Prayers for the Stolen by Jennifer Clement
Prayers for the Stolen by Jennifer Clement | 381.03 KB
Title: Prayers for the Stolen
Author: Jennifer Clement
Description:
The haunting novel of love and survival that inspired Mexico's official submission for International Feature Film—now shortlisted for the 94th Academy Awards® and streaming on Netflix
" Prayers for the Stolen gives us words for what we haven't had words for before, like something translated from a dream in a secret language. . . . Beguiling, and even crazily enchanting."—Francisco Goldman, New York Times Book Review
FINALIST FOR THE PEN/FAULKNER PRIZE • AN IRISH TIMES BOOK OF THE YEAR
Ladydi Garcia Martínez is fierce, funny, and smart. She was born into a world where being a girl is a dangerous thing. In the mountains of Guerrero, Mexico, women must fend for themselves, as their men have left to seek opportunities elsewhere. Here in the shadow of the drug war, bodies turn up on the outskirts of the village to be taken back to the earth by scorpions and snakes. School is held sporadically, when a volunteer can be coerced away from the big city for a semester. In Guerrero the drug lords are kings, and mothers disguise their daughters as sons, or when that fails they "make them ugly"—cropping their hair, blackening their teeth, anything to protect them from the rapacious grasp of the cartels. And when the black SUVs roll through town, Ladydi and her friends burrow into holes in their backyards like animals, tucked safely out of sight.
While her mother waits in vain for her husband's return, Ladydi and her friends dream of a future that holds more promise than mere survival, finding humor, solidarity, and fun in the face of so much tragedy. When Ladydi is offered work as a nanny for a wealthy family in Acapulco, she seizes the chance, and finds her first taste of love with a young caretaker there. But when a local murder tied to the cartel implicates a friend, Ladydi's future takes a dark turn. Despite the odds against her, this spirited heroine's resilience and resolve bring hope to otherwise heartbreaking conditions.
An illuminating and affecting portrait of women in rural Mexico, and a stunning exploration of the hidden consequences of an unjust war, Prayers for the Stolen is an unforgettable story of friendship, family, and determination.
Review
"[A] beautiful, heart-rending novel . . . fiercely observed . . . [Clement] achieves the formidable feat of smooth, clear English that pulses with an energy and sensibility that is convincingly Latin American. . . . A powerful read." — Wall Street Journal **
"What can I say about this novel? That it's extraordinary, electric, heartbreaking, profound? There aren't enough adjectives to describe how moved I was by the story of Ladydi and her friends, of their tragic lives and quiet fortitude in spite of a world that conspires against them. Maybe it's enough just to say this: Prayers for the Stolen is the best book I've read in years." —Cristina Henríquez, author of** The World in Half
"The author builds a powerful narrative whose images re-create an alarming reality that not everyone has dared to address but that everyone has definitely heard." — El Paso Times **
"Compelling . . . just beautiful." —Diane Rehm, NPR**
"With Ladydi, Jennifer Clement has created a feisty teenage heroine who is an unforgettable character." — Good Housekeeping
"The theme of Prayers for the Stolen is the wanton violence inflicted on women and the destruction of communities as a result of the drug trade in Mexico, but Clement's eye for the revealing detail, the simple poetry of her language, and the visceral authenticity of her characters turn that deadening reality into a compelling, tragically beautiful novel." —Yann Martel, author of Life of Pi
"Highly original . . . [Clement's] prose is poetic in the true sense: precise as a scalpel, lyrical without being indulgent." — The Guardian
"What a marvelous writer Clement is. . . . [With] power in a prose that is simple and simply beguiling." — The Scotsman
"Bold and innovative . . . The rich mixture of the outlandishly real and the hyperfabulistic has a certain superstitious power over the reader. Jennifer Clement employs poetry's ability to mirror thought. . . . Superbly drawn." — The Times Literary Supplement
"The most enchanting journey I've taken in a long, long time, and the most important. Prayers For The Stolen is a hand-guided tour through a ruthless true corner of our century, with characters so alive they will burrow into your heart. Stunningly written, magically detailed, you see, smell and taste the action on every page, feel every foible, and miss the candor of these funny, achingly human voices long after you put them down. As the heroine herself might say: not something to read but to lick off a plate." —DBC Pierre, Booker Prize–winning author of Vernon God Little
About the Author
Jennifer Clement is the author of multiple books, including Widow Basquiat and Gun Love. She was awarded the NEA Fellowship for Literature and the Sara Curry Humanitarian Award for Prayers for the Stolen. The president of PEN International, she currently lives in Mexico City.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
1
Now we make you ugly, my mother said. She whistled. Her mouth was so close she sprayed my neck with her whistle-spit. I could smell beer. In the mirror I watched her move the piece of charcoal across my face. It's a nasty life, she whispered.
It's my first memory. She held an old cracked mirror to my face. I must have been about five years old. The crack made my face look as if it had been broken into two pieces. The best thing you can be in Mexico is an ugly girl.
My name is Ladydi Garcia Martínez and I have brown skin, brown eyes, and brown frizzy hair, and look like everyone else I know. As a child my mother used to dress me up as a boy and call me Boy.
I told everyone a boy was born, she said.
If I were a girl then I would be stolen. All the drug traffickers had to do was hear that there was a pretty girl around and they'd sweep onto our lands in black Escalades and carry the girl off.
On television I watched girls getting pretty, combing their hair and braiding it with pink bows or wearing makeup, but this never happened in my house.
Maybe I need to knock out your teeth, my mother said.
As I grew older I rubbed a yellow or black marker over the white enamel so that my teeth looked rotten.
There is nothing more disgusting than a dirty mouth, Mother said.
It was Paula's mother who had the idea of digging the holes. She lived across from us and had her own small house and field of papaya trees.
My mother said that the state of Guerrero was turning into a rabbit warren with young girls hiding all over the place.
As soon as someone heard the sound of an SUV approaching, or saw a black dot in the distance or two or three black dots, all girls ran to the holes.
This was in the state of Guerrero. A hot land of rubber plants, snakes, iguanas, and scorpions, the blond, transparent scorpions, which were hard to see and that kill. Guerrero had more spiders than any place in the world we were sure, and ants. Red ants that made our arms swell up and look like a leg.
This is where we are proud to be the angriest and meanest people in the world, Mother said.
When I was born, my mother announced to her neighbors and people in the market that a boy had been born.
Thank God a boy was born! she said.
Yes, thank God and the Virgin Mary, everyone answered even though no one was fooled. On our mountain only boys were born, and some of them turned into girls around the age of eleven. Then these boys had to turn into ugly girls who sometimes had to hide in holes in the ground.
We were like rabbits that hid when there was a hungry stray dog in the field, a dog that cannot close his mouth, and its tongue already tastes their fur. A rabbit stomps its back leg and this danger warning travels through the ground and alerts the other rabbits in the warren. In our area a warning was impossible since we all lived scattered and too far apart from each other. We were always on the lookout, though, and tried to learn to hear things that were very far away. My mother would bend her head down, close her eyes and concentrate on listening for an engine or the disturbed sounds that birds and small animals made when a car approached.
No one had ever come back. Every girl who had been stolen never returned or even sent a letter, my mother said, not even a letter. Every girl, except for Paula. She came back one year after she'd been taken.
From her mother, over and over again, we heard how she had been stolen. Then one day Paula walked back home. She had seven earrings that climbed up the cupped edge of her left ear in a straight line of blue, yellow, and green studs and a tattoo that snaked around her wrist with the words Cannibal's Baby.
Paula just walked down the highway and up the dirt path to her house. She walked slowly, looking down, as if she were following a row of stones straight to her home.
No, my mother said. She was not following stones, that girl just smelled her way home to her mother.
Paula went into her room and lay down in her bed that was still covered with a few stuffed animals. Paula never spoke a word about what had happened to her. What we knew was that Paula's mother fed her from a bottle, gave her a milk bottle, actually sat her on her lap and gave her a baby bottle. Paula was fifteen then because I was fourteen. Her mother also bought her Gerber baby foods and fed her straight into her mouth with a small white plastic spoon from a coffee she bought at the OXXO shop at the gas station that was across the highway.
Did you see that? Did you see Paula's tattoo? my mother said.
Yes. Why?
You know what that means, right? She belongs. Jesus, Mary's son and Son of God, and the angels in heaven protect us all.
No, I didn't know what that meant. My mother did not want to say, but I found out later. I wondered how did someone get stolen from a small hut on a mountain by a drug trafficker, with a shaved head and a machine gun in one hand and a gray grenade in his back pocket, and end up being sold like a package of ground beef?
I watched out for Paula. I wanted to talk to her. She never left her house now but we had always been best friends, along with Maria and Estefani. I wanted to make her laugh and remember how we used to go to church on Sundays dressed up like boys and that my name had been Boy and her name had been Paulo. I wanted to remind her of the times we used to look at the soap opera magazines together because she loved to look at the pretty clothes the television stars wore. I also wanted to know what had happened.
What everyone did know was that she had always been the prettiest girl in these parts of Guerrero. People said Paula was even prettier than the girls from Acapulco, which was a big compliment, as anything that was glamorous or special had to come from Acapulco. So the word was out.
Paula's mother dressed her in dresses stuffed with rags to make her look fat but everyone knew that less than one hour from the port of Acapulco, there was a girl living on a small property with her mother and three chickens who was more beautiful than Jennifer Lopez. It was just a matter of time. Even though Paula's mother thought up the idea of hiding girls in holes in the ground, which we all did, she was not able to save her own daughter.
One year before Paula was stolen, there had been a warning.
It was early in the morning when it happened. Paula's mother, Concha, was feeding old tortillas to her three chickens when she heard the sound of an engine down the road. Paula was still in bed fast asleep. She was in bed with her face washed clean, her hair roped into a long black braid that, during the night sleep, had coiled around her neck.
Paula was wearing an old T-shirt. It hung down below her knees, was made of white cotton, and said the words Wonder Bread across the front in dark blue letters. She was also wearing a pair of pink panties, which my mother always said was worse than being naked!
Paula was deeply asleep when the narco barged into the house.
Concha said she'd been feeding the chickens, those three good-for-nothing chickens that had never laid an egg in all their lives, when she saw the tan-colored BMW coming up the narrow dirt path. For a second she thought it was a bull or some animal that had run away from the Acapulco zoo because she had not expected to see a light brown vehicle coming toward her.
When she'd thought of narcos coming, she always imagined the black SUVs with tinted windows, which were supposed to be illegal but everyone had them fixed so the cops could not look inside. Those black Cadillac Escalades with four doors and black windows filled with narcos and machine guns were like the Trojan Horse, or so my mother used to say.
How did my mother know about Troy? How did a Mexican woman living all alone with one daughter in the Guerrero countryside, less than an hour from Acapulco by car and four hours by mule, know anything about Troy? It was simple. The one and only thing my father ever bought her when he came back from the United States was a small satellite dish antenna. My mother was addicted to historical documentaries and to Oprah's talk shows. In my house there was an altar to Oprah beside the one she had for the Virgin of Guadalupe. My mother did not call her Oprah. That is a name she never figured out. My mother called her Opera. So it was Opera this and Opera that.
In addition to documentaries and Oprah, we must have watched The Sound of Music at least a hundred times. My mother was always on the lookout to see when the movie would be programmed on a movie channel.
Every time Concha would tell us what had happened to Paula, the story was different. So we never knew the truth.
The drug trafficker who went to the house before Paula was stolen, only went to get a good look at her. He went to see if the rumors were true. They were true.
It was different when Paula was stolen.
On our mountain, there were no men. It was like living where there were no trees.
It is like being a person with one arm, my mother said. No, no, no, she corrected herself. Being in a place without men is like being asleep without dreams.
DOWNLOAD:
https://rapidgator.net/file/b79676ca816e9e11fe4fbb0dcdcd32b0/Prayers_for_the_Stolen_by_Jennifer_Clement.
https://ddownload.com/gsl1x8rnqqwy/Prayers_for_the_Stolen_by_Jennifer_Clement.
The haunting novel of love and survival that inspired Mexico's official submission for International Feature Film—now shortlisted for the 94th Academy Awards® and streaming on Netflix
" Prayers for the Stolen gives us words for what we haven't had words for before, like something translated from a dream in a secret language. . . . Beguiling, and even crazily enchanting."—Francisco Goldman, New York Times Book Review
FINALIST FOR THE PEN/FAULKNER PRIZE • AN IRISH TIMES BOOK OF THE YEAR
Ladydi Garcia Martínez is fierce, funny, and smart. She was born into a world where being a girl is a dangerous thing. In the mountains of Guerrero, Mexico, women must fend for themselves, as their men have left to seek opportunities elsewhere. Here in the shadow of the drug war, bodies turn up on the outskirts of the village to be taken back to the earth by scorpions and snakes. School is held sporadically, when a volunteer can be coerced away from the big city for a semester. In Guerrero the drug lords are kings, and mothers disguise their daughters as sons, or when that fails they "make them ugly"—cropping their hair, blackening their teeth, anything to protect them from the rapacious grasp of the cartels. And when the black SUVs roll through town, Ladydi and her friends burrow into holes in their backyards like animals, tucked safely out of sight.
While her mother waits in vain for her husband's return, Ladydi and her friends dream of a future that holds more promise than mere survival, finding humor, solidarity, and fun in the face of so much tragedy. When Ladydi is offered work as a nanny for a wealthy family in Acapulco, she seizes the chance, and finds her first taste of love with a young caretaker there. But when a local murder tied to the cartel implicates a friend, Ladydi's future takes a dark turn. Despite the odds against her, this spirited heroine's resilience and resolve bring hope to otherwise heartbreaking conditions.
An illuminating and affecting portrait of women in rural Mexico, and a stunning exploration of the hidden consequences of an unjust war, Prayers for the Stolen is an unforgettable story of friendship, family, and determination.
Review
"[A] beautiful, heart-rending novel . . . fiercely observed . . . [Clement] achieves the formidable feat of smooth, clear English that pulses with an energy and sensibility that is convincingly Latin American. . . . A powerful read." — Wall Street Journal **
"What can I say about this novel? That it's extraordinary, electric, heartbreaking, profound? There aren't enough adjectives to describe how moved I was by the story of Ladydi and her friends, of their tragic lives and quiet fortitude in spite of a world that conspires against them. Maybe it's enough just to say this: Prayers for the Stolen is the best book I've read in years." —Cristina Henríquez, author of** The World in Half
"The author builds a powerful narrative whose images re-create an alarming reality that not everyone has dared to address but that everyone has definitely heard." — El Paso Times **
"Compelling . . . just beautiful." —Diane Rehm, NPR**
"With Ladydi, Jennifer Clement has created a feisty teenage heroine who is an unforgettable character." — Good Housekeeping
"The theme of Prayers for the Stolen is the wanton violence inflicted on women and the destruction of communities as a result of the drug trade in Mexico, but Clement's eye for the revealing detail, the simple poetry of her language, and the visceral authenticity of her characters turn that deadening reality into a compelling, tragically beautiful novel." —Yann Martel, author of Life of Pi
"Highly original . . . [Clement's] prose is poetic in the true sense: precise as a scalpel, lyrical without being indulgent." — The Guardian
"What a marvelous writer Clement is. . . . [With] power in a prose that is simple and simply beguiling." — The Scotsman
"Bold and innovative . . . The rich mixture of the outlandishly real and the hyperfabulistic has a certain superstitious power over the reader. Jennifer Clement employs poetry's ability to mirror thought. . . . Superbly drawn." — The Times Literary Supplement
"The most enchanting journey I've taken in a long, long time, and the most important. Prayers For The Stolen is a hand-guided tour through a ruthless true corner of our century, with characters so alive they will burrow into your heart. Stunningly written, magically detailed, you see, smell and taste the action on every page, feel every foible, and miss the candor of these funny, achingly human voices long after you put them down. As the heroine herself might say: not something to read but to lick off a plate." —DBC Pierre, Booker Prize–winning author of Vernon God Little
About the Author
Jennifer Clement is the author of multiple books, including Widow Basquiat and Gun Love. She was awarded the NEA Fellowship for Literature and the Sara Curry Humanitarian Award for Prayers for the Stolen. The president of PEN International, she currently lives in Mexico City.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
1
Now we make you ugly, my mother said. She whistled. Her mouth was so close she sprayed my neck with her whistle-spit. I could smell beer. In the mirror I watched her move the piece of charcoal across my face. It's a nasty life, she whispered.
It's my first memory. She held an old cracked mirror to my face. I must have been about five years old. The crack made my face look as if it had been broken into two pieces. The best thing you can be in Mexico is an ugly girl.
My name is Ladydi Garcia Martínez and I have brown skin, brown eyes, and brown frizzy hair, and look like everyone else I know. As a child my mother used to dress me up as a boy and call me Boy.
I told everyone a boy was born, she said.
If I were a girl then I would be stolen. All the drug traffickers had to do was hear that there was a pretty girl around and they'd sweep onto our lands in black Escalades and carry the girl off.
On television I watched girls getting pretty, combing their hair and braiding it with pink bows or wearing makeup, but this never happened in my house.
Maybe I need to knock out your teeth, my mother said.
As I grew older I rubbed a yellow or black marker over the white enamel so that my teeth looked rotten.
There is nothing more disgusting than a dirty mouth, Mother said.
It was Paula's mother who had the idea of digging the holes. She lived across from us and had her own small house and field of papaya trees.
My mother said that the state of Guerrero was turning into a rabbit warren with young girls hiding all over the place.
As soon as someone heard the sound of an SUV approaching, or saw a black dot in the distance or two or three black dots, all girls ran to the holes.
This was in the state of Guerrero. A hot land of rubber plants, snakes, iguanas, and scorpions, the blond, transparent scorpions, which were hard to see and that kill. Guerrero had more spiders than any place in the world we were sure, and ants. Red ants that made our arms swell up and look like a leg.
This is where we are proud to be the angriest and meanest people in the world, Mother said.
When I was born, my mother announced to her neighbors and people in the market that a boy had been born.
Thank God a boy was born! she said.
Yes, thank God and the Virgin Mary, everyone answered even though no one was fooled. On our mountain only boys were born, and some of them turned into girls around the age of eleven. Then these boys had to turn into ugly girls who sometimes had to hide in holes in the ground.
We were like rabbits that hid when there was a hungry stray dog in the field, a dog that cannot close his mouth, and its tongue already tastes their fur. A rabbit stomps its back leg and this danger warning travels through the ground and alerts the other rabbits in the warren. In our area a warning was impossible since we all lived scattered and too far apart from each other. We were always on the lookout, though, and tried to learn to hear things that were very far away. My mother would bend her head down, close her eyes and concentrate on listening for an engine or the disturbed sounds that birds and small animals made when a car approached.
No one had ever come back. Every girl who had been stolen never returned or even sent a letter, my mother said, not even a letter. Every girl, except for Paula. She came back one year after she'd been taken.
From her mother, over and over again, we heard how she had been stolen. Then one day Paula walked back home. She had seven earrings that climbed up the cupped edge of her left ear in a straight line of blue, yellow, and green studs and a tattoo that snaked around her wrist with the words Cannibal's Baby.
Paula just walked down the highway and up the dirt path to her house. She walked slowly, looking down, as if she were following a row of stones straight to her home.
No, my mother said. She was not following stones, that girl just smelled her way home to her mother.
Paula went into her room and lay down in her bed that was still covered with a few stuffed animals. Paula never spoke a word about what had happened to her. What we knew was that Paula's mother fed her from a bottle, gave her a milk bottle, actually sat her on her lap and gave her a baby bottle. Paula was fifteen then because I was fourteen. Her mother also bought her Gerber baby foods and fed her straight into her mouth with a small white plastic spoon from a coffee she bought at the OXXO shop at the gas station that was across the highway.
Did you see that? Did you see Paula's tattoo? my mother said.
Yes. Why?
You know what that means, right? She belongs. Jesus, Mary's son and Son of God, and the angels in heaven protect us all.
No, I didn't know what that meant. My mother did not want to say, but I found out later. I wondered how did someone get stolen from a small hut on a mountain by a drug trafficker, with a shaved head and a machine gun in one hand and a gray grenade in his back pocket, and end up being sold like a package of ground beef?
I watched out for Paula. I wanted to talk to her. She never left her house now but we had always been best friends, along with Maria and Estefani. I wanted to make her laugh and remember how we used to go to church on Sundays dressed up like boys and that my name had been Boy and her name had been Paulo. I wanted to remind her of the times we used to look at the soap opera magazines together because she loved to look at the pretty clothes the television stars wore. I also wanted to know what had happened.
What everyone did know was that she had always been the prettiest girl in these parts of Guerrero. People said Paula was even prettier than the girls from Acapulco, which was a big compliment, as anything that was glamorous or special had to come from Acapulco. So the word was out.
Paula's mother dressed her in dresses stuffed with rags to make her look fat but everyone knew that less than one hour from the port of Acapulco, there was a girl living on a small property with her mother and three chickens who was more beautiful than Jennifer Lopez. It was just a matter of time. Even though Paula's mother thought up the idea of hiding girls in holes in the ground, which we all did, she was not able to save her own daughter.
One year before Paula was stolen, there had been a warning.
It was early in the morning when it happened. Paula's mother, Concha, was feeding old tortillas to her three chickens when she heard the sound of an engine down the road. Paula was still in bed fast asleep. She was in bed with her face washed clean, her hair roped into a long black braid that, during the night sleep, had coiled around her neck.
Paula was wearing an old T-shirt. It hung down below her knees, was made of white cotton, and said the words Wonder Bread across the front in dark blue letters. She was also wearing a pair of pink panties, which my mother always said was worse than being naked!
Paula was deeply asleep when the narco barged into the house.
Concha said she'd been feeding the chickens, those three good-for-nothing chickens that had never laid an egg in all their lives, when she saw the tan-colored BMW coming up the narrow dirt path. For a second she thought it was a bull or some animal that had run away from the Acapulco zoo because she had not expected to see a light brown vehicle coming toward her.
When she'd thought of narcos coming, she always imagined the black SUVs with tinted windows, which were supposed to be illegal but everyone had them fixed so the cops could not look inside. Those black Cadillac Escalades with four doors and black windows filled with narcos and machine guns were like the Trojan Horse, or so my mother used to say.
How did my mother know about Troy? How did a Mexican woman living all alone with one daughter in the Guerrero countryside, less than an hour from Acapulco by car and four hours by mule, know anything about Troy? It was simple. The one and only thing my father ever bought her when he came back from the United States was a small satellite dish antenna. My mother was addicted to historical documentaries and to Oprah's talk shows. In my house there was an altar to Oprah beside the one she had for the Virgin of Guadalupe. My mother did not call her Oprah. That is a name she never figured out. My mother called her Opera. So it was Opera this and Opera that.
In addition to documentaries and Oprah, we must have watched The Sound of Music at least a hundred times. My mother was always on the lookout to see when the movie would be programmed on a movie channel.
Every time Concha would tell us what had happened to Paula, the story was different. So we never knew the truth.
The drug trafficker who went to the house before Paula was stolen, only went to get a good look at her. He went to see if the rumors were true. They were true.
It was different when Paula was stolen.
On our mountain, there were no men. It was like living where there were no trees.
It is like being a person with one arm, my mother said. No, no, no, she corrected herself. Being in a place without men is like being asleep without dreams.
DOWNLOAD:
https://rapidgator.net/file/b79676ca816e9e11fe4fbb0dcdcd32b0/Prayers_for_the_Stolen_by_Jennifer_Clement.
https://ddownload.com/gsl1x8rnqqwy/Prayers_for_the_Stolen_by_Jennifer_Clement.