Invisible Mending: A Novel

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Is it possible to "mend" torn lives? What role does silence play in concealing our anguish? What mysterious paths lead two unknown people to come across each other? Why does the word "always" become so emblematic? These are only some of the questions that Invisible Mending tries to answer.Without being aware of it, although pushed by an ineffable drive that possesses them, Vera and Victor are faced with the challenge of what it really means to be alive, but to accept the dare, they must first come to terms with some key issues of their past. Their destinies become mysteriously intertwined, despite the rain, the lightning and the obstinate mediocrity of a stale environment. Their neighbours have long given up their reasons for living, having hidden themselves years ago behind the anonymity of meaningless existences. Nevertheless, Vera and Victor are keen to avoid this destiny, bravely defying their own phantoms - as well as the entire town. Will they succeed and recover their future? To find out, we must read this enigmatic novel, set in the exotic background of Esperanza Station.This is the first English edition of Zurcido Invisible, written by Guillermo Julio Montero, novelist as well as psychoanalyst, who was awarded the Honorary Prize of the International Literary Contest Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz. The novel was first published in Spanish in Mexico.

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One: The Violet House

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On Fridays at that time of day she doesn't give any more piano lessons, but the arpeggios keep ringing all over the house with the same choppy rhythm that the student wearing the blue T-shirt—the last one before the weekend—had rendered them, playing them over and over again. Even though they seem to correspond to a higher octave, they persistently convey their message. This has happened to her before. At such times, annoyed, she has tried to change them with different chords. Maybe for this reason she tidies the house: to get them out of her mind. Although she also puts her house in order because she knows she'll let him in.

She shakes off the dust from the two sofas in the dining room, bending almost onto her knees, and beating the cushions several times with the palm of her hands wide open, in order to recover the natural volume of the rough upholstery, designed with a mixture of discoloured red and yellow flowers. She adjusts the carpet runner, firmly pressing one of its edges with her right foot, then twisting it so that it stays parallel with the rows of the V-shaped parquet flooring.

 

Two: Now

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—As soon as you see the curve of the North river pipe, get ready, because the woodland of ombu trees will appear immediately on your left. There, about 300 metres more or less, is the entrance. On this side you'll find the road sign, but don't look for it: as soon as you see the woodland on your left, stop, turn and that's it. It's safer that way.

—The thing is that I…

—Don't tell me: you're going to the workshops, right? Why should you go to town if it's not because of the workshops! Because you must know that everybody is slowly leaving Esperanza Station—the serenity of his speech contrasts with his dirty blue overalls, mended here and there.

—The truth is I…Thank you—with half his head outside the car window, Victor tries to avoid initiating a conversation that will delay him.

—Yes, the sign on the opposite side of the road fell a long time ago. Those who come for the first time miss the turn. Nobody seems to care much because not even the military during all these years have put it back again, and you know that they are useful when it comes to things like that: freeways, bridges, dykes. But nobody cares. Nobody seems to care for Esperanza Station. many years ago many years ago

 

Three: Before

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Siesta. Two o'clock, two thirty, more or less. It must have been on a Saturday or Sunday, of course: summer. I was lying in bed in my room, without sleeping, turning over the pages of the photonovel which used to come as a supplement of the magazine For Her. I didn't understand the text of the balloons: at that time I could hardly read, I was only interested in the pictures. Fascinated, I imagined the passion and desire of the protagonist. I used to kiss the magazine with the same intensity that she kissed her cousin, who had arrived from the country, although she didn't know he was her cousin. To be honest, I would have to admit that I kissed the cousin trying to feel the same way as the protagonist, whose name I can't remember. After kissing the magazine I would watch the humidity left on the brown paper, staring at the mark my lips left, and wishing that it wouldn't disappear. Nevertheless, after a few seconds it would always inevitably evaporate. Summer Zeal was the name of the photonovel. I was never able to find out if the protagonist, in the end, discovered the truth. It was a two-year-old issue, and I only had some copies, with quite a few of them missing, but this one in particular seemed to emphasise passion the most. But strangely enough, I was never able to remember the name of the protagonist. I only remember the name of the photonovel, Summer Zeal, and I remember I associated the story with Felipe, the son of my piano teacher. Anyway, I always thought that the protagonist would find out the truth.

 

Four: Afterwards

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—Doña Mara?

—Doña Mora, how are you? I'm so glad you called because…

—Yes, I'm sure you're with the rheum. It's hard, I know, but it's the pain we have to put up with, apart from being widows, don't you think?

—It's true, Doña Mora, we all have our crosses to bear. Thank goodness our friendship comes above all else. But I'm so glad you called because I wanted to let you know…

—You too? Look, I've just been talking to Doña Mori and she told me…

—Don't tell me. I also found out, news spread like wildfire and Pura…do you remember her? She lives at the entrance of town…

—Of course. Doña Mori told me that Pura had called her to let her know that some pervert's been harassing the town since this morning. It's something terrible…

—Yes, but what you don't know is that he seems to be harassing the piano teacher. On top of the problem she had: one calamity after another. Do you remember her?

—Yes, although I'd rather not remember what the poor thing went through.

 

Five: Street Map

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