{"product_id":"perla-isbn-9780307744173","title":"Perla","description":"From the author of the international bestseller, \u003ci\u003eThe Invisible Mountain,\u003c\/i\u003e comes \u003ci\u003ePerla\u003c\/i\u003e, a coming-of-age story based on one of the darkest chapters in Argentinean history. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Growing up as a privileged only child in Buenos Aires, Perla Correa learned early on not to discuss the profession of her naval officer father in a country still reeling from the abuses of a deposed military dictatorship. But when an uninvited visitor appears in Perla’s home, this encounter sets her on a journey that will force her to confront the unease she has suppressed all her life—and to make a wrenching decision about who she is, and who she will become.\u003cp\u003e“Beautiful. . . . Wrenching. . . . De Robertis is an extraordinarily courageous writer who only gets better with every book.” \u003cbr\u003e—Junot Díaz\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mesmerizing. . . . A moving, poetic novel about the costs of revolution and the evolutionary process that is identity.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eO, The Oprah Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Haunting . . . a sensitive exploration of love, loyalty, and hope in the wake of atrocity.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “De Robertis brings the best of two cultures to bear in her work, melding the Latin literary tradition of magical realism with a thoroughly modern, politically charged North American sensibility. . . . [Her] extraordinary gift makes this brave, important book an object of beauty.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eChicago Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “De Robertis holds the reader’s attention with her entrancingly rhythmic and pulsating prose. . . . [Her] voice is distinctive and her novel vivid and memorable.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A gripping journey that’s as heart-wrenching as it is healing; a reminder that the Disappeared must not be forgotten. . . . Both the story and prose flow like a glistening Rio de la Plata. . . . De Robertis’ writing . . . from beginning to end hypnotizes with poetic, crushing beauty.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eMinneapolis Star Tribune\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Impressive. . . . Bold. . . . In an artful blend of beauty and horror, De Robertis has made the disappeared visible once again. With that, she has done them—and us—a great service.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “This ambitious narrative . . . is propulsive and emotionally gripping. . . . Culminating in a wrenching catharsis about rebirth and healing.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “[\u003ci\u003ePerla\u003c\/i\u003e] is a literary descendant of Toni Morrison’s \u003ci\u003eBeloved\u003c\/i\u003e, but very much its own achingly original, hauntingly lyrical outing.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eEast Bay Express\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Enthralling.” \u003cbr\u003e—New York\u003ci\u003e Daily News\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It’s no exaggeration to say I’ve rarely read a more poetic novel than Carolina De Robertis’ \u003ci\u003ePerla\u003c\/i\u003e. What makes it doubly impressive is the subject matter that this author takes on. . . . De Robertis is a new voice for Latin America, following in the footsteps of Isabel Allende, and dare I say it, Gabriel Garcia Marquez.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eWashington Independent Book Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “De Robertis skillfully weaves a lyrical voice around her characters that treats victims, perpetrators, and bystanders with the same care and honesty. The result is a powerfully humanizing effort that examines a nation struggling with a very dark, recent past.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Lyrically combining into reality both the fantastic and the horrific, De Robertis weaves a beautiful and plain-faced tale about birth, rebirth, and the responsibility of inheritance from complex, startling history.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “An elegantly written and affecting meditation on life in the wake of atrocity.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eCARO DE ROBERTIS is the author of five novels, including \u003ci\u003eCantoras,\u003c\/i\u003e winner of a Stonewall Book Award and a Reading Women Award, and a finalist for the Kirkus Prize and a Lambda Literary Award; it was also selected as a \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Editors’ Choice. Their work has been translated into seventeen languages and they have received a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship, Italy’s Rhegium Julii Prize, and numerous other honors. An author of Uruguayan origins, De Robertis teaches at San Francisco State University, and lives in Oakland, California, with their wife and two children.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecaroderobertis.com\u003ci\u003eExcerpted from the Hardcover Edition\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArrival Some things are impossible  for the mind to hold alone. So listen, if you can, with your whole  being. The story pushes and demands to be told, here, now, with you so  close and the past even closer, breathing at the napes of our necks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe  arrived on the second of March, 2001, a few minutes after midnight. I  was alone. I heard a low sound from the living room, a kind of scrape,  like fingernails on unyielding floor—­then silence. At first I couldn’t  move; I wondered whether I had left a window open, but no, I had not. I  picked up the knife from the counter, still flecked with squash, and  walked slowly down the hall toward the living room with the knife  leading the way, thinking that if it came to fighting I’d be ready, I’d  stab down to the hilt. I turned the corner and there he lay, curled up  on his side, drenching the rug.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was naked. Seaweed stuck to  his wet skin, which was the color of ashes. He smelled like fish and  copper and rotting apples. Nothing had moved: the sliding glass door to  the backyard was closed and intact, the curtains were unruffled, and  there was no damp trail where he might have walked or crawled. I could  not feel my limbs, I was all wire and heat, the room crackled with  danger.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Get out,” I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe didn’t move.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Get the hell out,” I said, louder this time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe  lifted his head with tremendous effort and opened his eyes. They were  wide eyes that seemed to have no bottom. They stared at me, the eyes of a  baby, the eyes of a boa. In that moment something  in my core came  apart like a ship losing its mooring, anchor dismantled, the terror of  dark waters on all sides, and I found that I could not turn away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI raised the knife and pointed it at him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe  man shuddered and his head collapsed against the floor. My instinct was  to rush to his side, help him up, offer him a hot drink or an  ambulance. But was he pretending, hoping I’d come closer so he could  overpower me? Don’t do it. Don’t go near him. I took a step backward and  waited. The man had given up on lifting his head again, and was  watching me from the corners of his eyes. A minute passed. He did not  blink or lunge or look away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFinally, I said, “What do you want?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis  jaws began to work, slowly, arduously. The mouth opened and water  poured out, thick and brown like the water of the river, seeping into  the rug. The murky smell in the room intensified. I took another step  back and pressed against the wall. It felt cool and hard and I wished it  would whisper Sshhh, don’t worry, some things are solid still, but it  was only a wall and had nothing to say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis lips worked around  empty air. I waited and watched him strain to form a word. Finally he  spoke, unintelligibly and too loudly, like a deaf person who has not  learned to sculpt his sounds. “Co-­iii-­aahh.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI shook my head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe made the sound again, more slowly. “Coo. Iiiii. Aaaahh.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI tried to piece it together. “Coya?” I asked, thinking, a name? a place I’ve never heard of?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Coo. Miiiii. Aaah.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI nodded blankly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Coo. Miiiii. Dah.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd then I understood. “Co-­mi-­da. Food. Food?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe  nodded. Drops of water fell from his face, too copious to be sweat;  they seeped from his pores, a human sponge just lifted from the  river—­though even sponges would stop dripping at some point, and this  man’s wetness had not relented. Without turning my gaze away from him, I  pressed the knife against my arm, to see whether I was dreaming. The  blade broke skin and drew blood and I felt the pain but did not wake out  of this reality into another one. If my father had been here he surely  would not have seen this ghoulish man, or if he had, he would have  stabbed him already, without a word, then poured a glass of scotch and  watched Mamá clean up the carpet. I met the stranger’s gaze and felt my  heart pulse like a siren in my chest. I should attack him, I thought. I  should chase him out. But I couldn’t bring myself to do either. Later, I  would look back on this moment as the one when my real life began: the  moment in which, without knowing why, to my own shock and against all  reason, I lowered my weapon and went to forage for food.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe  kitchen was just as I’d left it, only the pot had boiled over on the  stove, water hissing as it leaped out onto the burner. I had been  cooking squash for Lolo, the turtle, who stood by the refrigerator, neck  craned from his shell, unperturbed. My cigarette had gone out on the  counter. I was shocked to see it, as it did not feel like the same night  on which, just a few minutes earlier, I had stood there smoking and  chopping squash, thinking to myself, as though repetition would make me  believe it, it’s good to be alone, the house to myself, and isn’t it  wonderful, I can do anything I want, eat toast for dinner, whirl naked  in the kitchen if I choose, leave dirty dishes on the sofa, sit with my  legs spread wide, cry without explaining myself to anyone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI  turned off the fire under the pot of squash, and began to rummage  through the refrigerator. Mamá had left the house well stocked. I  gathered an array of foods on a tray: Gouda, bread, last night’s roast  chicken and potatoes, white wine, a glass of water, a few bonbons in a  gold box—­and headed back down the hall. I still had the knife with me,  nestled between the dishes. My parents protested, from nowhere, from the  air at my back, and I had no answer for them. I felt the heavy cape of  their disapproval, their dismay at my breach of common sense. Perla,  what are you doing? I imagined them calling as I kept on down the hall  and into the living room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe had not strayed from his position,  folded into himself like a fetus. He did not shiver. The burgundy rug  was almost black with water. He was motionless except for one bare foot  that tapped silently against the floor. He stared at the wall and his  eyes did not blink. In the morning I would wake up and he would be gone  and the carpet would be dry, dry, because none of this ever happened.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI  put the tray down on the floor beside him. He stared as if it held  objects from a strange and sunken kingdom. He made no move to rise and  eat, and, I realized, he probably couldn’t, since he’d barely had the  strength to move his mouth. He was as vulnerable as a dazed infant, and  might be waiting for me to feed him, bite by bite. The notion repulsed  me—­my hand at his mouth, his damp skin brushing against mine—­and so I  waited. He made a sound, unformed and plaintive, all vowel and longing.  Another minute passed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFinally, I asked, “Would you like some chicken?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe shook his head, almost imperceptibly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Cheese?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe shook again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Chocolate?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAgain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Water?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe nodded, and his eyes widened. Pleading.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere  was no avoiding it. He could not serve himself. I lifted the glass from  the tray, toward his lips, and he raised his head a few centimeters  from the floor. Now that I was closer, I saw a bluish tinge to his lips,  and a sheen of moisture on his face. I tipped the glass, carefully, and  he chewed as though he were eating the water, as though it were as  solid as bread. I was careful not to touch him with my fingers, although  even then my repulsion warred with a prick of curiosity: what on earth  would his skin feel like?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe finished eating and sank his head back to the floor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Who are you?” I said, but he had closed his eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI  didn’t know what to do with myself, so I sat on the floor for a while,  next to the stranger. I thought of trying to move him somewhere, to the  backyard, to the street. But he seemed too heavy, it would be worse if  the motion woke him up, and in any case what if the neighbors saw?  Easier to just do nothing, go to bed and in the morning he’d be gone the  way he came. Not a rational solution, but one to get me through the  night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI felt so tired. It had been ten days since my fight with  Gabriel, since I’d left him on that Uruguayan beach with empty hands and  emptier eyes and no promise of ever seeing him again. Since then,  unpalatable visions had not let me sleep. But in the morning I would  always rise and polish the surface of myself, a gleaming, confident  young woman, an excellent student and good daughter starting her fourth  year at the university, moving smoothly through the world, and even  though inside the chaos scraped and railed I would push it into the  crevices of the day so it could not be detected.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe only person  who could be counted on to see through my masks was Gabriel. When we  first met, four years ago, I thought it was because he was seven years  older, and therefore more sophisticated. But surely there were  twenty-­five-­year-­old men who were barely men and didn’t know how to  see the black hole in a poised eighteen-­year-­old girl. I had managed  to deceive professors, friends, my parents and their friends, everyone  except Gabriel. Early on, when I said I had to go study for a psychology  exam, he had said, All that Freud, and yet you can’t see your own  demons. Then he kissed me, laughing, which enraged me. My own desire to  kiss back enraged me more. Don’t talk to me about demons, I said, until  you’ve wrestled down your own. He looked at me as if I’d just spoken the  secret of seduction. I did no studying that night; not of Freud—­only  of the slopes of his body, the urge in his hands, his mouth against my  skin, his sex hard against me through his jeans. That was our first year  together, the least complicated of our years, when I was simply Perla  and not the people I was linked to, before we talked about his work or  my family let alone the explosive combination of the two, before our  images of each other started cracking, fault lines spreading, as happens  to mirrors hit by tiny stones. It was enough, then, to kiss and laugh  and argue, to smoke and drink and undulate against each other until the  heat we generated hauled the sun out of its sleep.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI thought of  this as I left the stranger on the floor and went back to the kitchen,  where I put the boiled squash in a bowl on the floor for Lolo, who was  hiding somewhere but would surely come in the night, when the house was  asleep. I walked up the stairs toward bed, feeling both exhausted and  viscerally awake. I longed to turn back time and reenter those early  nights with Gabriel, reenter Gabriel himself, the scent of him, his  vigorous voice, the gaze that made me feel transparent. Wrapped in his  presence I would look for the woman I had been with him, or believed  that I could be. And who is that woman, Perla? A braver woman, a woman  from underground, carrying secrets like subdued snakes in both hands.  Inklings of that woman had flared at me during nights with Gabriel; I  could imagine burning through my own reality to become the snake-­woman,  hair on fire, ready to rise. But these were only absurd imaginings, and  anyway ten days ago I’d shut that door, and shut the door on Gabriel.  He was gone from me now and it was my own doing. I had to do it, there  was no other choice, I thought, night after night, running the words  through my mind, no other choice, no other choice, an incantation whose  power grew with repetition. I had thought he might call me, but he did  not. He had been angrier than I’d thought. If he doesn’t call in seven  days, I thought, it’s absolutely over—­and when seven days had passed  with no Gabriel I thought my heart would come apart but instead of  shedding a single tear I went to a bar near the university, found a shy  classmate called Osvaldo, and let him take me home. It was shockingly  easy, all it took was a split second longer gaze than usual and five  minutes later he’d bought me a drink, thirty minutes later we left the  bar for the raucous night. On the walk to his apartment he acted like a  miner who had stumbled on a vein of gold. He was a kind person, but when  he reached into my body he found my body only. He never sensed the  inner shape of me that even I could barely face but that Gabriel had  always seemed to reach for, to touch, to want to understand. There was  pleasure in the way Osvaldo touched me, the way he wrapped my legs  around his neck like rope, the way his sex quickened its pace from sheer  enthusiasm, but the pleasure seemed to belong to someone else, a girl  who had taken my body for the night and whom I scarcely recognized.  Afterward, I lay naked beneath him in the dim light and thought, now,  Perla, you’ve got what you want, freedom from exposure, a self so well  hidden it cannot be found. I should have felt relief or at least some  scrap of triumph, but I only felt terribly alone.A Novel","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300810445029,"sku":"NP9780307744173","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307744173.jpg?v=1767734671","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/perla-isbn-9780307744173","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}