Latin American Fiction
Michael B. Miller
Traducciones español-inglés

Audacious, provocative, iconoclastic, with elements of the carnavalesque, the erotic, irreverence toward the institutions that have governed and continue to govern Guatemalan society, With Every Drop of Blood From the Wound breaks with the traditional concepts of the Latin American novel and magical realism to challenge the reader to grapple with fragmented chronology and intersecting textuality in the discordant and inverted world of Gerona, a semi-urban neighborhood in which Corleto projects a violent and often strange picture that serves as a microcosm of the corruption, failures, and evils of his country. His portrayal of sex, at times crude and violent, is not gratuitous, but rather serves to make a point: that in the end the only enduring and worthwhile value is love, love raised to its highest sense: the human need for each other, the need of family, of belonging, the need of warmth.

The story is set during the second half of the twentieth century, in the late 40s and early 50s, with reference to the dictatorship of General Ubico (1931-44), and unfolds in the real life barrio of Gerona, located near a railroad yard where the two protagonists--Gabriel and Willy--carry out their adolescent games in the abandoned railway cars, including their first sexual encounters, thanks to the very willing and precocious González sisters. Later the two boys finally go their separate ways, but years later are reunited when they are grown men, when their boyhood illusions and dreams have faded, and they are resigned to facing the hard reality of their individual failures. Still the human being survives despite his lack of ideals.

From this perspective, With Every Drop of Blood From the Wound--the words from a song at the end of the book that Corleto wrote to underscore the pain of lost dreams and the plaintive cry of a people ruled by the iron fist of repressive rulers--paradoxically is, when all is said and done, an affirmation of life, hope, and love, the values Corleto holds most dear.

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From one reader:

Lucia Fickenscher, originally of Colombia and co-director of the Iberoamerican Cultural Foundation of Alexandria, Virginia, had these words regarding With Every Drop of Blood From the Wound (Con cada gota de la sangre de la herida): "Congratulations for the marvelous translation of Corleto's novel. I am now reading and delighting in your use of language. It seems to me that you capture with great skill that flavor, color, irony, and sense of mockery so typical of our native tongue and ambiance." (4/19/2004)

Chapter One can be read at www.iuniverse.com

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Here is an excerpt from Chapter Seven:

The street is deserted. The curfew has gone into effect, from 8:00 p.m. until 6:00 a.m. The national radio network is issuing bulletins, providing concise news about the situation. Everything is under control, repeats the silvery voice of the announcer. There is no need to worry and you are only to leave your homes with the aforesaid safe-conduct pass. Soldiers on every corner. The familiar sound of jeeps, military patrols that cross Calle 12 "A" and pass through the neighborhood, seems to be magnified in the prevailing silence. Olivia and her three small children, like hundreds of thousands of citizens in the city under siege, find themselves shut in behind stone and mortar, trembling, wearing out a rosary of worries and questions that have no apparent answer. Dinner was meager and Pili is hungry. Olivia has given her part of her ration, consisting of some bread with just beans and cooked plantains. Nellie has spent the whole day vomiting and running a fever. The doctor told Olivia not to worry, that it was only a case of an upset stomach and she should give her a lot of liquids. And the child has been taking in nothing but liquids and wrenching out her guts again and again without surcease. Willy didn’t want to try to eat anything because just seeing how Nellie is makes him sick to his stomach. Besides, he still hasn’t forgotten what happened the night before, when about 11:00 they heard someone knocking on their window. Olivia, her heart nearly paralyzed with fear, opened the blinds just enough to see who was there. It was Luis García, Juana’s son, the old servant woman from her father’s house; he was completely drunk and hanging onto the bars on the window so he wouldn’t fall. Olivia asked him to go away, told him it was very dangerous to go walking around the streets that time of night, that he was going to get them into trouble if they found him there; but Luis García seemed more worried about staying upright than about anything else. Poor guy, Olivia thought. He was about eighteen years old and a constant headache for old Juana. Colonel Solís had ended up throwing him out of the house for being a lazy good-for-nothing, without a job or anything going for him, and because as soon as he got drunk he’d start shouting, Long live Arévalo! and blaming the priests and the military for all the death and destruction. Of medium stature and complexion, it took three or four men to hold him down. Willy had seen him use his fists a couple of times and he was admired for the way he could take punches and for how effective his were. Luis was looking for Olivia because, among other things, she was the only person who had ever shown him any interest, occasionally giving him some advice and a little bit of food. But he was a lost cause. When he drank, this indigenous introverted boy turned loquacious, telling stories and jokes, one after another. But the most dangerous thing of all was that he boasted about belonging to the guerrilla. Olivia had just told him for the second time to leave when they heard some kind of vehicle approaching. Willy standing on the bed, looking over his mother’s shoulder, murmured in her ear: Soldiers, mamma. Olivia whispered shh and accompanied her warning with a sharp rap on his head; she saw the jeep stop in front of her house and watched three or four soldiers get out. Luis García seemed unaware of their presence, but when one of them approached him and tapped him on the shoulder, he shouted, Viva, Cuba! The soldier grabbed Luis. Olivia and Willy were mute witnesses to what happened to Juana’s son that night. With one hand, as if it were a hook, firmly gripping the bars on the window, he struggled fiercely, using his free arm and his legs not to allow himself to be dragged off to the jeep. Olivia and Willy listened to him shouting and cursing for about a minute or so while they hit him with rifle butts and took him away. Pili and Nellie, asleep in the other bedroom, didn’t know a thing that was going on. Or not so fast asleep, because the following morning the first thing they did was to have a look around and they came across some traces of blood on the window.