Claribel Alegría – Paradise

The story shifts quickly from third person to first, going from exclusionary to participatory. Paradise (trans. Michael Henry Heim) begins with the reader being told Débora is thinking, and then her thinking becomes an “I hope...” and “I'm sure...” and then the narrative shifts, moving closer again, settling inside her mind, giving up on the pretense of objectivity. This is all Débora.

He didn't believe me when I told him I was a virgin, silly man. Twenty-eight and a virgin! he said and burst out laughing. I thought I would die, but then he told me I smelled of sandalwood and my skin was as soft as jasmine petals.

It's all very pretty, but it's probably the prettiest part of the story, and it comes right at the start. Débora goes through her sexual encounters, coupling with her memories the thought of what her friend, Claudia, might be doing. It seems that Débora and her friends go to the Motel Paraíso to lose their virginity, to engage in activities they can't elsewhere. But what nineteen year old girl has trouble with that?

No matter. Claribel Alegría's story subverts the common concept of youthful sexuality, positing that it is not always just about exploring. Débora has a death wish; her story is an extended examination of female sexuality, particularly the confused, contradictory, slightly prohibited and peverse sexuality of the very young, when a person hasn't quite worked out their kinks.

They're in bed by now, skin to skin. Giuseppe is kissing her eyes, her mouth, her neck, trying to open her legs with his. I wonder what an orgasm is like. The only time I've come close is when I think of Papa in his coffin and see myself bending over his bandaged head, kissing his lips. “At last, Papa, at last.”

Débora's greatest pleasure came from Gilberto, who barely touched her during their year-long relationship, and who ran away one day and turned out later to be gay. Sex and an orgasm isn't for her an event that can happen but a process to be watched or considered, something which occurs to others and is valuable for that, but nothing more. It is perhaps no accident that she merges thoughts of a sexual nature with the brutal image of father's bashed-in head, killed due to the (Nicaraguan) Revolution.

Débora is a broken young woman. She “makes a decent living” and is “always good for a laugh”, but she's dead behind her eyes and knows it. The trauma of her father being brutally murdered (the generation above, the man who loved her for her and not for her bosom, face, bank balance, willingness) has uncoupled her from the normal expectations of life, and for that she suffers.

Something snapped. There's a battle going on inside me. I remember dreaming of a vast labyrinth. I've always had an affinity for the underground. I'm more mole than toadstool. What's left? I can't stand the thought of old age.

It's too much for Débora; the ending of the story, which shifts away from a first-person perspective and back to an omniscient narrator, is shocking and violent, callously brutal with unfliching, clinical language. Claribel Alegría has merged sexuality and violence in an uncomfortable manner, declaring them inseparable. Paradise is a difficult read, but it feels honest to Débora; the poor girl's life has been so harsh, and so brutal, for so long, that it's no wonder she finds sanctity in a man who doesn't desire at all – she can be a nonentity. I suppose, for some, the sweetness of oblivion attracts.

Paradise by Claribel Alegría is a short story from Center for the Art of Translation publication, Two Lines - Volume XV: Strange Harbors

See Also

Other stories from the Center for the Art of Translation publication, Two Lines - Volume XV: Strange Harbors include:
---Gersão, Teolinda - Four Children, Two Dogs and Some Birds
---Rey Rosa, Rodrigo - Poco-loco
---Schiff, Agur - There's Lots to See
---Suceavă, Bogdan - Our Years of Beauty

Index of short stories under review