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272 pages, Kindle Edition
First published September 1, 2015
On the sixth day of the rains, a plague of mosquitoes arrives and the damnificados are struck by a mystery virus. Their eyeballs go blue and they begin to shake. Six hundred of them sweat and tremble and take to their beds, and Nacho cancels school and all other gatherings because of the fear of contagion.
“It’s borne on the wind,” says a windbag.
“There’s no hope,” says a no-hoper.
“We’re all doomed,” says a doom-monger.
A song finishes and a roar goes up. The singer says something in Arabic, pauses for a subdued cheer, then switches to Turkish. More cheers. She grins and raises her arms, lifts her head to the sky and closes her eyes like a child swallowing rain. Then she lets out an unworldly note—an ahhhh at top C, somewhere between a scream and the sustained plaint of an opera diva. The note resolves into a sequence, sliding down the arpeggio as the percussionists ram home the beat.
The tales they tell their children about the tower change according to the teller and the language. When the story is told in Italian it becomes florid, a tale of excess and color and light, and when it is told in Arabic it assumes a formal grace as if it is myth become real, and when told in Xhosa it becomes a poem sung by iimbongi. And the details change every time, the wolves becoming tigers or snakes, the Torres brothers assuming the shape of demons, horned and scaly.