners and make the impossible happen so Pascale could return. During the call, I noticed a certain concern in his voice. Perhaps because of the emphasis he placed on the word “return.” He said it in such a way that it sounded different, as if it suddenly didn’t mean the same thing. At least not to me. I thought that something was hidden in that emphasis, that his urgency masked a deeper reason. Then a suspicion arose, tattooed in cold blood.

Maybe my distrust was only sustained by my absolute ignorance of a father’s concern. What could I know about the love of a man who procreates?

THE FIRST FEW DAYS on Chilco, we stayed at León’s house, because the new place still needed some repairs before it would be habitable. We got a spot close to the cliff, a big, old house with two floors, at a very low price. The owner lived in Bahía; he had this abandoned property and wasn’t interested in renting it out, but León ended up convincing him. Apparently, they’d known each other since they were children, like everyone else. León never clearly explained how he managed to persuade him, although I don’t remember asking either.

There are several uninhabited houses on the island, but no one lives in or rents them. They’re just walls, standing at an uninterrupted pause, and with the calm of the years, they cede their structures to nonhuman tenants. The lush foliage that bursts from their windows serves to mark the place of those Chilqueños who never returned. An urge to live beyond the sea, the lack of money, the obligation to leave. The years of exile can be measured by the height of the surrounding scrub. An absence replaced by the vegetal desire to stretch toward the light.

The house is old, but structurally it’s in good condition. The facade is made of smooth cement, painted a greenish color. On one of the corners, it has a rounded shape meant to look like the bow of a ship. And each floor is a separate home. Downstairs lives Sandra, an old lady whom no one ever sees. Her curtains are always closed, but I know she’s there, because she tunes in to the same radio station every day.

MY OBSESSION WITH THE strange smell started the same day we got to know the house. Since we opened the door and climbed the stairs for the first time, it hasn’t left me. At first, I didn’t give it much importance. My enthusiasm for having a home outside the ruins centered on imagining a simple life with Pascale and Pachakuti, a humble life by the window. I thought: Everything will be better when I organize, everything will be better when I clean. But we had a lot of work ahead of us.

At times, the restoration felt like an impossible project. The house was in total disrepair. Everything exposed to the ocean, animals, and nature. Moss climbed the doors and ivy scaled the walls, to mention only a few of the living species we found inside. Because here, in these rooms, there was more fauna and movement than I imagined on the entire island.

Together, Pascale and I spent whole days working so the word “home” would stop echoing like an alien voice off the walls. We dragged along that mattress that made us, now surrounded by scraps of seaweed and cormorant songs. Little by little, the house became our longed-for refuge from the fractures on the mainland. With distance, the damage became more apparent. Mint, rue, and soldier’s herb. We repaired the tile, the wooden floor, the old doors. Mallow, chamomile, and lemon verbena. We repaired the desertion, the silences, the rubble. Thyme, sage, and lavender. We repaired the pain stuck to the skin of these fierce months. Rosemary, wormseed, and bay leaf. We saturated the atmosphere with other aromas, to absorb the stench like a germinating interior garden.

SOME ISLANDS ARE OLD VOLCANOES

Morning

We arrived on the island in the middle of the cold season. The sunlight is oblique and rises through fog. When I wake up, Pascale is gone, having risen at dawn to perform llellipun and eat breakfast with León. Their daily ritual. The distance between his house and ours is twenty minutes on a leisurely walk through the most populous streets of Chilco. I stay in bed with Pachakuti until the sun is shining full over the sea. Some days, getting up takes us a little more or a little less time, depending on the weather and our mood. Lately, we’ve been taking longer. There, covered in wool up to my neck, I imagine what it would be like to row in solitude to the other end of the island. I imagine how it would be to surrender to the will of the ocean.

It’s a big effort to sit up; I have to work for it. As soon as I can manage, I draw the curtains and sheers. The windows are fogged with a thin layer of frost; I trace an imperfect circle that disappears as soon as I open them. The breeze enters and I fill myself with the rough sea; it might rain.

Outside, everything in existence seems touched by dew. The roofs, grass, and stones are stained an intense color. On the balcony, you can see snail trails and small perforations in the plants. Inside, the day’s rituals begin. I prepare the mate, do the dishes slowly, light incense for the smell, and then, finally, sit down in front of the computer.

I spend my mornings typing categories, numbers, and descriptions in small cells. I fine-tune the functions in the spreadsheet to assess the material efficiently and streamline the document. But there, among the formulas, everything becomes abstract. Between letters and numbers, the material and the existential fade away.

At least the practical tasks help me not to think too much.

Leila is the one responsible. She did the impossible to get me this remote job.

She insisted I couldn’t be left adrift financially, even if we were to trust in the island’s austerity. Even trusting in Pascale. And, obstinate as she is, she talked to the museum board and managed to convince them; she invented a little role as an assistant, which translated to systematizing some of the administrative tasks associated with the archive. The salary is minimal, but pesos are like gold on Chilco. Here, everything stretches further, even cash. I just need a computer and a semi-stable internet connection to keep the position and take care of my tasks. That said, the signal doesn’t reach all corners of the island, so once a week I climb the nearest hill, connect to the network, and send the documents.

Here, the solution is to climb to the very top of any nearby slope.

There’s a funny thing about people when it comes to heights.

Today is Friday; I have to climb, even if it rains.

Afternoon

On Fridays, beyond climbing the hill, I take the opportunity to walk. Maybe it’s my version of resistance so they’ll stop insisting I’m depressed. Pachakuti accompanies me, licking my hand and hopping around every so often. I pull on my rain boots, ready to sink into the mud if it’s required. There are parts of the island that I still don’t know, despite its size on the map. Proportional to its cartographic representation, Chilco would be an amaranth seed floating in the ocean. Its landscapes and names eclipsed by a superficial view of the continent. Its history, too; everyone discusses the origin, but no one seems to care about the dispossession.

Every Friday I make it a point to walk a little more; I take out my notebook and sketch a few plants. I try to replicate the huge nalcas on a smaller scale; I run my fingers along their surfaces to get a sense of their internal shape. The humidity causes everything to grow excessively. I think the most beautiful thing about this path is its lack of symmetry; nothing is smooth under the savage onslaught of roots, cracks, and shoots. Where could the border line that separates the island’s east from west be? I manage to trace the rough bark of a pitra tree before the rain catches up to us. The sound of the wind announces the strength of the water; the large drops fall chaotically. Umbrellas are useful only for vertical descents, for straight lines, for urban downpours.

Here, the only thing to do is surrender to the storm.

Pachakuti gets scared by the thunder, barks at the sky, and runs toward a small, covered hut that looks like an old bus stop. His woof woof blends with the pitter-patter of the water.

On the outside of the shack, there’s some graffiti, the biggest part of which is written in fuchsia. Below, in a silhouette of the same color, someone has drawn the island, but with an uneven line; it looks like a raw piece of amethyst. The wall above reads:

CHILLKO WAPILIBRE

¡FEWLA!

From a distance, Pachakuti’s eyes shine like those of a baby lamb, impatiently waiting for the mammalian heat of another being. And I am that heat, that other, that never seems to come. I stand for a while under the clouds, allowing the rain to muffle, even for just a moment, the smell.

THE STORM SUBSIDES; WE continue on our way. I want to reach the western beaches that Charlotte Wilhelm described in her Island Diary, climb the rocks, and ponder what remnants of her travels can still be found in this place. “Some islands are ancient volcanoes, where the fire of the past still dwells,” is how she begins her book. I read her pages like someone consulting an oracle. “Were you afraid of the Indians, Charlotte?” I ask aloud as Pachakuti sniffs a bundle of wool caught in the wires of a fence. There are other writings about the island, mostly chronicles by Jesuit missionaries or scientific explorers like Isabella Hawthorne. But my favorite is still Charlotte, maybe because when she ran out of words to describe, she reached for charcoal to sketch the unknown.

We’re drawn to that which mirrors our own way of interpreting the extraordinary.

WE’VE WALKED SEVERAL MILES, and the sea still seems unreachable. At times, I feel as if the island is extending before us as we walk, and that discourages me to the point of fatigue. Pachakuti also looks exhausted, so I pick him up in my arms. “We’ll save it for next Friday,” I tell him, cleaning the mud from his three legs.

I want to smoke a cigarette, but I feel in my pocket and can’t find anything. I forgot the lighter at home. I wasn’t really a smoker before, but Chilco makes me crave smoke. So I start to feel anxious, and what was an insignificant desire becomes vast, urgent. I need a lighter. There aren’t any houses or signs of human presence around us. Just sheep, chickens, and horses in no hurry. We’ve walked a few more miles and it’s clear that the western part of the island is the lesser inhabited. They say the winds are fierce in winter; they uproot trees and rip off roofs often enough to make the idea of settling here frightening. Yet, a few yards farther on, I make out something like a sign. Thunder rumbles and wind whips the grass; we quicken our pace before the storm envelops us.

The sign is for a market, and despite the moisture a few letters and a red arrow pointing inland are still mostly legible. We follow the instructions. The route is narrow and steep; I can’t make out the horizon, and I’m surrounded by what seems like a country of mud and jungle. In the sky, two southern lapwings shriek insistently as they flap; Pachakuti shouts back at them. After several minutes of dodging the birds, a solitary orange house appears. The lights are on, and the chimney is smoking—there must be people. I get closer.

At the entrance there’s a sign that says:

ROLLS OF PAN AMASADO WITH CHICHARRONES.

SWEET APPLE CHICHA.

DRY FIREWOOD.

GOAT CHEESE SOLD OUT

I shout: “Helloooo!” Pachakuti does the same with his barking. After a few attempts, we’ve triggered a torrent of moos, neighs, and bleating from different parts of the island. Pachakuti gets scared and hides himself between my legs with a crying whimper. “It’s okay, baby,” I say to him. We keep at it, but no one comes to let us in. It starts hailing, so I pull up my hood and take Pachakuti in my arms. I try yelling one last time and finally hear noise from inside.

Someone comes out wrapped in a black raincoat. I can’t see his face. He slowly approaches to open the gate; his movements are agile. Just in front of me, he takes off his hat and smiles. “Come in, it’s cold,” he says. To my surprise, he’s a teenager. Since I’ve lived on the island, I haven’t seen a single one. He has blond hair and intense, watery sky-blue eyes. We enter the house; it’s a simple place with a couple of wicker armchairs and a small table in the center. The walls are bare, except for a rifle and a small frame holding a drawing that I can’t decipher. I try to appear disinterested in the face of these elements, but as soon as I see the gun, I regret having entered so confidently. On the table there are some plates with scraps of food and ashes. The air in the house is filled with the smell of cigarettes, like an old windowless bar. That reek makes me lose my desire to smoke; the stenches mix inside me, and vertigo tingles in my stomach.

The boy sits on the couch, spreads his legs, and lights a cigarette. His body is big, but his angular face reveals his youth. He watches me silently, curious, as if he’s trying to recognize me. Finally, he opens his mouth.

“Sit down, you can dry your clothes by the fire,” he says, pointing to the woodstove. He doesn’t talk or act like a Chilqueño, I think. His tongue seems blocked by a piece of yuca or something; that saying about having marbles in one’s mouth makes more sense than ever. I think I’m just starting to understand the meaning of rhythm.

“Thanks, I was really cold. Are you by yourself?” I ask as I look around.

“Yeah, my family’s in Bahía. What was your name?”

“Marina, but they call me Mari. And yours?” I ask, petting Pachakuti.

“My name is Bruno, and they call me Bruno. Boring, right?”

“Well, it sounds like an older person’s name. Hey, shouldn’t you be on the mainland?”

“I should, but I didn’t want to go, and I do what I want.” He laughs. “I had some problems and I left high school. Whatever, I turn eighteen next month. How old are you?”

“A few years older, I’m twenty-six.”

“It doesn’t show, you look younger. What’s the name of your lame dog?”

“Pachakuti.”

“What a weird name! Is it Mapuche?”

“No, it’s Quechua-Aymara.”

“It’s just as weird, then.” He laughs.

“Why’s that so weird to you?”

“Because it is; it’s not a normal name for a dog. Now that we’re on the subject, are you Mapuche?” he asks sarcastically.

“No, why?”

“I don’t know, curiosity,” he laughs mockingly. “It’s easy to tell you weren’t born here.”

“No, I’m from the mainland.”

“What part?”

“I was born in Capital.”

“Ahh … that makes sense.”

At that moment, there’s a noise in the next room; something moves or flutters. I doubt we’re alone in the house, but I don’t dare ask. I feel a mix of nausea and fear. I do everything in my power to leave quickly, feeling stupid. Why did I think it was a good idea to come inside? He seems unfazed by the sound, continuing to watch me, almost without blinking.

“Hey, Bruno, it’s getting late. I have to get home before it gets dark.”

“So what’d you come for?”

“For something I don’t need anymore, no worries.”

“But your clothes are wet. You can just stay here, too, my mom isn’t coming home today.”

“No, thank you; I have to go.”

“And where is your house?”

“In the east, near the cliff.”

“But what house?”

“… It’s a greenish house,” I answer doubtfully, without telling him which one exactly.

“The machi’s big house?”

“No, no, the one that looks like a boat,” I said, tired of his insistence.

“But that’s where the machi lives!”

“Señora Sandra?”

“No, not that hag. I’m talking about Antilaf’s oldest daughter, that weird girl.”

“Which Antilaf?”

“That old Indian León, whose wife was killed. Ahh … wait…”

“I have to go.”

“… I know who you are now,” he says seriously, twisting his mouth.

Suddenly, I feel short of breath. The only thing I manage to reply is: “León only has one daughter.”

He takes one last drag of the cigarette and throws the butt on the floor. Then he slowly approaches, marking each step exaggeratedly against the wood.

I get up from my seat quickly, looking at the available exits, but he steps in front of me. I hear more noises. I stay still and return a defiant, unrelenting look.

I won’t give this asshole the pleasure of seeing my fear, I think.

He doesn’t move; he’s a wall.

Pachakuti growls and shows his teeth in defense. I manage to avoid his body.

“Look, I said I have to go,” I say in an annoyed tone.

My attitude baffles him. I take Pachakuti and walk quickly toward the exit.

He doesn’t stop me. I open the door and run as hard as I can.

I run, I run, I run, without looking back. In the distance I hear screaming, a gunshot. Dusk falls.

Sunlight is a reddish slit, an open wound on the horizon.

Night

I try to remember the way back home, almost by instinct. I don’t know how long I run, but I feel a stitch in my side, under my ribs, like a restless puma trying to escape my body. The island is plunged into darkness, but the moon allows me to distinguish the shape of the path. I don’t know what the fuck just happened; I can’t figure it out.

I need Pascale, I need Pascale to hug me. The journey takes forever; everything seems endless. Suddenly, I hear the sound of an engine and see lights approaching. I grab Pachakuti and we hide behind the nalcas. A jeep with tinted windows speeds by. Even though it’s more difficult, I decide to move off the path; I feel as if I’m rowing against the current, but I have no other option.

After a long while, we reach the east. The brightness of the territory marks the border line, a streak of small lights that dot the darkness with their brilliance. That’s the division between east and west, the light. I have no strength left, but I make one last effort and start running again. Pachakuti overtakes me; every now and then he turns back and nips at my pants to make me follow him. Pascale must be at León’s house; I go straight there.

I arrive. There are many people outside, and some candles illuminate the front of the house. Something hurts. I quicken my pace; everyone is looking at me in a strange way. Among the people, I make out Elena, who rushes toward me, hugging me tightly. “It’s okay, let’s go in,” she tells me. Inside are Meli and Kalfü. I don’t understand what the fuck is happening. I start yelling at them, desperate. The only thing I can articulate is: “Where the hell is Pascale?” But Meli shakes her head and covers her face with both hands.

The radio is on, and the same sad song in English plays over and over again.

If you leave me now

You’ll take away the biggest part of me.

“There’s nobody on the radio,” I say to them.

CHILCO ARCHIVE 7. Music

“Chillko wapi ül,” by Llanquiray Llafken.

Recorded at the end of the nineteenth century.

Nome lafken may, inaltu lafken

ayayay, rume ngümaken

rume lladküley tañi piwke

lukutulen eymi mew

fütra yene

kallfü ka ran

poyen yene

yetuaymi chillko lawen

iñche nga ñi kuñifal piwke mew

fey mew küpan

küpa ngümawelan.

“Song of Chilco Island”

Across the sea, by the seashore

ayayay, I always cry

I carry so much sadness in my heart

kneeling I am before you

great whale

blue and silver

beloved whale

you will carry your Chilco remedy

me with my poor heart

that’s why I’ve come

I no longer want to cry.

OUR FINAL LANGUAGE

Dawn breaks, again.

The sun is not interested in our pain; the mundane is inherent to the human condition.

It doesn’t matter.

I’m going to speak to you out loud, even if you don’t hear me, even if you don’t want to hear me. At home, the big window is covered in snails who write all over it with their silver saliva. They slide along the balcony slowly, until they disappear behind leaves on the vines. Almost all the herbs are pocked with holes and marked with their foamy trails. I’ve named the snails and can identify five of them: Wayra, Llanka, Qori, T’ika, Challwa. Just like that, Chall-wa, the Andean word you wanted to argue over the day we met, do you remember? You, so soft, with a washed face, promising future days.

I follow the snails with my eyes, I’m at the point where I’m about to start communicating with them. I can feel it. There are just days when I wake up a little more optimistic and think they’re leaving me signs in other languages, as if each break, each hole were part of a tactile communication system. And I run my fingers along the veins of the leaves. I touch each crack with my fingertips.

All in the hope of feeling your name between the petioles.

But so far, nothing, yet.

That’s why I’m talking to you like this; I think the voice has mysterious ways of reaching its destination.

I HAVEN’T LEFT THE house in two weeks; nor have I taken off my pajamas. My stomach hurts, and I’ve barely eaten. The Sea Weeds knock on the door and leave pots of food at the entrance. The smells of their broths seep into the house; the aromas mix, they’re dense. And in a memory from home, I am once again the girl accompanying her awicha to the market, and we choose olluco, cilantro, huacatay, and mint. Maybe you don’t know those plants, maybe we didn’t have time to talk about herbs.

But I’m not hungry at all, as if my belly were also my heart.

A FEW DAYS AGO, they tried to force the door, but I screamed, I screamed so loud that I scared them off. Then I hear them whispering on the other side, the Wapi, the Sea Weeds, the neighbors, I hear a psst psst psst but I can’t come out.

I can’t see anyone, I don’t want to talk, I don’t dare.

This language is saved, love.

I invented my own island, my own language, I’m an empty island.

Empty of me, of you.

I WANT TO ALWAYS be at home, attentive to any sign that appears. I want to be here when you come back and with your hand you touch the door, you touch my skin, you come back in. To our home, to me. And there, on the threshold, with your usual overalls, you tell me not to be hurt, that everything will be fine, and that you brought tons of seafood for the people of the island. And in the blink of an eye, you whip out mussels, hard-shell and razor clams, sea urchins, piures, and even out-of-season abalone. And we celebrate with carnivals for the Chilqueña resistance, and everything goes back to being like those endless summers, when we walked through the little streets on this piece of land looking at the ocean.

But you’re taking so long to come back.

AT NIGHT, PACHAKUTI LIES on top of me, placing his hairy head on my sternum. I think he’s trying to hear my breathing, the moans clogging my thorax. I’ve been sleeping badly for days, but being awake isn’t any better. I have scary nightmares where I’m under the ocean; the waters are full of dead people, Pascale. The predatory fish devour their eyes, and schools of bioluminescent jellyfish emerge from their mouths. Everything rots under the sea and is confused among the waves. Everything is transformed into marine substrate, into coral dust that stubborn children swallow in summer. We swallow dead people instead of salt water.

The days go by, and the smell doesn’t leave this house, or me. I feel as if it now emanates from every pore on my body. My only ritual is to bathe for hours; I scrub my flesh with laundry soap, I try to let the water clean me inside and out. I drink green tea as if I’d been condemned to death by no sleep. Your absence is an animal wound in my belly. I can’t even cry, Pascale. The fog allows no rest.

I have your memory here, the weight of your body on mine.

PASCALE, I HEAR NOISES. Someone is approaching, Pascale.

“I’m not coming out!” I yell at them.

Thump, thump, thump, the sound of the stairs gets louder.

Pachakuti howls in front of the hallway and scratches the door with his three legs.

Auuu auuuu auuuu, he insists.

“I already said I’m not opening the door!” I shout again.

The wood creaks under the pressure of the footsteps.

“There’s no one here!” I’ll shout as many times as I have to.

On the other side there is a knock on the door. I have a hard time breathing.

I feel parts of my body numb, cramped.

Someone shouts:

“Openn uuup, mijaa. Or I’m going to kick the door down myself, you hear me?”

I sink into a nest of blankets and curl up in the fetal position.

Bent in on myself on the floor.

“I can’t open it, I can’t even move,” I say, feeling wrung out.

As soon as I finish the sentence, the door falls like a thunderclap. My heart is in my mouth.

My awicha, my Rosita, and my Camelia come running down the hall. A bouquet of wildflowers. My shining Mama Killa to the rescue. They look at me and then look at one another with their bright, beady eyes. And like lightning, they throw themselves to the ground and squeeze me until I feel it in my guts. We overflow, tangled, skin to skin.

“See, I knew you shouldn’t have come here, silly girl,” Awicha grumbles. “And everything has a strange smell, mijaa. I don’t know how you stand it.”

“Look how far you made us come to look for you, mijaa,” Rosita adds as she brushes the hair away from my face.

Aunt Camelia is silent, then bursts into soft tears, and Pachakuti licks her little hand. I’m very weak; I can barely breathe. But I try to smile back at them. I don’t know if I’m delusional. I wish you were here. I can’t believe they are, face-to-face. I press my eyelids hard, but no tears come out. I am a desert.

Suddenly, we hear a crowd in an uproar. The clamor of a street riot. Screaming, yelling. The commotion reverberates, coming from different places on the island. We’re all scared; we stay very quiet, unmoving on the ground. “What are you sending us now, Taytacha Inti?” my mom whispers. The neighbors shout louder and louder. Their rumbling sounds like a storm. In the background, music descends from the cloud-capped hills—a blend of instruments; I distinguish pifilka, trompe, kultrun. A rhythm of winds and bronze that builds. Mama Awicha crosses herself and does the same on my forehead. Aunt Camelia bravely jumps up. She goes to the window and carefully opens the curtains, and the snails flee. The light blinds me for a few seconds; I try to look, but I see only flashes, star strands. Rosita quickly follows her, looks out onto the balcony, and yells back at us: “Come here, come here!” I approach slowly with my awicha, crawling. The sound vibrates more intensely; I feel its trembling inside me. A shrill echo alters the rhythm. On the beach, a mass of bright colors dances to its pulse.

There is a smell of smoke, of herbs.

And there, on the horizon of the sea, the impossible appears.

In the shimmering water, I count one, two, three.

An amplified echo in the depths of the ocean.

Pum-pum, pum-pum, pum-pum.

Warm spouts under the sun, light clouds blown on the breeze.

They’re immense, swimming in circles, unafraid of extinction.

Among the waves, three giant hearts beat once again.

CHILCO ARCHIVE 8. Cartographic Material

Subject: Nautical chart.

Hydrographic Institute of Bahía.

Chilco Island, 1954.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This novel began as a poem mimicking the cadence of the sea. I wrote it on Cerro Playa Ancha, in the city of Valparaíso, facing the vast Pacific Ocean. I didn’t know it would become a story until well into the poem; that’s why I think its characters appeared and claimed their presence, their bodies, their Andean voices.

It’s all been a surprise, born from the impulse to flee the academic writing of a thesis.

Chilco has bloomed abundantly. Today its spores travel through different territories, and for that I’m deeply grateful, especially to those who propelled its birth and accompanied its sprouting.

I want to give thanks to my ancestors and the ngen ko, the spirit of the sea, who made this writing possible. To Cerro Playa Ancha, for its refuge from the waves. To my cat, Albahaca, who accompanied me on every sleepless night of writing. To Flavio Dalmazzo, for introducing me to the beings that inhabit this territory, in their home.

To Jacob Edelstein, for persisting in the search for words and the rhythm in translation with rigor and enthusiasm. To Rohan Kamicheril, for his companionship and the courage to connect wounded literatures that drive thought with sensitivity.

To the Farrar, Straus and Giroux team, who has worked to shelter this flower-book: Jillian Briglia (publicist), Sarita Varma (director of publicity), Charlotte Grimm (cover designer), Oona Holahan (assistant editor), Carrie Hsieh (senior production editor), Debra Helfand (executive managing editor), Songhee Kim (interior designer), and Caitlin Cataffo (associate marketing manager).

To the editorial team in Chile, especially Juan Manuel Silva, for the invitation to create.

To my friends, who knew how to be patient and listen in this process. To the poetry of the Mapuche poets, especially to Machi Adriana Pinda.

To my grandparents, for teaching me a love of oral storytelling.

Illustration Credits

Here: Hummingbird fuchsia (Fuchsia gracilis), illustrated by Charles Dessalines D’Orbigny (1806–1876).

Here: Print from Elisée Reclus, Nouvelle géographie universelle: la terre et les hommes. Paris: Hachette et cie, 1876.

Here: Engraving from National Library of Chile, 1835.

Here: Map by Paulina Carreno.

A Note About the Author

Daniela Catrileo is a writer and a professor of philosophy based in Valparaíso, Chile. She is a member of the Colectivo Mapuche Rangiñtulewfü and part of the editorial team at Yene, a digital magazine. She has published three poetry collections: Río herido (2016), Guerra florida (2018), and El territorio del viaje (2021), as well as the collection Piñen (2019) and the essay Sutura de las aguas: Un viaje especulativo sobre la impureza (2024). You can sign up for email updates here.

A Note About the Translator

Jacob Edelstein is a translator from the South Bay of Los Angeles, California. His recent translation work has appeared in Latin American Literature Today, The Columbia Review, The Southern Review, and Hunger Mountain. In 2024, he published translations of Patrimonio by Santiago Arau and ¡Hasta mi mamá! by Monserrat Sepúlveda. He has also translated Daniela Catrileo’s collection Piñen.

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FSG Originals

Farrar, Straus and Giroux

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Copyright © 2023 by Daniela Catrileo

Copyright © 2023 by Editorial Planeta Chilena S.A.—Book&Film Rights Latin America—Grupo Planeta

Translation copyright © 2025 by Jacob Edelstein

All rights reserved

Originally published in Spanish in 2023 by Editorial Planeta, Chile, as Chilco

English translation published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux

First American edition, 2025

Illustration credits can be found here.

Cover design by Charlotte Grimm

Cover photograph by Diego Grandi / Shutterstock.com

Ebook ISBN: 978-0-374-61651-9

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.