out the first one as soon as he felt theuneven and fibrous texture of that repulsive bright-orange fruit inside his mouth, something not uniform and which therefore could not be trusted. Lorenza warned him, if you don’t have some fiber, your stomach will suffer. And he wanted to scream back, what’s making my stomach suffer is that poison you’re trying to stuff into me. But they had each gone too far to go back, it was life or death now, mango or catastrophe. Zero tolerance, Mateo sought refuge under the table, feeling that his mother would rather see him dead—choking with a piece of mango lodged in his throat—than accept defeat. Lorenza got down on all fours, closing in on him with a fork in her hand, like a demon with its trident, making him feel like an idiot for not eating a mango—especially since later, at school, he found that almost no kids like mango, so that when it came down to it, he wasn’t that unusual.
The weird thing was that she would lose control of herself in such a fashion, how her brain would shut down when she grew angry, so she couldn’t think straight. Guadalupe had saved him that time with the mango. She had walked in on the scene and screamed, “Both of you, stop.” And her admonition had its effect. In their household, Guadalupe was the head of the sensible and communicative faction and Lorenza of the delirious faction, and more than once Guadalupe had saved him from Lorenza. There were many times when Mateo liked his mother’s nature, that frenzied manner in which she accomplished things. But when she overdid it, it was a nightmare, and for the most part, she overdidit with him. As far as he was concerned, her best side came out when she sat down to write because she’d remain still for hours, forgetting that he had to eat right. Mateo took advantage of those lulls to eat spaghetti and drink milk, spaghetti and milk. And since he was at peace, he’d sneak into the kitchen and perhaps taste a grape, without her knowing, of course. Because if she were ever to find out, she would be so thrilled that she would want to celebrate the eaten grape and then begin an educative campaign, buying grapes by the bunches, forcing the issue until Mateo realized that they were delicious and ate them one after another.
He enjoyed the time when she was writing because he knew he wouldn’t have to go chasing after her if she decided to travel on a whim, make sudden decisions, or take up new political causes and leave everything else to go to hell, for the sole reason that she was Lolé and Lolé did whatever the fuck she wanted. Hadn’t Mateo noticed the murderous fury in her eyes when he refused to eat something? Now that he was tall and robust, no one could force him to do anything, and even if he didn’t lift a finger against her, she glared at him as if he were a monstrous abuser of mothers.
When they reminisced about the incident with the mango, Lorenza laughed because she thought it was funny, and maybe Mateo even joined her in her jubilance, but not in earnest, because deep down he hated her for it. And now to the mango incident he could add the incident with the pork and pineapple, which he would likewise never forget. Never. Have a taste, child, I beg you, a little taste. No,Lorenza. That was it. From that moment on, Mateo would never again taste anything she offered. He just didn’t have to anymore.
G ET USED TO not going around asking about what doesn’t concern you, her comrades had warned her in Madrid on the eve of her departure for Buenos Aires, where she went after the death of her father. This was their response when she had asked why Forcás was called Forcás, a nickname that made her recall that strange poem by Rubén Darío, “Forcás from the Country.” This Argentinean Forcás was one of the leaders of the party inside Argentina itself, a being of mythical proportions—that is, for those who supported the resistance from the outside. Since they didn’t know him
The weird thing was that she would lose control of herself in such a fashion, how her brain would shut down when she grew angry, so she couldn’t think straight. Guadalupe had saved him that time with the mango. She had walked in on the scene and screamed, “Both of you, stop.” And her admonition had its effect. In their household, Guadalupe was the head of the sensible and communicative faction and Lorenza of the delirious faction, and more than once Guadalupe had saved him from Lorenza. There were many times when Mateo liked his mother’s nature, that frenzied manner in which she accomplished things. But when she overdid it, it was a nightmare, and for the most part, she overdidit with him. As far as he was concerned, her best side came out when she sat down to write because she’d remain still for hours, forgetting that he had to eat right. Mateo took advantage of those lulls to eat spaghetti and drink milk, spaghetti and milk. And since he was at peace, he’d sneak into the kitchen and perhaps taste a grape, without her knowing, of course. Because if she were ever to find out, she would be so thrilled that she would want to celebrate the eaten grape and then begin an educative campaign, buying grapes by the bunches, forcing the issue until Mateo realized that they were delicious and ate them one after another.
He enjoyed the time when she was writing because he knew he wouldn’t have to go chasing after her if she decided to travel on a whim, make sudden decisions, or take up new political causes and leave everything else to go to hell, for the sole reason that she was Lolé and Lolé did whatever the fuck she wanted. Hadn’t Mateo noticed the murderous fury in her eyes when he refused to eat something? Now that he was tall and robust, no one could force him to do anything, and even if he didn’t lift a finger against her, she glared at him as if he were a monstrous abuser of mothers.
When they reminisced about the incident with the mango, Lorenza laughed because she thought it was funny, and maybe Mateo even joined her in her jubilance, but not in earnest, because deep down he hated her for it. And now to the mango incident he could add the incident with the pork and pineapple, which he would likewise never forget. Never. Have a taste, child, I beg you, a little taste. No,Lorenza. That was it. From that moment on, Mateo would never again taste anything she offered. He just didn’t have to anymore.
G ET USED TO not going around asking about what doesn’t concern you, her comrades had warned her in Madrid on the eve of her departure for Buenos Aires, where she went after the death of her father. This was their response when she had asked why Forcás was called Forcás, a nickname that made her recall that strange poem by Rubén Darío, “Forcás from the Country.” This Argentinean Forcás was one of the leaders of the party inside Argentina itself, a being of mythical proportions—that is, for those who supported the resistance from the outside. Since they didn’t know him
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