Read Online The Transmigration of Bodies by Yuri Herrera - Free Book Online Page B
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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agreed to meet on Lover’s Lane. Back to the Bug he went, back to streets buzzing behind closed doors, back to zigzagging around corners rife with aimed rifles, rife with thugs both uniformed and civilian. When he arrived the Mennonite was already waiting at the entrance to Metamorphosis. There were lights all down the lane and cars outside the cathouses but no one wandering from one to the next. They walked into Metamorphosis and he scanned the bodies below in search of Óscar.
The place was packed, placid but packed. There were people asleep underneath tables and asleep on top of tables—like really sleeping, not booze-induced sleeping. And those who were awake were conversing with the dancers. Normally they paid little attention, as if women taking off their clothes before a gaggle of drunkaneers was totally unremarkable; now they sat, chatting, nobody drooling, nobody tail-shaking. One lonely soak at the bar slurred It’s aaaaaaaall over, It’s aaaaaaaall over, again and again and again. Everyone else was cool and attentive, as if listening to hailstones on a tin roof.
They haven’t been out for days, he heard Óscar say behind him. Claim it’s too dangerous but you ask me, this is their chance of a lifetime.
I see you made use of those facemasks, the Redeemer said. One girl was dancing before a cluster of liquored-up fools, naked but for the mask over her mouth; each time she leaned close she made as if to take it off, and the boozers whooped in titillation.
Fuck yeah, said Óscar.
Óscar, the Redeemer said. The Fonseca kid. You sure bout where you saw him come out of?
Óscar glanced at him for a single second: long enough to draw up, read through, sign and notarize a confidentiality clause between the two of them.
Girls’ place, yeah, he said. He was referring not to these girls, the working girls, but to the customers.
Appreciate it, brother.
They left Metamorphosis and entered Incubus. The clientele was less numerous but more boisterous, only a dozen or so women, rorty and sloshed. They sat at the tables with two or three strippers, drinking. The floor was empty.
The Mennonite addressed the madam, a stout elegant woman with very black hair.
I’m looking for a boy.
Hm. We generally cater to a female clientele but it’s always possible to arrange something.
The Mennonite cast a glance around the tomcathouse, studying the handful of men, and said: I’m looking for one with a steady boyfriend.
The madam observed them distrustfully. Then she got it.
Must be that one, and she pointed to a young man, almost a teenager really, attempting to smile at the woman buying him drinks. He’s been acting all mopey. Must’ve had a fight with his boyfriend; guy used to come pick him up after work but I didn’t see him last night.
They approached the table where he sat. The Redeemer bent over the woman the kid was hooking until he was almost brushing her cheek.
Let me borrow him for one sec, amiga, just a quick word and then he’s all yours.
She batted her eyes diplomatically and the Mennonite nodded the boy over to the next table.
I don’t sleep with men, he said as soon as they sat down.
We know, said the Mennonite. Or rather, you only sleep with one.
The Mennonite spat the words, resting his hands on the table as if he might backhand the boy at any moment. The kid suddenly looked scared. The Redeemer’s approach was more gentle.
Tell us what happened two nights ago.
He came in. We argued about the same thing as always—and with this he gestured, taking in the whole of the whorehouse with one hand—then he took off. Didn’t even wait for his sister.
His sister. Fuckit.
Did they come together?
Yeah, but he ran off and it took her a minute to follow. It was crowded that night. And then neither of them came back.
They rose, intending to leave, but the boy stopped the Redeemer with an arm. What is it, what happened to him?
Get some sleep, the Redeemer said. But tell them to give you the day off
The place was packed, placid but packed. There were people asleep underneath tables and asleep on top of tables—like really sleeping, not booze-induced sleeping. And those who were awake were conversing with the dancers. Normally they paid little attention, as if women taking off their clothes before a gaggle of drunkaneers was totally unremarkable; now they sat, chatting, nobody drooling, nobody tail-shaking. One lonely soak at the bar slurred It’s aaaaaaaall over, It’s aaaaaaaall over, again and again and again. Everyone else was cool and attentive, as if listening to hailstones on a tin roof.
They haven’t been out for days, he heard Óscar say behind him. Claim it’s too dangerous but you ask me, this is their chance of a lifetime.
I see you made use of those facemasks, the Redeemer said. One girl was dancing before a cluster of liquored-up fools, naked but for the mask over her mouth; each time she leaned close she made as if to take it off, and the boozers whooped in titillation.
Fuck yeah, said Óscar.
Óscar, the Redeemer said. The Fonseca kid. You sure bout where you saw him come out of?
Óscar glanced at him for a single second: long enough to draw up, read through, sign and notarize a confidentiality clause between the two of them.
Girls’ place, yeah, he said. He was referring not to these girls, the working girls, but to the customers.
Appreciate it, brother.
They left Metamorphosis and entered Incubus. The clientele was less numerous but more boisterous, only a dozen or so women, rorty and sloshed. They sat at the tables with two or three strippers, drinking. The floor was empty.
The Mennonite addressed the madam, a stout elegant woman with very black hair.
I’m looking for a boy.
Hm. We generally cater to a female clientele but it’s always possible to arrange something.
The Mennonite cast a glance around the tomcathouse, studying the handful of men, and said: I’m looking for one with a steady boyfriend.
The madam observed them distrustfully. Then she got it.
Must be that one, and she pointed to a young man, almost a teenager really, attempting to smile at the woman buying him drinks. He’s been acting all mopey. Must’ve had a fight with his boyfriend; guy used to come pick him up after work but I didn’t see him last night.
They approached the table where he sat. The Redeemer bent over the woman the kid was hooking until he was almost brushing her cheek.
Let me borrow him for one sec, amiga, just a quick word and then he’s all yours.
She batted her eyes diplomatically and the Mennonite nodded the boy over to the next table.
I don’t sleep with men, he said as soon as they sat down.
We know, said the Mennonite. Or rather, you only sleep with one.
The Mennonite spat the words, resting his hands on the table as if he might backhand the boy at any moment. The kid suddenly looked scared. The Redeemer’s approach was more gentle.
Tell us what happened two nights ago.
He came in. We argued about the same thing as always—and with this he gestured, taking in the whole of the whorehouse with one hand—then he took off. Didn’t even wait for his sister.
His sister. Fuckit.
Did they come together?
Yeah, but he ran off and it took her a minute to follow. It was crowded that night. And then neither of them came back.
They rose, intending to leave, but the boy stopped the Redeemer with an arm. What is it, what happened to him?
Get some sleep, the Redeemer said. But tell them to give you the day off
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