Iosi Havilio - Paradises

The loot, the jewels, are under a pile of files which Eloísa passes to me saying: Chuck these over there, tear them up, it has to look like junkies were here. For the first time she mentions them, the thieves, and then everything else, the destruction in Orfe’s room, the stripping of the bar, the wild behaviour, fits perfectly. Creating confusion, that’s what it’s all about. It’s part of a plan that was never revealed to me. For the false clues to be effective we would need to devastate the whole house, set fire to the barbecue area, the rooms, destroy the bunker, the cars in the garage, which would take us a whole day.

I obeyed and ripped to pieces what I assumed to be title deeds, contracts, wills. Eloísa embraced the trinket cases. We examined the jewels as if we knew what we were doing: rings, earrings, chokers. Many seemed to me like cheap bijouterie, fancy dress. With others, however, there was no doubt: a pearl necklace, a teardrop-shaped emerald charm, a star of David adorned with diamonds. Eloísa bagged it all in a crocodile-skin handbag. Weren’t we going to take one or two? And what about the ones to plant in Orfe’s room to incriminate her? Nothing, no answer, there’s no place for discussion and I’m exhausted.

Finally outside, when the gates have closed and I’m hurrying on, wanting to leave the nightmare of the last few hours behind, Eloísa stops short, turns round and retraces her steps. I pay her no attention, I keep walking until my curiosity betrays me and I turn round to watch her. She crosses the small plaza that splits the avenue in two and looks for I don’t know what among the bare flower beds. She returns to the front of the house armed with munitions I can’t identify because of the night and the distance. She positions herself, measures the angle and throws a stone, a piece of rubble or tile, aiming at the camera on top of the gate. She misses. Three more like that, and the fourth is the winner. She hits the bracket and the camera comes off its axis, lying on its back, filming the sky. Bolts and thunderclaps. Eloísa jogs up to me with the first raindrops, her gaze lost.

The heat means that as the water comes into contact with the pavement it transforms into a thick vapour, a rain of fire that is extinguished on the surface. The downpour is unleashed and we realise that neither of us has money for a taxi. We’re rich without a single peso. Not even coins. Eloísa says there’s sure to be something in Axel’s room. I tell her no. That if she goes back I won’t wait for her. She doesn’t insist. Several blocks on foot in the rain until a bus driver feels sorry for us and takes us home for free.

We are soaking wet when we arrive. I change in the bathroom, into tight shorts and a blouse stained with ketchup or something red. Eloísa strips off in the middle of the room, she puts on her studded T-shirt and some jogging bottoms, which she rolls up several times so as not to step on them. I’m dead, she says and throws herself down on the bed squeezing the handbag full of jewels to her stomach. She curls up next to the wall below Herbert and Simón, who are sleeping with their arms around one another. I feel equally wiped out but I’m terrified to close my eyes and be trapped in the circles of insomnia. In order to relax, I start tracing what’s left of the snake. Its head is never-ending.

The rain seems to have stopped now. A strong wind has got up and the branches of the paradise tree beat against the window like whiplashes. Tzas, tzas, tzas. I find it hard to believe a new life is about to begin.

Born in Buenos Aires in 1974, Iosi Haviliois creating waves in and beyond Argentina. His work has been praised by top Argentine writers and critics including Rodolfo Fogwill and Beatriz Sarlo. Havilio’s first novel, Open Door , has been translated into English and Italian. His second novel is Estocolmo (Stockholm) and his third is Paradises . All three are now published in both Argentina and Spain. Drawing comparisons with writers as diverse as Camus and Houellebecq, critics agree only that Havilio has one of the most unique voices in literature today.

Beth Fowlerwas born in Inverness in 1980 and currently lives near Glasgow. She has spent time in Chile as an English teacher and is now a full-time translator from Spanish and Portuguese. In 2010 she won the inaugural Harvill Secker Young Translators’ Prize. She is also the translator of Open Door .

Alex Clarkis a critic, journalist and broadcaster who lives in London. She writes for the Guardian , the Observer and the Times Literary Supplement and has judged many literary awards, including the 2008 Man Booker prize. She is also editor at large of Union Books.