La amante de Gardel by Mayra Santos-Febres

La amante de Gardel. Mayra Santos-Febres. Mexico: Planeta. 2015. 200 pages.

 

The novels of Mayra Santos-Febres suggest a Caribbean aesthetic. Sirena Selena vestida de pena [Sirena Selena] tells us of the negotiation between conventional and non-binary genders; Cualquier miércoles soy tuya [Any Wednesday I’m Yours] deals with disrupted emotions; Nuestra Señora de la noche [Our Lady of the Night] addresses race from a perspective of marginality; Fe en disfraz [Faith in disguise] does the same from the perspective of the academy; and Yo misma fui mi ruta [I Was My Own Route] explores the avatars of the national poet of Puerto Rico, Julia de Burgos. In her latest offering, La amante de Gardel [Gardel’s lover], the negotiation takes place from the perspective of the medical establishment, on one hand, and on the other from the knowledge of Mano Santa: a herbalist, healer and the grandmother of the surgeon Micaela Thorné, who negotiates herself with those who hold power.

The bardic figure of Carlos Gardel (1890-1935) gives structure to the narrative through the anxious emotion of his interracial relationship with Micaela, which includes all the problems that such relationships entailed in the Puerto Rico of the 1930s. When Gardel tours the island, he sings in the Teatro Paramount in San Juan and in other towns. His story comes into contact with Micaela’s as he tells her about his life, and she simultaneously narrates both her own experiences and those of the Franco-Argentine singer, actor, and composer. The famous artist’s career is explained in the light of Micaela’s words, through the prism of love, starting with Gardel’s humble origins in the barrio of El Abasto in Buenos Aires. Nobody knows him like she does. Their meeting is like a tango because, as Gardel says, “tango is black.” The novel is a rewriting of tango songs like “El día que me quieras,” “Sus ojos se cerraron,” or “Volver” with a Caribbean rhythm. This rhythm ignites the prose, which swells into erotic literature. Gardel’s lover (Micaela) is a one-man woman, and the erotic encounter between El Zorzal (Gardel) and Micaela is narrated in self-sufficient poems of singular beauty, like the one that describes the meeting of their bodies with the cadence of a tango: “We dance on time and not on sand; or perhaps on a clock made of sand, on a sandy song, what do I know? His slow, subtle steps slide into the gaps between mine. Then Gardel did a turn that made me lose my balance, and he took the chance to lean over me. I thought he was going to kiss me, but he didn’t: he continued with his face touching mine, looking over my shoulder while he leaned against me.”

The most surprising part of this offering from Santos-Febres is the simplicity of her language, the explanation as clear and precise as a medical treatise, when she describes the effects of a medicinal plant that will counter Gardel’s syphilis—a condition that will also afflict his lover, Micaela Thorné, at the end of her life. The contamination of one blood with another, the exchange of unhealthy bodily fluids, is a metaphor for how society perceives interracial relationships and how Gardel’s coming betrayal is a product of the island’s social conventions. But, as Micaela says toward the end of the novel at her moment of professional triumph: “I became the only black woman who didn’t clean floors, who didn’t serve food, who walked into the hospital through the main entrance. The only black woman who wasn’t there only so they could control her ability to give birth to one child after another, a prisoner to the bestiality of the flesh.”

The essential resentment that marks Micaela’s character can be explained as a reaction to the spaces that have been denied to mixed-race and black people over the course of Puerto Rico’s checkered history—a resentment shared in counterpoint with the story of Ricardo, a black man and one of the key musicians in Gardel’s band. The wisdom of the grandmother Mano Santa and of her granddaughter, the future doctor Micaela Thorné, is manifested in the qualities of a plant capable of alleviating and possibly even curing syphilis. In a moment of absolute vengeance, Micaela chooses not to administer a pure dose of the plant’s extract to Gardel, just as they bid each other farewell, when he tells her, “Ciao, negra, look after yourself.” Before this, the narrator clarifies, “I was sure that, if he survived the dose, his throat would never grow inflamed again.” But the greatest treachery, which embitters Micaela’s life, takes place when she reveals the secret of how to distill the plant’s essence to another doctor, Martha Roberts, in the Escuela de Medicina Tropical [School of Tropical Medicine]. This secret is the key to her wisdom, and thanks to it she will receive a coveted grant allowing her to become a medical doctor in the North. It is also a betrayal of Mano Santa, her grandmother, the herbalist and healer, who jealously guarded the secret. When she betrays her people, she also betrays herself, but she manages to access the spaces of power occupied by whites. It’s a tit-for-tat situation for the character who, at the end of the story, explains her position as a complete woman through a series of rhetorical questions: “Maybe I’m a woman now that I’m dying alone in this ranch in La Doradilla? What does it mean to be a woman these days: a game with death, an echo that rings from a distance? After everything I’ve been through, is it possible to go back? Now that we’re liberated from the body, is solitude the name of our journey?”

This book marks Mayra Santos-Febres’s fifteenth year writing novels, since her career as an international novelist began in 2000 with the publication of Sirena Selena by Editorial Mondadori in Barcelona. The novel was her first international success. With it, she spurred on the internationalization of Puerto Rican literature in the twenty-first century—a process that had already begun in the twentieth century thanks to figures like Luis Rafael Sánchez, Rosario Ferré, Edgardo Rodríguez Juliá, and Mayra Montero, and even more recently when Eduardo Lalo won the Premio Rómulo Gallegos in 2013.

La amante de Gardel is a perfect novel. In the book, discourses of race, diaspora, and gender intersect like in no other narrative work by Mayra Santos-Febres. Here, the writer meets her words head-on, finally writing the novel that she has been rehearsing for in all her previous works, giving us a complete and well-rounded product. The career of Carlos Gardel and his time in Puerto Rico mark the modernization of this Caribbean island as an experimental space for performances that would later spread throughout Latin America. Gardel’s encounter with the Boricua diaspora in New York internationalized his career, and the singer realized that he could no longer continue singing for Madrid, Paris, or New York: he had to sing for all of our America.

Daniel Torres
Ohio University

Reviewer 

Other Reviews in this Issue

Una suerte pequeña by Claudia Piñeiro
Aries Point by Nancy Bird
Historia oficial del amor by Ricardo Silva Romero

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LALT Vol. 1 No. 1
Number 1

The first issue of Latin American Literature Today features a dossier of Argentine writer Ricardo Piglia, who passed away in January of 2017, and short stories by the outstanding young Mexican author Nadia Villafuerte.

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