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Javier Montes sobre "Temporada", meu conto na Granta.
"Remember Sunset Boulevard? It came to my mind as I read Emilio Fraia’s piece. Both have powerful openings that reflect each other almost perversely. The movie opens with a corpse floating in a swimming pool. A voiceover promises to reveal how it ends up there. Fraia also begins with a swimming pool and the possibility of a corpse hidden in its dark water. But it does not float: it stays stubbornly under the water. So deep, in fact, that nothing ever rises to the surface.
So here is the tale: a riddle in which the corpse in the pool – the mystery at the opening, the secret at its core will not be solved. A story that begins when the water has gone down the drain and we are left with the strange remains and unidentifiable particles of what lies at the bottom.
The story introduces a writer – and a way of writing – who claims a territory that is less Sunset Boulevard, in the end, and more Twilight Zone. In a strange limbo: under the surface of deep, opaque water.
We read about residual lives: about what’s left of them once everything has been drained away. We are faced with a devastated man at the deep bottom of the interior of São Paulo; and then to that man when he was a promising tennis player in London, many years before.
Whatever happened to him and made the latter turn into the former remains hidden. We sense menace: we are faced with a particular kind of symbolic murder mystery (again Sunset Boulevard) in which the murder has been spared. Or is about to happen. O has always already happened.
Speaking of murders, Fraia’s story also put me in mind of a Brazilian modernist master, Lúcio Cardoso and his Chronicle of the Murdered House, where there were no corpses either but one breathed the same claustrophobic atmosphere of enigmas never to be solved. Or, just beyond the Brazilian southern frontier, of the Uruguayan Juan Carlos Onetti, the greatest writer in Spanish of the last century, and his nightmarish, despairing stories, or no, more: beyond despair. Because once again one thinks of limbo, rather than purgatory, when reading this piece.
Like them, like the writers I admire the most, Fraia sets himself the most difficult and respectable task a writer can face: unveiling the mystery without revealing the secret."
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Javier Montes sobre "Temporada", meu conto na Granta.
"Remember Sunset Boulevard? It came to my mind as I read Emilio Fraia’s piece. Both have powerful openings that reflect each other almost perversely. The movie opens with a corpse floating in a swimming pool. A voiceover promises to reveal how it ends up there. Fraia also begins with a swimming pool and the possibility of a corpse hidden in its dark water. But it does not float: it stays stubbornly under the water. So deep, in fact, that nothing ever rises to the surface.
So here is the tale: a riddle in which the corpse in the pool – the mystery at the opening, the secret at its core will not be solved. A story that begins when the water has gone down the drain and we are left with the strange remains and unidentifiable particles of what lies at the bottom.
The story introduces a writer – and a way of writing – who claims a territory that is less Sunset Boulevard, in the end, and more Twilight Zone. In a strange limbo: under the surface of deep, opaque water.
We read about residual lives: about what’s left of them once everything has been drained away. We are faced with a devastated man at the deep bottom of the interior of São Paulo; and then to that man when he was a promising tennis player in London, many years before.
Whatever happened to him and made the latter turn into the former remains hidden. We sense menace: we are faced with a particular kind of symbolic murder mystery (again Sunset Boulevard) in which the murder has been spared. Or is about to happen. O has always already happened.
Speaking of murders, Fraia’s story also put me in mind of a Brazilian modernist master, Lúcio Cardoso and his Chronicle of the Murdered House, where there were no corpses either but one breathed the same claustrophobic atmosphere of enigmas never to be solved. Or, just beyond the Brazilian southern frontier, of the Uruguayan Juan Carlos Onetti, the greatest writer in Spanish of the last century, and his nightmarish, despairing stories, or no, more: beyond despair. Because once again one thinks of limbo, rather than purgatory, when reading this piece.
Like them, like the writers I admire the most, Fraia sets himself the most difficult and respectable task a writer can face: unveiling the mystery without revealing the secret."
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