Plaza Requiem: Stories at the Edge of Ordinary Lives

By Martha Bátiz

Mexican-Canadian Martha Btiz has crafted, in her first collection written in English, visceral stories with piercing and evocative qualities. She has filled her recognizable, sisterly/motherly, and imaginative characters with qualities we all hold close to our hearts, but this is powerfully juxtaposed by the uncertainty that lurks at the edges of ordinary lives. Most often they are women, trapped in violent relationships, facing dangerous political situations, or learning to live with the pain of betrayal. Yet Btiz's stories shimmer with the emotional surge of vindication, evoking the rewards women attain after a powerful exploration of their darkest moments. As an emerging writer, Btiz crafts her stories with qualities reminiscent of Joyce Carol Oates, Shirley Jackson, and Cuban author Leonardo Padura: with precision, haunting vision, and the will to survive all odds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Exile Editions
• Release date: Nov 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781550966831

Martha Bátiz

MARTHA BÁTIZ is an award-winning writer, translator, and professor of creative writing and Spanish language and literature. She is the author of five books, including the story collections No Stars in the Sky and Plaza Requiem (winner of an International Latino Book Award), as well as the novella Boca de lobo / Damiana's Reprieve (winner of the Casa de Teatro Prize). Born and raised in Mexico City, she now lives in Toronto. A Daughter’s Place is her first novel.

Book preview

Acknowledgements

Paternity, revisited

For Eduardo Pavlovsky

White and blue flag, blue and white sky. It’s a sunny, crisp, spring morning that smells of cut grass and newborn flowers. Sunday. The surface of the river sparkles like satin with sequin embroidery. The Río de la Plata is bigger than she remembers; it’s dark, and endless, like the sorrow it was forced to keep secret years ago. The park has not changed and, apparently, neither have his habits because he’s right there, where she was expecting to find him. Where they used to sit every Sunday morning to watch boats drift down the river, eating medias lunas and sipping mate.

She fights the urge to turn back and run away. Her body has always been wiser than herself. It has made her vomit or has blinded her with headaches when she’s needed to escape from certain moments. An ingrown toenail, she once read, means that you’re not ready to move on with your life. She’s always paid attention to the aches and pains in her feet. As if to punish them for knowing her better than she knows herself, she’d spent most of the previous evening trimming around her toenails until they bled – cutting a bit of skin here, a piece of nail there, digging deep into the flesh. Now the bandages are bulky under her wellcita asangreworn running shoes; walking is painful, and she’s forced to let her weight fall on her heels. Everyone must be thinking she walks funny, like a duck. What would they say if they knew why she’s here? That small boy riding a bike with his father running close behind him; the woman pushing a stroller; those young people jogging…

The man is sitting on their bench, his back turned against her. She can still leave, but why bother coming all this way only to give up at the most crucial moment? She takes a deep breath and small, careful steps toward the allcita asangretoocita asangrefamiliar bench. Stopping a couple of feet behind him, she examines his thick, silver hair. It used to be dark brown, and she remembers it being soft. But not as soft as hers used to be. What if she swung her weighted bag now, like a mace, crushing his skull? One swift, precise movement, an impulse stemming from the depth of her fury. Her purse is heavy on her right shoulder so she switches it to the left, and looks around. Is anyone watching? Just then, the wind blows her way and the smell of his cologne hits her. She’s eight again, longing for his embrace – and she freezes. How can her body be such a traitor? And then, as if this were a conspiracy, her shadow betrays her, too, and he turns around. When their eyes meet, he lets out a faint cry.

Adriana!

Taken by surprise, she adjusts the baseball cap she is wearing, which she had hoped would make it harder to be recognized. She looks right and left, wondering if running away is still an option, but his eyes are on her. She stays put.

I knew you’d be here, she whispers.

Once he realizes it’s truly her he stands up, arms wide open. She stalls. The air is fresh and clean and yet she finds it hard to breathe. He points to the bench.

Want to sit down? he asks, tears rolling down his withered cheeks.

She opens up her purse and pulls out a tissue packet. After handing it to him, she takes a seat, placing her purse as a barrier between them.

You know my name is Paula.

He gives her a look like the one she once saw in a dog that had just been run over in the middle of a busy intersection. A dog she didn’t stop to help because she was running late for an appointment that was important for her at the time. She has often felt guilty about leaving the dog there, alone. It has been years, yet Paula feels ashamed whenever she remembers. A dog she could have helped but didn’t. That vivid image of a dog staggering about to collapse still gives her sleepless nights. Wondering if he, this man sitting on the bench beside her, has ever felt the same way. How such feelings play out when you’re talking about human beings and not dogs. Does death by indifference – death by inaction – have a name, other than murder?

Paula, yes, he says after a long silence. He can’t stop staring at her while fidgeting with the tissues, turning one after another into a small ball between his hands. You’ve not changed at all.

Oh, yes, I’ve changed. You’ve no idea how I’ve changed. But instead of saying so, Paula smiles at him without showing her teeth.

Have you changed? she replies.

I never stopped looking for you, Adr… Paula. We never stopped looking for you, waiting. Hoping you’d call.

It’s obvious to her that he hasn’t changed. He has aged, of course, but remains good at dodging topics he doesn’t want to touch. She wants to say she was never his to wait for, but a hummingbird sipping nectar from a beautiful orange flower distracts her. How many times has she heard people say that they wished they could fly away and leave everything behind. But one thing life has taught her is that you can never really leave. That wherever it is you fly to, you always drag your misery along. Human beings are made up of 70 per cent water and 30 per cent of their past; what is done to them is indelible. This, Paula knows for sure.

I was very far away. I couldn’t—

He doesn’t let her finish her sentence.

I understand, baby girl. No need to explain. What matters is you’re here now! You have no idea how much I missed those blue eyes of yours.

He used to say her eyes matched the flag, and that she should be immensely proud of forever carrying her homeland within her. When she grew up, however, Paula couldn’t bear to look at herself in the mirror, so she wore tinted contacts. She said they were a fashion statement and liked them because they matched her mood, her fate – and the horror of believing that her eyes embodied everything she had lost, or grown to hate.

How’s Ana María? she asks, proving she can also dodge a subject that makes her feel uncomfortable. He frowns, and looks down at his shoes. They’re clean and shiny, as usual. His Sunday shoes. He has probably been to Mass early that morning. She hasn’t been to church, not since leaving the country. Another abyss she has to thank him for.

Instead of answering her question about Ana María, the man lifts his hand and tries to hold hers. Paula leaps up from the bench, as if stung.

I’m sorry! I’m sorry! he apologizes, looking mortified, gesturing clumsily.

Don’t touch me! she hisses, her voice rising. A man walking his dog stops to look at her. The dog decides that it is a good place to defecate, and it does. The man walks away without cleaning up after his pet. She had spent the previous day walking around the city, stepping over dog turds left on the sidewalks, crossing paths with dog walkers who, like those in New York or Toronto, were holding multiple leashes. Here they were incapable of stooping to clean up, utterly oblivious to what they were doing to their own hometown. A perfect reflection of what this country is about. Too bad no one else has realized that the greatness of a nation can also be measured by how many of its people are actually willing to clean up their own shit.

Please sit down again, baby girl. I’m sorry.

She takes a deep breath…and a seat on the bench once more, only this time a few inches farther away from him. He puts a tissue ball inside his pocket, and places the tissue packet close to her purse.

Ana María died, he says, biting his lower lip. Paula takes in his words slowly; they hurt like stab wounds. She has been hoping to see Ana María. Hear her voice, smell her perfume. Anaïs Anaïs, all the rage while she was growing up. A few years ago, she found a small bottle of it at a discount store and bought it. She dabbed a little of it on her pillow and cried. Helpless; alone.

How did she die? she gathers the courage to ask.

He looks down at his shoes again as if that’s the place where the right words to say can be found, lifts his gaze and fixes it on the river. A small boat is passing by. They hear laughter.

You don’t need to know. It doesn’t matter.

Yes, it does! she replies, firmly. I want to know.

He shakes his head, No.

Tell me! I have a right to know!

He pauses for a few seconds.

She killed herself.

Paula puts her fist to her mouth and bites on her first knuckle. It’s what she does when she doesn’t want to scream. She can’t say a single word. He seems to understand. He’d always known what she wanted to say before she said it.

She just never got used to it, he says, mattercita asangreofcita asangrefactly.

Used to what?

To life without you.

Paula buries her face between her knees, hugs her legs tight, and cries. Loud, intermittent sobs, her shoulders shaking.

After a few minutes she lifts her head, wipes her face with her Tcita asangreshirt, and when he offers her a tissue, slaps his hand as hard as she can, surprising herself. His hands used to seem big and strong. Now they’re bony and blotchy with age spots. He pulls back, afraid of her.

How dare you blame me?

I don’t blame you. I’m just telling you the truth, he replies, rubbing his hand where she hit him. She couldn’t live without you. No: she didn’t want to live without you. I did what I could to help her, but it was useless. We just missed you so much!

She gets to her feet and walks away, toward the river. The water is calm and deep, brownish. Nature’s perfect hiding spot. No wonder they used it to dump bodies. A colossal oxymoron, this strange beast in front of her: its water a peculiar womb that both embraces the dead while nourishing the hopes of the living. At least, those who still have hope and can feel proud.

I wish you’d let me explain things to you, he says, getting up as well and approaching her at a safe distance. The park has been slowly filling with people, families out to have fun, playing. The way the man and Paula used to do in another life, once upon a time. And you shouldn’t leave your purse unattended back there on the bench. This is not Canada, you know? People steal a lot here.

So you knew where I was, she says turning to look at him.

Yes, he replies, blushing slightly.

"And you never came to look for me. Instead,