‘Not a River’ by Selva Almada (Review)

One of many books I’ve enjoyed over the years courtesy of Charco Press (purveyors of the finest literature from South and Central America) was Selva Almada’s taut short novel The Wind that Lays Waste.  I haven’t yet got around to the follow-up work, Brickmakers, another tale of toxic masculinity, but I was lucky enough to be sent the third part of this loose trilogy recently.  Almada’s latest work has us taking a trip down to the river for a little R&R, but in a story spanning past and present, we’re to see that wherever you go, it’s hard to escape the ghosts of the past…

*****
Not a River (translated by Annie McDermott, review copy courtesy of the publisher) introduces us to three men, El Negro, Enero, and the younger Tilo.  They’re out on a fishing trip, bonding over an afternoon in pursuit of a massive ray, but the story soon takes on a darker note after a ‘friendly’ visit by one of the locals.  There’s a distinct air of tension behind the friendly face, hints of menace masked by smiles.

However, before we can worry about that too much, we’re taken back a number of years to another trip, one taken by El Negro, Enero and their friend Eusebio – Tilio’s father.  Slowly, we’re shown flashes back to a tragedy, one that has left scars still visible today.  The more we see, the more we think it might have been a mistake to come back down to the river, particularly when there are people who’d much rather the men weren’t there.

Not a River is a fairly short novel, but it’s certainly powerful and elegantly done, with Almada producing a tense piece in which more is alluded to than actually stated.  It’s obvious that the trio’s stay is unlikely to end peacefully, but even with so few pages to play with, the writer is in no hurry.  This is a slow-burning story where everything happens at a pace that may be leisurely, but is certainly anything but relaxed.

There’s nice interplay between the two strands, with Enero and El Negro present at both times.  The trips are also connected by Enero’s dream, one he had back when he was a kid, a dark glimpse into the future.  Having seen what occurred last time, he’s doubly disturbed now that it’s returned, with his visions of a watery grave hinting that once more trouble is just around the corner.

The setting of the novel adds to the sense of tension as we’re taken along to the calm river and the ominous woods just back from the banks:

This man isn’t from these woods and the woods are well aware.  But they leave him be.  He can come in, he can stay for as long as it takes to gather kindling.  Then the woods themselves will spit him out, his arms full of branches, back to the shore.
p.8 (Charco Press, 2023)

The more we’re told of the locals, the more ominous they appear, too.  Despite his initial polite approach, the enigmatic Aguirre, their de facto leader, is firm in his determination to deal with any slights, perceived or actual.  It’s only too clear that there’s more to his greetings than a wish to be nice to the visitors…

However, just when we think we know where we’re going, the writer undercuts us all with a deft sleight of hand.  This comes in the form of the introduction of new characters, a pair of beautiful sisters, one of whom has her eye on Tilo.  The day builds up to a dance, music and drinks under the stars, but there’s something about the girls that the men are unaware of, a secret I’m not about to reveal here, either.

Everything Almada does is designed to enhance the mood, and there’s an ominous feel to it all, an atmosphere both weighty and foreboding.  Much of this comes from certain linguistic features, such as the way speech is marked in the text:

Enero asks for some beers.
The coldest you’ve got.
He says.
The old man looks at him, scornful.
As if we’d sell warm beer here.
He says, raising his voice.  Words jostling with the smoke from the cigarette that never leaves his mouth.
(p.36)

At times, you almost expect someone to say, “You boys ain’t from ’round these parts, ain’t y’all?“.  At others, you just want to urge the visitors to jump in their boat and get the hell out of there…

A nice addition to the book is McDermott’s ‘Translator’s Note’, discussing the difficulties involved in translating the text.  With all the slang, unusual even for Argentineans, how was she to bring the feeling across into English?  There are also some nice insights into the prep work some translators give themselves:

My aim, as I collected these words and phrases for Not a River, was not to construct voices that sounded as if they were from any particular place – I didn’t want to turn Enero and El Negro into Oregon trout-fishermen, for example.  Instead, I was seeking to piece together a language that was earthy and colloquial, as natural as breathing, and could plausibly feel like the way people might speak on this island in the Paraná Delta. (p.98)

It’s good to see that McDermott did lots of homework in an attempt to find the right style and voice, including heaps of reading and watching (including WWE wrestling!).

It was well worth the effort as Not a River is an excellent read, a story that drips with masculinity, just waiting for the moment to ooze out in all its ugly glory.  Almada has again crafted a memorable tale in a relatively brief number of pages, one that comes with a warning, urging the men involved to break the cycle of hate before tragedy rolls around again…