Heavens on Earth
Praise for Carmen Boullosa’s Novels
“In its first English translation, Before offers a perfect introduction to Boullosa’s fluid and powerful writing…Beneath the events Boullosa presents in often comic terms—playing childhood games with her half-sisters, visits to her grandmother, the shock of coming into womanhood at the time of her mother’s death, her savage dreams—is a powerfully rendered sense of loss and separation.” —JANE CIABATTARI, BBC Culture
“Utterly entertaining—a comic tour de force. I loved [Texas: The Great Theft] and think it deserves a very wide readership.” —PHILLIP LOPATE, author of A Mother’s Tale
“Brutal, poetic, hilarious and humane…a masterly crafted tale.” —SJÓN, author of Moonstone: The Boy Who Never Was, on Texas: The Great Theft
“Boullosa’s Texas: The Great Theft, is evidence that our ideas about postmodern cowpoke tales have been woefully premature…What is outstanding in Boullosa’s work is the deep sympathy expressed for every human encountered.” —ROBERTO ONTIVEROS, Dallas Morning News
“Before is a small gem that brings to mind two other gems of Mexican literature: Juan Rulfo’s Pedro Páramo and Carlos Fuentes’s Aura. This comparison is not overstated. Like its predecessors, death is a central theme in Boullosa’s novella. Before differs, however, in the playful, sometimes irreverent way in which the protagonist confronts this macabre topos.” —GEORGE HENSON, World Literature Today
“This first novel [Before] is raw and unadorned, like a vein opened up on the page.” —AARON BADY, Literary Hub
“A luminous writer…Boullosa is a masterful spinner of the fantastic.” —Miami Herald
“I don’t think there’s a writer with more variety in themes and focuses in his or her writing…The style and range of Carmen Boullosa is unique for its versatility and its enormous courage.” —JUAN VILLORO, author of The Guilty
“What is both moving and also lucid about Boullosa’s prose, though, is her ability to take one in and out of a scene fraught with disorder and violence, and place one back in the rich spirit of humility encountering sublime beauty.” —MATT PINCUS, Bookslut
“Like Eimear McBride’s A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing, Carmen Boullosa’s peculiarly spooky novella uses formal experimentation and an uncompromising emotional honesty to explore the formation of a young woman’s identity. Only a writer as fearless as Boullosa could so perfectly capture the unease of youth with such Angela Carter-like weirdness.” —GARY PERRY, on Before, bookseller, Foyle’s, London
“The return to childhood that Carmen Boullosa has given us feels unlike any other book that I have read. I can’t say enough about Boullosa’s incandescent writing, which glows from within, radiating possibilities, contradictions, ambiguities.” —TERRY PITTS, Vertigo
ALSO AVAILABLE IN ENGLISH BY CARMEN BOULLOSA
A Narco History
with Mike Wallace
Before
translated by Peter Bush
Cleopatra Dismounts
translated by Geoff Hargreaves
Leaving Tabasco
translated by Geoff Hargreaves
Texas: The Great Theft
translated by Samantha Schnee
They’re Cows We’re Pigs
translated by Leland H. Chambers
When Mexico Recaptures Texas: Essays
translated by Nicolás Kanellos
Deep Vellum Publishing
3000 Commerce St., Dallas, Texas 75226
deepvellum.org · @deepvellum
Deep Vellum Publishing is a 501c3
nonprofit literary arts organization founded in 2013.
Copyright © 2017 Carmen Boullosa
Originally published by Alfaguara in Mexico City, Mexico as Cielos de la tierra, 1997.
English translation copyright © 2017 by Shelby Vincent
First edition, 2017
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-941920-45-9 (ebook)
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL NUMBER: 2016959429
—
Cover design & typesetting by Anna Zylicz · annazylicz.com
Text set in Bembo, a typeface modeled on typefaces cut by Francesco Griffo for Aldo Manuzio’s printing of De Aetna in 1495 in Venice.
Distributed by Consortium Book Sales & Distribution.
Dear Reader:
This novel is not written by an author, but rather by authors plural. There are three characters who claim to confess within its pages, and two who claim to have written it. If I have any authority over this book, I will say that the true authorship does not belong to any of those indicated above, but rather to the beat of a destructive violence I have sensed in the air, in the air of my city and in other places: an atmospheric throbbing, so to speak.
There is such a thing as a violence that avoids the corrupt paths that have led nowhere and then runs into Sleeping Beauty centuries later. It is a noble and heroic violence, one that is princely and all hugs and kisses. Unfortunately, Mother Nature is not like that in this book. This violence is one that erupts but does not lead to discovery; bursts forth, leaving nothing in return; and ultimately, destroys. I plucked it from the air because I did not know how to avoid it. From it, and with it, I moved forward with the non-traditional and complex form of Heavens on Earth. Each line is aware of the destruction behind it.
Take this book, reader, and give it the warmth I was unable to find for it along the way. Let it be reborn in you; may it be yours.
Fondly,
CARMEN BOULLOSA
Indies of the world, heavens
on earth1
BERNARDO DE BALBUENA
I wonder how you have managed
to overcome the daily use
of time and death2
ÁLVARO MUTIS
CONTENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
EKFLOROS KESTON DE LEARO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE ESTELINO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE HERNANDO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE LEARO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE HERNANDO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE LEARO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE HERNANDO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE ESTELINO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE LEARO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE HERNANDO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE LEARO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE HERNANDO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE LEARO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE HERNANDO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE ESTELINO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE LEARO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE HERNANDO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE LEARO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE HERNANDO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE LEARO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE HERNANDO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE LEARO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE HERNANDO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE LEARO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE HERNANDO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE LEARO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE HERNANDO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE LEARO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE HERNANDO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE LEARO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE HERNANDO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE LEARO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE HERNANDO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE LEARO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE HERNANDO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE LEARO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE HERNANDO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE LEARO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE HERNANDO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE ESTELINO
EKFLOROS KESTON DE LEARO
TRANSLATORS NOTE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book is composed of three different narratives. For reasons that I do not understand, it was given to me to turn into a novel. But it is not a novel, nor is it three, but rather two that are superimposed on each other: Lea
r’s, which occurs in the future, and Don Hernando de Rivas’s, which took place in the past. Estela condemned her own narrative to a supporting role: that of the translator who translated into Spanish the memories of the Indian, who, in sixteenth-century Tlatelolco, wrote them in Latin.
Perhaps if Estela had known how to represent herself in the following pages, the book might have become a novel, while at the same time being three novels. Tradition has permitted, on other occasions, for one to become one and still be three. But the two are condemned to separation. In exchange, the gods have given the number two the gift of dialogue. At the end of the book, these two separate novels embark on a dialogue—one that excludes the author and that allows Estela to reveal herself, a dialogue that occurs elsewhere, one that does not exist in these pages.
A novel is dialogue and unity. This text, on the other hand, is nothing but the proclamation of the heavens on earth. Heaven comes to earth in literature. Man, warrior by nature, becomes, in the din of a warlike inferno, what he perceives. What angel, imperceptible to human senses, endowed the universe with language? For man, everything evokes the war he yearns for.
Intercontinental war has erupted. If the powers that be do not arrive at an expeditious agreement, if they do not resolve the internal struggles over the territories that were once nations, only a few months are left to man and perhaps to the natural world.
JUAN NEPOMUCENO RODRÍGUEZ ÁLVAREZ
EKFLOROS KESTON DE LEARO
Today my name is Lear. Unfortunate circumstances forced me to abandon the one I was using before. The people of my community call each other by number. But I can’t even conceive of myself without a name. I even baptized everyone else in L’Atlàntide—Italia, Evelina, Salomé, Ulises, Jeremías…
I don’t know who my parents were because I was conceived in a test tube and raised in The Conformación (the first stage is The Cradle and the second is The Image Receptor). I can’t explain my existence in the same way men did in the time of History—for even though dust you are, Lear, to dust you will not return. But I found a connection to the ashes of earlier times through my work as an archeologist. I’m the only one in my community who does this kind of work, not to mention the only one among the living who stops to think about the mother and father she doesn’t have. Through my work, I connect with, and try to recreate, our ancestors. But this gets me into serious trouble because everybody else in L’Atlàntide wants to deny that we are descendants of the men from the time of History.
I work in the Center for Research because, even though memory and remembering are currently disdained in our community, this institution preserves memory. Whenever I find something I want to keep safe, I leave it here in the hopes that one day it will recover its original form. I also do my writing here in order to safeguard it. Instead of using papyrus or paper, a quill, fountain pen, pencil, ballpoint pen, typewriter, computer, or chisel and stone, I use the writing instrument of my people and my thoughts glide through space without leaving a physical trace of the rhythm, sound, or shape of the words. But my thoughts won’t be inscribed in books, as they would have been in the time of Time, in the time of History. Instead of being written in ink on pages that turn and are bound by thread or glue, my words will assume their truest, most accurate form. No light will touch them, nor will ink or heat stain any surface. Stripped of physical form, they will keep watch over the Center for Research. And despite their advanced form, their subject runs backward, in a counterclockwise direction—in direct opposition to the normal order of things. While I bow to the past, the rest of L’Atlàntide stands on tiptoe reaching for and trying to hold onto the perpetual present in the hopes of recreating the sublime Natural world that the men from the time of History destroyed. I, on the other hand, remember them, talk to them, and describe our world for them.
We live suspended in the upper atmosphere of the Earth, far enough away to avoid the radiation, the ruins and destruction, and the sandstorms and toxic storm clouds that cover the surface. I like to think we established L’Atlàntide here, in this way, for aesthetic reasons—beauty rules our colony, and, to my constant delight, our rooms are transparent. We’ve learned to appreciate the beauty of the light and dark, the clouds, the moon, and the stars. Given the abundance of waste and rubbish that covers the surface of the Earth, we have, by consensus, decided not to add anything to the cemetery of things.
As lords and masters of the air, we’ve achieved more control over this element than the men from the time of History ever did. Although they figured out how to endow a disembodied piece of plastic with a relative degree of intelligence, we’ve been able to use the components of the atmosphere to build our houses and guarantee our survival. Our dwellings are made of air—air that impedes the entrance of air and never lets in either heat or cold. Solid air—an invisible material without substance or physical form—that tempers and attenuates the strength of the winds. Even our clothes are made of air—we wrap ourselves in it whenever we leave the transparent walls of L’Atlàntide. Our tools are made of air. Everything here is made of air. Even the Center that safeguards my writing is made of air (or you could say it’s made out of a transparent material like glass, except that it’s not hard).
In our world, air is the element that propels us, supports us, elevates us, and protects us. In our creation myth air conquered the sun—air ripped off man’s overcoat, stripped him bare, and mastered him. Air—the wild element that we domesticated in our environment—flows in a filthy current over the surface of the Earth. Whirlwinds, hurricanes, cyclones, and tornados—often so dense with dust and rubbish that the sun can’t get through to touch the ground or the water—unleash an uncontrollable rage over the empty planet. There, too, the wind conquered the sun—this is the Age of Air. Enveloped in a whirlwind, the Earth wears a tattered outfit that no longer has a skirt, bodice, stockings, or hat to go with it. The torn dress is adorned with the rubbish that the wicked weather has bestowed on it.
Our home, however, is an Earthly Paradise (like the one inhabited by the first man and woman in the Bible legend), but a paradise without vegetation, suspended in the middle of the sky. We live in an enormous, transparent, flattened sphere that doesn’t have visible walls or floors and was built without mortar, cement, stone, or brick. It’s the exact opposite of a house, castle, or cave. We don’t have things, nor do we use or make things. All we have is water.
Even though I study the past and I write in order to be faithful to the past, my connection to the past doesn’t mean I’m disconnected from the present. The fact that I do historical research doesn’t mean that I collect unnecessary or dangerous material and it doesn’t mean that I don’t dream about the future. Most people in L’Atlàntide think we should only be concerned with the present and the future. In fact, they think we have to forget the past completely because it was merely a lesson in errors—a lesson on how to destroy the Natural World. If it’s true, as they say, that we only need to focus on the present and the future—and if we erase the past completely like they want us to do—Time, or what we know as such, would dissolve. We would float in an amorphous mass where there isn’t a place for Time. The proposed reform—calling for total oblivion—means that we would lose conscious awareness, we would lose everything it means to be human. But what if we didn’t lose consciousness? What if consciousness left us instead and closed the doorway to the imagination? What kind of future would we have? Do we have another door to the future? To be able to imagine we have to remember, we have to listen to the voice of memory. That’s what I think anyway.
We’ve managed to overcome sickness and old age and it’s been a long time since any of us has known death. But memory must play the same role for us as it did for the Ancients, our predecessors—the men from the time of History who once inhabited the Earth. If we forget everything, we would lose the thread of life. The clouds would no longer strike us as beautiful; neither the light of the sun, nor the play of the shadows in winter, nor the beauty of the flower would have an
y weapons that could touch us. But our thinning hair couldn’t even reach our ears and there would be no way for us to convincingly imitate beasts because Mother Nature couldn’t protect us.
This belief that I profess like a proselytizing preacher is not shared by anyone else in L’Atlàntide. They say we should break all ties with the time of men. But didn’t we baptize our colony “L’Atlàntide” in honor of those we’ve condemned to oblivion? The name itself invokes the time of History. Of course, now nobody ever even mentions the origin of our colony’s name. Nobody remembers the continent submerged under the sea with its grove of golden oranges and orichalcum (the red mineral that Atlantis dragged down when it disappeared). Nobody ever talks about those who dreamed of Atlantis, those who described it, or those who swore to have seen it. The people of L’Atlàntide want to bury the memory of those who preceded us and justify this desire by saying that all their knowledge and actions only brought destruction, and that we, the survivors, must run from it. However, everything we do is somehow related to the civilization that existed in the time of History. The survivors don’t care anymore that the name of our colony, “L’Atlàntide,” retains both the Catalan accent and the French ending. It doesn’t matter to them that words are gradually losing meaning because they’re busy inventing a communication code that won’t use words. I try to tell them that any code will allude to the past, to History. The disadvantage of a new code is that it will be limited, imperfect and, thus, useless from the beginning. Not only will this wordless new code limit our ability to imagine, it will also reduce the number of our imaginings. I’ll admit that language was imperfect too—as my favorite poet, Álvaro Mutis, wrote: “Words are, already, in and of themselves tricks—traps that mask, conceal, and bury the framework of our dreams and truths—all marked by the sign of the incommunicable.” But at least language had the power to invoke the memory of other times and imaginings, and all that was, by the arbitrary law of reality, impossible.