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The Wind That Lays Waste is elegant and stark, a kind of emblem or vision fetched from the far edges of things. Almada burns off all the dross and gives us pure revelation, cryptic and true.
Paul Harding, author of TINKERS
The Wind That Lays Waste (...) The best novel written in Argentina in the last few years? Don’t know, and don’t care, but you must read Selva Almada.
Isaac Rosa, El País
The Wind That Lays Waste is a mesmerizing novel, at once strange and compelling. It has that wonderful quality you see in Alice Munro’s stories, where you think nothing is happening and then, suddenly, you realize that the earth is moving and has been moving for a while.
Bonnie Jo Campbell, author of MOTHERS, TELL YOUR DAUGHTERS
Almada’s prose has a touch of the Faulkner of As I Lay Dying but passed through the filters of the dirty light of the cotton fields and the clean clothes worn by country people to Sunday mass.
Germán Machado
Selva Almada moves about on a map of fiction: this is not urban literature, it is not literature about young people, nor about outsiders, nor about people who spend their time snorting coke. It is a literature of the provinces like that of Carson McCullers.
Beatriz Sarlo
What seems fantastical soon turns hyper-realistic, in a style that is reminiscent of Juan Rulfo or Sara Gallardo.
La Nación
In her realism of magical repercussions, Onetti and the Borges of ‘El Sur’ come together with the inflamed shadow of Horacio Quiroga, yet the quality and resolve of her prose produce a
power of suggestion that is unique to Selva Almada.
Francisco Solano, El País
Selva Almada
The Wind That Lays Waste
Translated by
Chris Andrews
The wind brings the thirst of all these years.
The wind brings every winter’s hunger.
The wind brings the clamour of the ravines, the clamour of
the fields and the desert.
The wind brings the cries of women and men fed up with
the crumbs from the bosses’ table.
The wind comes with the force of a new era.
The wind roars, and twisters go whirling over the earth.
We are the wind and the fire that will lay waste to the
world with the love of Christ.
The mechanic coughed and spat out a gob of phlegm.
‘My lungs are shot,’ he said, wiping his mouth with his hand and bending down again under the open hood.
The owner of the car mopped his brow with a handkerchief and bent down too so their heads were side by side. He adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles and contemplated the jumble of hot metal parts. Then he looked at the mechanic inquiringly.
‘Can you fix it?’
‘I reckon so.’
‘How long will it take?’
The mechanic straightened up – he was almost a foot taller – and looked at the sky. It was getting on for midday.
‘End of the afternoon, I reckon.’
‘We’ll have to wait here.’
‘If you like. It’s all pretty basic here, as you can see.’
‘We’d rather wait. Maybe you’ll be done early, with God’s help.’
The mechanic shrugged and took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He offered one to the car’s owner.
‘No, no, I quit years ago, thank God. If you don’t mind me saying so, you should too…’
‘The soda machine isn’t working, but there should be some cans in the fridge, if you’re thirsty.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Tell the young lady to get out of the car. She’s going to roast in there.’
‘What was your name?’
‘Brauer. El Gringo Brauer. And that’s Tapioca, my assistant.’
‘I’m Reverend Pearson.’
They shook hands.
‘I’ve got a few things to do before I can start work on your car.’
‘Go ahead, please. Don’t mind us. God bless you.’
The Reverend went around to the back of the car where his daughter, Leni, was sulking in the tiny space left by the boxes full of Bibles and the piles of magazines on the seats and the floor. He tapped on the window. Leni looked at him through the dusty glass. He tried the handle, but she had locked the door. He gestured to tell her to wind the window down. She lowered it an inch or two.
‘It’s going to take a while to fix. Get out, Leni. We’ll have a cool drink.’
‘I’m fine here.’
‘It’s very hot, sweetheart. You’re going to get heat stroke.’
Leni wound up the window again.
The Reverend opened the passenger door, reached in to unlock the back door, and pulled it open.
‘Elena, get out.’
He held onto the door until she obeyed. And as soon as she was out of the way, he slammed it shut.
The girl rearranged her skirt, which was sticky with sweat, and looked at the mechanic, who acknowledged her with a nod. A boy who must have been about her age, sixteen, was watching them, wide-eyed.
Her father introduced the older man as Mr Brauer. He was very tall, with a red moustache like a horseshoe that came down almost to his chin; he was wearing a pair of oily jeans and a shirt that was open, exposing his chest, but tucked in. He would have been over fifty, but there was something youthful about him; it must have been the moustache and the long hair, hanging down to his collar. The boy was wearing old jeans too, patched but clean, and a faded T-shirt and sandals. His straight, jet-black hair had been neatly cut, and he looked like he hadn’t started shaving. Both of them were thin, but they had the sinewy bodies of those accustomed to the use of brute force.
Fifty yards away stood the makeshift building that served as
