spotlight: Nadie se salva
Re: Nadie se salva
A publisher travels to Buenos Aires to sign a contract with a writer known only as V. He is convinced that her debut novel is revolutionary, that it will reshape the landscape of science fiction and perhaps give birth to a new genre. He is, however, wholly unprepared for what awaits him.
In Nadie se salva, author Dylan Connell weaves a Murakami-esque tale that effortlessly blends magical realism and science fiction. We join the publisher in his pursuit of what he hopes will be a legacy-defining work through the alluring labyrinth of V’s Buenos Aires, encountering tango singers, cult leaders, and dreams that refuse to stay in their proper place. With each step, he sinks deeper into the mysteries at the center of V and her novel, ultimately facing a truth that may transform everything he thought he knew.
Excerpt from Nadie se salva
The harsh Argentine sun stood at its peak in the January sky. Cotton ball clouds dotted the distant horizon and gave texture to the blue canvas above. A book publisher and a translator walked down La Avenida de Eva Perón until they could cross over from the hot street into Parque Chacabuco. The publisher—a man from the company’s headquarters in New York—could still smell the airplane in the sweat that was soaking through his suit. Scattered throughout the park were groups of people resting in the shade of trees with trunks swollen like the bellies of drunken men and long, tangled branches. Looming over the park was a freeway overpass.
“Nothing in Buenos Aires exists without an autopista built over it,” the translator said.
“No city wants its citizens to relax too much.”
“Be careful not to share this sentiment when you meet V.”
“Why is that?”
“Hermano, how many times have you read her book now?”
“Let’s see, I started over again for the fourth time on my flight. I probably made it a little over halfway through.”
“It’s good, no?”
“I don’t fly eleven and a half hours for good.”
“Then I don’t need to tell you a thing. She’s not like you and me. She’s, how do you say…” the translator waved his hands in circles, searching for the right words. “She’s not cut from the same cloth. V is pure talent. Never has she worked. Not even one day of her life.”
“Even the talented need to toil, don’t you think?”
“In one sense. Practicing a craft is, of course, a kind of work. It is not the same as forcing oneself to commit to long unwanted hours at a task done for the sake of money alone.”
“When you put it like that, it’s hard to argue,” the publisher said.
The standard gate to cross under the freeway was closed for construction, so the two followed the detour arrows and walked along the fenced off area where some men worked and many more stood around immersed in conversation. A group of pigeons fought for space in a mud-brown puddle of water. Over the roar of honking horns and speakers blaring Cumbia music, the screams of children in a public pool could be heard.
At the alternate entrance to the passageway stood a dull gray pillar with the words NADIE SE SALVA written in crude, black spray paint.
“Vos entendés? You understand?” the Argentine asked, pointing at the graffiti.
“No, not really. Nobody knows their savior. Something like that?”
“Close, but it is se without an accent. So, reflexive.”
“Nobody themselves…they save…Ah! Nobody saves themselves?”
“Yes, perfect.”
“Bleak.”
“Very.”
“Nadie se salva,” the publisher repeated.