Quesadillas by Neel Mukherjee Rosalind Harvey Juan Pablo Villalobos Page B
Tags: spanish, Mexico, Family, Satire, Twins, Contemporary Fiction, translation, Literary Fiction, Novel, Brothers, politicians, Comedy, Novella, Elections, Corruption, Middle class, Translated fiction, Rite of passage, pilgrims, electoral fraud, Guardian First Book Award, Mexican food, quesadillas, tortillas, Greek names, bovine insemination, Polish immigrants, Mexican politics, Synarchists, PRI, PEN Translates!, PEN Promotes!, watermelons, acacias, Jalisco, Lagos, Orestes, Winner English Pen Award, Pink Floyd, Aristotle, Archilocus, Callimachus, Electra, Castor, Pollux
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– a cousin of my father who had a reputation for being a stoner and whose nickname was Pink Floyd. It was the one courtesy Officer Mophead extended to my father, granting us a family cell.
‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ said my father to Pink Floyd, relieved at the coincidence of our legal entanglements.
‘Yeah, no, totally, pleasure’s all mine,’ replied my uncle.
‘You can look after him for me.’
My father might as well have said: he’s not an expert at living in the slammer. On the other hand, I was an expert at living in a shoebox.
‘I’ll be right here, don’t you worry.’
My father went to the neighbours’ house to try and convince Jaroslaw to withdraw his accusation. Officer Mophead had told him that this was the simplest solution; otherwise there was a risk that I’d be transferred to the juvenile detention centre in Guanajuato.
‘They’ll take him to Guanajuato. Jaroslaw knows people there.’
‘But that’s illegal.’
‘Going into someone else’s house and stealing is what’s illegal.’
For a minute I thought: finally, I’ll get to see León. But I couldn’t concentrate on that possibility because Pink Floyd was distracting me from my misfortune. It turned out that my grandfather had discovered Pink Floyd’s marijuana crop on his plot of land. He’d kept it hidden for years down at the bottom of the field, beyond the sweetcorn, but one day it had suddenly occurred to Grandpa to have the vegetables dug up to make way for watermelons.
‘Watermelons?’
‘Yeah, watermelons. Your grandpa’s old and he has a few loose screws.’
The difference between this new uncle of mine, Pink Floyd, and other adults was that when I told him how I’d ended up in jail he didn’t correct me or tell me it was a lie or demand I tell him the truth. He wasn’t Aristotelian or Socratic, he was a radical don’t-give-a-fucker, which is the national version of relativism. The only fault he found in my story was our choice of destination for the encounter with the aliens.
‘Mesa Redonda? That’s where you screwed up. It’s Cuarenta that the aliens go to.’
It seemed the most normal thing in the world to my uncle that Jaroslaw had reported me. He said that he’d done it to make me learn my lesson; that the hardest job of the rich was controlling the poor, to make sure they didn’t rebel.
‘What you have to do is make sure you don’t learn your lesson. They let you go and you go and steal from them again, let them learn their lesson. They’re the thieves, the ones who control the means of production, like old man Marx used to say. Have you seen the price of milk? One day you go to the shop and a litre costs 200,000 pesos. You have a Chocomilk, a bowl of cereal and you make yourself a milkshake. Go back to the shop the next day. How much is a litre now? Seven million pesos! The milk is the same, the cows are right over there! And who do the cows belong to? No one! The cows don’t belong to anyone. The cows belong to everyone. You follow me? So the next day you get up at five in the morning, you go to a ranch and you milk one of your cow comrades. And what happens if they catch you? They throw you in jail, man! The rich send people to jail like a teacher sends a kid to stand in the corner. Your grandfather too.’
‘But my grandfather’s poor.’
‘Your grandfather, poor? He’s got two hectares of land! And anyway, you’re not poor. I don’t know what you’re complaining about – you’re from the wealthy side of the family.’
In this my uncle Pink Floyd and Aristotle were in agreement: according to my older brother, we were practically millionaires compared to the pilgrims and, according to Pink Floyd, I was rich simply by dint of having a few miserable cousins who really were genuinely poverty-stricken.
‘They screwed you over with your name. I’ve got a gringo pal who told me that in the States black people who try to act like they’re white get called Oreos. Like the
‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ said my father to Pink Floyd, relieved at the coincidence of our legal entanglements.
‘Yeah, no, totally, pleasure’s all mine,’ replied my uncle.
‘You can look after him for me.’
My father might as well have said: he’s not an expert at living in the slammer. On the other hand, I was an expert at living in a shoebox.
‘I’ll be right here, don’t you worry.’
My father went to the neighbours’ house to try and convince Jaroslaw to withdraw his accusation. Officer Mophead had told him that this was the simplest solution; otherwise there was a risk that I’d be transferred to the juvenile detention centre in Guanajuato.
‘They’ll take him to Guanajuato. Jaroslaw knows people there.’
‘But that’s illegal.’
‘Going into someone else’s house and stealing is what’s illegal.’
For a minute I thought: finally, I’ll get to see León. But I couldn’t concentrate on that possibility because Pink Floyd was distracting me from my misfortune. It turned out that my grandfather had discovered Pink Floyd’s marijuana crop on his plot of land. He’d kept it hidden for years down at the bottom of the field, beyond the sweetcorn, but one day it had suddenly occurred to Grandpa to have the vegetables dug up to make way for watermelons.
‘Watermelons?’
‘Yeah, watermelons. Your grandpa’s old and he has a few loose screws.’
The difference between this new uncle of mine, Pink Floyd, and other adults was that when I told him how I’d ended up in jail he didn’t correct me or tell me it was a lie or demand I tell him the truth. He wasn’t Aristotelian or Socratic, he was a radical don’t-give-a-fucker, which is the national version of relativism. The only fault he found in my story was our choice of destination for the encounter with the aliens.
‘Mesa Redonda? That’s where you screwed up. It’s Cuarenta that the aliens go to.’
It seemed the most normal thing in the world to my uncle that Jaroslaw had reported me. He said that he’d done it to make me learn my lesson; that the hardest job of the rich was controlling the poor, to make sure they didn’t rebel.
‘What you have to do is make sure you don’t learn your lesson. They let you go and you go and steal from them again, let them learn their lesson. They’re the thieves, the ones who control the means of production, like old man Marx used to say. Have you seen the price of milk? One day you go to the shop and a litre costs 200,000 pesos. You have a Chocomilk, a bowl of cereal and you make yourself a milkshake. Go back to the shop the next day. How much is a litre now? Seven million pesos! The milk is the same, the cows are right over there! And who do the cows belong to? No one! The cows don’t belong to anyone. The cows belong to everyone. You follow me? So the next day you get up at five in the morning, you go to a ranch and you milk one of your cow comrades. And what happens if they catch you? They throw you in jail, man! The rich send people to jail like a teacher sends a kid to stand in the corner. Your grandfather too.’
‘But my grandfather’s poor.’
‘Your grandfather, poor? He’s got two hectares of land! And anyway, you’re not poor. I don’t know what you’re complaining about – you’re from the wealthy side of the family.’
In this my uncle Pink Floyd and Aristotle were in agreement: according to my older brother, we were practically millionaires compared to the pilgrims and, according to Pink Floyd, I was rich simply by dint of having a few miserable cousins who really were genuinely poverty-stricken.
‘They screwed you over with your name. I’ve got a gringo pal who told me that in the States black people who try to act like they’re white get called Oreos. Like the
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