emily’s Reviews > Once Upon Argentina > Status Update

‘On that abandoned shelf—stacked the merits—of grandmothers who thought that what they were doing was unimportant. I wonder what a memory recalls if it sees the sea before it can name it—I underlined a phrase that continues to intrigue me: ‘Here and there sounded the same’. I was leafing through—El Gráfico—Maradona, who had just been suspended for drug abuse. ‘God was a drug addict,’ a Neapolitan neighbour lamented.’

‘And I thought that, beyond whatever the truth—this lack of questions pointed not so much to the uncertain destiny of one person as to the sordidness of collective silences. Is there any more tragic loyalty than that of eternal promises? People who appear and disappear from the story, including some we only meet for an instant. I’ll never forget your face—José Luis Martínez. There was also Cacho, I still owe you—’

‘He strained muscles to make himself understood. She, protecting herself with smiles, did her best to translate him. The last thing I saw you do was plant a tree—symbolically—a willow. We all need a grandfather—so I insist on writing to you. I scarcely knew you—I remember you well. Increasingly, as time goes by. I recall the future—Having origins in two places can duplicate time. It was a time of brutal discoveries—’

‘He didn’t know whether to direct his gaze toward the beguiling north—or much further east. It was no coincidence that whenever he pointed at the horizon his destiny split in two—a large scar ran down his forefinger from nail to knuckle—a result of slicing it as a young boy on a piece of farm equipment. Ports & mailboxes—the entire history of migrations is encapsulated there. Writing and reading is a form of action.’

‘A ball. Orange, frayed. Beauty always gets a kicking—our opponents are very similar to us. Identification with a different team than the family; the gulf between the language of successive generations; & the transfer to another country where nobody says ‘klutz’. I don’t know why I became a Boca fan—The post-Maradona depression. Even so, I have no regrets about growing up with Boca—Sunday after Sunday—1986, Borges—’

‘A light, burdensome legacy—the letter of her life. I once suggested she write down her memories—I soon forgot my suggestion, but she didn’t—The handwriting—a trace of another era. The sentences are full of whispered truths. My—grandmother—Argentine colloquialism w/ her outsider’s roots—referred to azúcar as asucre. What she missed most—violets, impossible to compare—Time shifted,—Maradona—Obelisco—euphoria swirled—’

‘I have a letter—an unresolved memory—memory is mine, although it doesn’t belong only to me. Its—is the same as always—to disappear before being told. I’m going to travel backward. It’s possible that, somewhere in the world, some distant relative still knows—I prefer to accept the version I heard as a child—the one that tells of a timely betrayal and sly cowardice. Not just far away but in another world—Buenos Aires’