The Transmigration of Bodies by Yuri Herrera Page A
Authors: Yuri Herrera
Tags: Drama, spanish, Fiction, Mexico, Hard-Boiled, translation, Love Story, Urban, Novel, Dystopia, gangs, Plague, hispanic, disease, Romeo, blonde, Translated fiction, Yuri Herrera, Trabajos del Reino, Señales que precederán al fin del mundo, Signs Preceding the End of the World, La transmigración de los cuerpos, The Transmigration of Bodies, Latino, Vicky, Three Times Blond, Neyanderthal, the Dolphin, Anemic Student, valeria luiselli, mexico city, The Redeemer, daniel alarcón, mediation, narco-literature, gang violence, la Nora, francisco goldman, herrera, redeemer, the Unruly, the Castros, narcoliteratura, maya jaggi, Ganglands, dead bodies, Transmigration of the Bodies
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Redeemer turned to the Castro kids, whose hands were in their pockets.
What went down, muchachos?
The Castro kids were spitting images of their father, differing only by the quantity of hair on their heads and the way their flesh fought what was going on inside each of them. The older one jerked his shoulders up and down in a childish gesture and said We didn’t do jack. I mean, we talked shit earlier on, but we didn’t fight.
We liked him, said the younger one, sneaking a look at his father and continuing. Our jefe here always says the Fonsecas are fuckin users and climbers, but the son was a good kid.
So what’d you say? This was on Lover’s Lane, right?
Mhm, said the older one. We saw him on our way into Metamorphosis, and since he was going somewhere else we thought he was headed for the swanky strip club, so my bro here said Hey, pretty boy, this ain’t Vegas you know, and he said Fuckin deadbeats, I come here cos I carry big bills, not loose change. Stuff like that.
But we were just smacktalking, said the younger one. Even if it sounds like we wanted to fight.
There’s some people you just mess with, that’s just the way it is, said the older one.
The Redeemer nodded. He knew what they meant.
Then what?
That was early, the older one said. We took off after a little while to hit the other clubs, and we were on our way when we saw Romeo again, he was pretty looped, in the parking lot—no idea where he was going but he was staggering back and forth—and that was when he got hit by a van. It was backing up and I don’t think they even saw him.
The Redeemer stiffened in shock but didn’t dare turn and look at Vicky to corroborate what they were saying.
A van? You’re telling me a vehicle did this to him?
S’right. Tapped him and took off. Me and my bro here went to see if he was okay. He wasn’t breathing good but said not to call an ambulance, said it would pass. We picked him up and put him in the back seat of my car. Then we took off too, but on the way he asked us not to take him to the hospital, said please just let him hang with us a while, lay low and then he’d go home.
The Redeemer walked over to stare at the boys, straight into their eyes—back, forth, one, the other—searching for signs of a leaky lie.
And you didn’t lay a hand on him. That was it. You’re sure.
The boys nodded.
Well, said the older one, not all of it. We brought him back here and we were going to call a doctor but when we got him into the house he suddenly got real real light, and then heavy, and it took us a few minutes to realize he’d died since we didn’t think he was doing that bad.
Here? Kid was sick and you brought him down here?
No, upstairs, we were in the living room. But then someone called.
A girl, the younger one piped in.
Yeah, a girl, and she said the Fonsecas had Baby Girl and weren’t giving her back till we brought them Romeo. Which is why we didn’t call and brought him down here instead, so he wouldn’t rot.
The Redeemer turned to Romeo, whose hands Vicky was now examining. Romeo looked rough, but like his rough had come from earlier stuff and not from dying, as if the only thing dying had done was ashen up his skin, but you could tell there was prior pain.
Give us a minute, the Redeemer said, not turning to anyone in particular, and the Castros left the room.
By the way, the Mennonite said. Someone’s out to jack you up. Boyfriend of one of your neighbors. Watch your ass, amigo.
Fuckit, how did little beau slick get word? And how did the Mennonite, who wasn’t even from around here, know about it?
You giving me a tip-off or a warning? he asked.
Both, but not cos anybody told me to. Little punk’s got no balls of his own and was looking for a hardcase to rough you up. Guy I know got asked and I’m just passing it along, free of charge.
The Redeemer shrugged no-big-thing shoulders and asked So, what about this?
The Mennonite crossed his arms and eyed Romeo.
I think
What went down, muchachos?
The Castro kids were spitting images of their father, differing only by the quantity of hair on their heads and the way their flesh fought what was going on inside each of them. The older one jerked his shoulders up and down in a childish gesture and said We didn’t do jack. I mean, we talked shit earlier on, but we didn’t fight.
We liked him, said the younger one, sneaking a look at his father and continuing. Our jefe here always says the Fonsecas are fuckin users and climbers, but the son was a good kid.
So what’d you say? This was on Lover’s Lane, right?
Mhm, said the older one. We saw him on our way into Metamorphosis, and since he was going somewhere else we thought he was headed for the swanky strip club, so my bro here said Hey, pretty boy, this ain’t Vegas you know, and he said Fuckin deadbeats, I come here cos I carry big bills, not loose change. Stuff like that.
But we were just smacktalking, said the younger one. Even if it sounds like we wanted to fight.
There’s some people you just mess with, that’s just the way it is, said the older one.
The Redeemer nodded. He knew what they meant.
Then what?
That was early, the older one said. We took off after a little while to hit the other clubs, and we were on our way when we saw Romeo again, he was pretty looped, in the parking lot—no idea where he was going but he was staggering back and forth—and that was when he got hit by a van. It was backing up and I don’t think they even saw him.
The Redeemer stiffened in shock but didn’t dare turn and look at Vicky to corroborate what they were saying.
A van? You’re telling me a vehicle did this to him?
S’right. Tapped him and took off. Me and my bro here went to see if he was okay. He wasn’t breathing good but said not to call an ambulance, said it would pass. We picked him up and put him in the back seat of my car. Then we took off too, but on the way he asked us not to take him to the hospital, said please just let him hang with us a while, lay low and then he’d go home.
The Redeemer walked over to stare at the boys, straight into their eyes—back, forth, one, the other—searching for signs of a leaky lie.
And you didn’t lay a hand on him. That was it. You’re sure.
The boys nodded.
Well, said the older one, not all of it. We brought him back here and we were going to call a doctor but when we got him into the house he suddenly got real real light, and then heavy, and it took us a few minutes to realize he’d died since we didn’t think he was doing that bad.
Here? Kid was sick and you brought him down here?
No, upstairs, we were in the living room. But then someone called.
A girl, the younger one piped in.
Yeah, a girl, and she said the Fonsecas had Baby Girl and weren’t giving her back till we brought them Romeo. Which is why we didn’t call and brought him down here instead, so he wouldn’t rot.
The Redeemer turned to Romeo, whose hands Vicky was now examining. Romeo looked rough, but like his rough had come from earlier stuff and not from dying, as if the only thing dying had done was ashen up his skin, but you could tell there was prior pain.
Give us a minute, the Redeemer said, not turning to anyone in particular, and the Castros left the room.
By the way, the Mennonite said. Someone’s out to jack you up. Boyfriend of one of your neighbors. Watch your ass, amigo.
Fuckit, how did little beau slick get word? And how did the Mennonite, who wasn’t even from around here, know about it?
You giving me a tip-off or a warning? he asked.
Both, but not cos anybody told me to. Little punk’s got no balls of his own and was looking for a hardcase to rough you up. Guy I know got asked and I’m just passing it along, free of charge.
The Redeemer shrugged no-big-thing shoulders and asked So, what about this?
The Mennonite crossed his arms and eyed Romeo.
I think
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