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Fiction

A Failed Journey

By Aura Estrada
Translated from Spanish by Mónica de la Torre
Dreading a trip to the U.S., a girl named Odette has been acting up in school. Meanwhile, the first McDonald's in Mexico has just opened, minutes from her house . . .

They warned her that one more offense against good behavior and the promised trip to the promised land (the United States) would be cancelled and to please return the mechanical pencil she’d filched from her classmate Agni’s backpack during recess, Agni who was sobbing inconsolably like a coward in the arms of fat “Miss Becky” in a corner of the classroom. The little brat, without any trace of shame or guilt, slowly pulled a Superman refillable mechanical pencil from under her flag-green sweater and extended her hand toward the Principal. Now you can leave, and she went out into the beige hallway. She was followed by a still teary-eyed Agni. This can’t go on like this, yesterday it was Ana María’s thermos, the day before yesterday graffiti on the wall, last week Marisol’s Wonder Woman ruler, and today, this. The Principal’s voice had been full of reproach, as if Odette’s failed thefts were her parents’ fault. Leaving the office, her parents held her hands and took her home without saying a word. They were looking at her as if they had a total stranger before them.

Once in the car the grilling began. Don’t you want to go to the United States with your sister? Her stepsister, so brilliant you were blinded by the sight of her, and so obedient that Odette wondered whether she was a living person or a robot. She’d decided that she must be a robot the day she’d broken her sister’s favorite Barbie’s luxury bed. She hadn’t cried (unlike Odette who’d locked herself in the bathroom and hadn’t stopped crying for hours)—she’d never been seen crying—she’d simply picked up the pieces of the bed, thrown them in the trash, and given Odette the nickname: Destroyer, you’ll never play with my toys again. And she’d kept her word. Odette reflected only a robot could be capable of such self-control. Those toys you’re stealing from your classmates, don’t you understand that you’ll be able to buy them in the United States? Odette’s distressed young mother regarded her with compassion but soon ran out of justifications and was alarmed by the sudden hooligan behavior of her seven-year-old. How could I have created this girl? her eyes seemed to say. And Odette didn’t know either. Ever since that January afternoon when they’d sat down to have a talk with “the girls” at the cracked dining room table in their narrow apartment, Odette had changed, except they didn’t know into what or whom. Ignoring her worried mother’s laments, Odette seemed to be studying the avenue, at the end of which glowed a disproportionate yellow M. Just a few weeks earlier Mexico City’s first McDonald’s had opened, and throngs of Mexican families had thrust themselves against the doors hours before their official opening. Lines spilled over into side-streets; parking lots ran out of spaces; in the playground in back of the red, yellow, and white restaurant children fought to be the first to climb up onto the slide that led to a pool of multi-colored plastic balls; at the “automac” cars brimmed with people sticking out their heads to order two Big Macs with cheese, four Happy Meals, six Coca-Colas, and six fries into the speaker while a human Ronald McDonald walked around in a red and white striped shirt and outrageously big blue pants handing out balloons. The car made a U-turn and the M was left behind, glowing by itself. Again they begged her. Tell us what you’re thinking, Odette.

The car stopped at the condo’s entrance gate. Odette and her mother waited for the car to take off again. Your father needs to get back to work. They walked in silence. Odette tried to reach for her mother’s thin, almost scrawny, hand. Before reaching the door, they spotted a dead bird on the scorched grass. It’s the pollution.

Today the same old story pause, a mechanical pencil pause, during recess pause, Odette doesn’t do anything. Unexpectedly, her mother closed the door. Odette couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation. She took her book and continued reading until her mother opened the door again. She listened to her walk toward the living room: she hadn’t taken off her heels yet. I have to get back to work, behave yourself, see you tonight. She thought maybe everyone was a robot. From her bed she could see the gray wooden house of her inert Barbies. Next to it shone the pink plastic star of the Little Twin Stars. She was overcome by a desire to touch it. But she couldn’t; it was her sister’s pink star. Her sister whose mother was in the United States and who now was forcing her to spend the entire summer in a faraway place. But there are so many toys over there and you’ll have a great time, you’ll go to a summer camp with other kids and you can go to an amusement park and eat a lot of hamburgers, she could hear her mother’s pleading voice in her head. But there are hamburgers here too.

She called her mother’s office to let her know that she’d be going out for a bike ride. No, you can’t go out, you’re punished. She hung up, took her bike, a water bottle, some coins from the little basket where they kept the change, a few cookies, and went out for a ride on the bike she’d received from the Three Kings. She would have preferred an Apache scooter, but in their letter the Kings mentioned that a flat board with little tires underneath and a driving wheel in front was not the best vehicle for a place like Mexico City. But it’s what they advertise on TV on Sundays! she screamed furiously and threw a tantrum that lasted hours and cast a dark light over what otherwise would have been a happy January 6th.

She pedaled around the condo a few times but then got bored with the monotony of the route that, despite its not being circular, had made her dizzy. She went to the entrance and waited until the guard lifted the gate without asking her anything and for the first time she was going to be able to ride on streets that until now had been off limits to her. At the end of the avenue she saw the giant M glowing between street posts and electrical cables. She started pedaling with a noticeable bit of fear. She kept on going without paying attention to the cars indifferently speeding by. This has never been a city for cyclists. She was determined to reach the M; fear fueled her desire. She pedaled as fast as she could. So fast that once she reached the M she wasn’t able to stop and her bike skidded inside the empty parking lot. She dusted herself off and got up as if nothing had happened. Pushing the bike by its handles, she walked toward the glass building of the restaurant and although she’d been there before, she felt as if she were in unknown territory.

The McDonald’s interior didn’t dazzle her like the first time. She noticed patches of grime on the floor and a heavy smell of grease and French fries. She went into the restroom to wash her face and hands and found an employee smoking a cigarette and mopping a gray floor with dirty water who completely ignored her despite her neglected air. She didn’t even have to wait in line because the place was deserted. She asked for a soda and sat in one of the tables outside, where no other kid was playing, no clown was handing out balloons, and at the “automac” a young man grew bored waiting for an order that never came. Cars passed by one after another in the silence of a clear afternoon. She took a few sips of soda and thought she wouldn’t have the strength to return home. She put the soda down on the green table and slid her hand into one of her skirt pockets. She caressed the warm cloth inside it and confirmed the presence of her first successful theft: a miniature Spider-Man. By this time, her classmate would be looking for it in his backpack and maybe tomorrow they’d call her parents again, she’d return to the Principal’s office, and she’d be warned that if she kept behaving this way, her promised trip to the promised land . . .

First published in Letralia (Año X, No. 126, July 2005). © Aura Estrada. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2006 by Monica de la Terre. All rights reserved.

English Spanish (Original)

They warned her that one more offense against good behavior and the promised trip to the promised land (the United States) would be cancelled and to please return the mechanical pencil she’d filched from her classmate Agni’s backpack during recess, Agni who was sobbing inconsolably like a coward in the arms of fat “Miss Becky” in a corner of the classroom. The little brat, without any trace of shame or guilt, slowly pulled a Superman refillable mechanical pencil from under her flag-green sweater and extended her hand toward the Principal. Now you can leave, and she went out into the beige hallway. She was followed by a still teary-eyed Agni. This can’t go on like this, yesterday it was Ana María’s thermos, the day before yesterday graffiti on the wall, last week Marisol’s Wonder Woman ruler, and today, this. The Principal’s voice had been full of reproach, as if Odette’s failed thefts were her parents’ fault. Leaving the office, her parents held her hands and took her home without saying a word. They were looking at her as if they had a total stranger before them.

Once in the car the grilling began. Don’t you want to go to the United States with your sister? Her stepsister, so brilliant you were blinded by the sight of her, and so obedient that Odette wondered whether she was a living person or a robot. She’d decided that she must be a robot the day she’d broken her sister’s favorite Barbie’s luxury bed. She hadn’t cried (unlike Odette who’d locked herself in the bathroom and hadn’t stopped crying for hours)—she’d never been seen crying—she’d simply picked up the pieces of the bed, thrown them in the trash, and given Odette the nickname: Destroyer, you’ll never play with my toys again. And she’d kept her word. Odette reflected only a robot could be capable of such self-control. Those toys you’re stealing from your classmates, don’t you understand that you’ll be able to buy them in the United States? Odette’s distressed young mother regarded her with compassion but soon ran out of justifications and was alarmed by the sudden hooligan behavior of her seven-year-old. How could I have created this girl? her eyes seemed to say. And Odette didn’t know either. Ever since that January afternoon when they’d sat down to have a talk with “the girls” at the cracked dining room table in their narrow apartment, Odette had changed, except they didn’t know into what or whom. Ignoring her worried mother’s laments, Odette seemed to be studying the avenue, at the end of which glowed a disproportionate yellow M. Just a few weeks earlier Mexico City’s first McDonald’s had opened, and throngs of Mexican families had thrust themselves against the doors hours before their official opening. Lines spilled over into side-streets; parking lots ran out of spaces; in the playground in back of the red, yellow, and white restaurant children fought to be the first to climb up onto the slide that led to a pool of multi-colored plastic balls; at the “automac” cars brimmed with people sticking out their heads to order two Big Macs with cheese, four Happy Meals, six Coca-Colas, and six fries into the speaker while a human Ronald McDonald walked around in a red and white striped shirt and outrageously big blue pants handing out balloons. The car made a U-turn and the M was left behind, glowing by itself. Again they begged her. Tell us what you’re thinking, Odette.

The car stopped at the condo’s entrance gate. Odette and her mother waited for the car to take off again. Your father needs to get back to work. They walked in silence. Odette tried to reach for her mother’s thin, almost scrawny, hand. Before reaching the door, they spotted a dead bird on the scorched grass. It’s the pollution.

Today the same old story pause, a mechanical pencil pause, during recess pause, Odette doesn’t do anything. Unexpectedly, her mother closed the door. Odette couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation. She took her book and continued reading until her mother opened the door again. She listened to her walk toward the living room: she hadn’t taken off her heels yet. I have to get back to work, behave yourself, see you tonight. She thought maybe everyone was a robot. From her bed she could see the gray wooden house of her inert Barbies. Next to it shone the pink plastic star of the Little Twin Stars. She was overcome by a desire to touch it. But she couldn’t; it was her sister’s pink star. Her sister whose mother was in the United States and who now was forcing her to spend the entire summer in a faraway place. But there are so many toys over there and you’ll have a great time, you’ll go to a summer camp with other kids and you can go to an amusement park and eat a lot of hamburgers, she could hear her mother’s pleading voice in her head. But there are hamburgers here too.

She called her mother’s office to let her know that she’d be going out for a bike ride. No, you can’t go out, you’re punished. She hung up, took her bike, a water bottle, some coins from the little basket where they kept the change, a few cookies, and went out for a ride on the bike she’d received from the Three Kings. She would have preferred an Apache scooter, but in their letter the Kings mentioned that a flat board with little tires underneath and a driving wheel in front was not the best vehicle for a place like Mexico City. But it’s what they advertise on TV on Sundays! she screamed furiously and threw a tantrum that lasted hours and cast a dark light over what otherwise would have been a happy January 6th.

She pedaled around the condo a few times but then got bored with the monotony of the route that, despite its not being circular, had made her dizzy. She went to the entrance and waited until the guard lifted the gate without asking her anything and for the first time she was going to be able to ride on streets that until now had been off limits to her. At the end of the avenue she saw the giant M glowing between street posts and electrical cables. She started pedaling with a noticeable bit of fear. She kept on going without paying attention to the cars indifferently speeding by. This has never been a city for cyclists. She was determined to reach the M; fear fueled her desire. She pedaled as fast as she could. So fast that once she reached the M she wasn’t able to stop and her bike skidded inside the empty parking lot. She dusted herself off and got up as if nothing had happened. Pushing the bike by its handles, she walked toward the glass building of the restaurant and although she’d been there before, she felt as if she were in unknown territory.

The McDonald’s interior didn’t dazzle her like the first time. She noticed patches of grime on the floor and a heavy smell of grease and French fries. She went into the restroom to wash her face and hands and found an employee smoking a cigarette and mopping a gray floor with dirty water who completely ignored her despite her neglected air. She didn’t even have to wait in line because the place was deserted. She asked for a soda and sat in one of the tables outside, where no other kid was playing, no clown was handing out balloons, and at the “automac” a young man grew bored waiting for an order that never came. Cars passed by one after another in the silence of a clear afternoon. She took a few sips of soda and thought she wouldn’t have the strength to return home. She put the soda down on the green table and slid her hand into one of her skirt pockets. She caressed the warm cloth inside it and confirmed the presence of her first successful theft: a miniature Spider-Man. By this time, her classmate would be looking for it in his backpack and maybe tomorrow they’d call her parents again, she’d return to the Principal’s office, and she’d be warned that if she kept behaving this way, her promised trip to the promised land . . .

Un Viaje Fallido

Le advirtieron que una ofensa más al buen comportamiento y su prometido viaje a la tierra prometida (Estados Unidos) sería cancelado y que por favor devolviera el lapicero que había sustraído durante el recreo de la mochila del compañerito Agni, quien lloraba desconsoladamente como un cobarde en la esquina del salón en los brazos de la regordeta Miss Becky. La pequeña malhora, sin ningún rasgo de vergüenza o arrepentimiento, lentamente extrajo de su suéter verde bandera un lapicero a cartuchos con dibujos del enmascarado Hombre Araña y extendió la mano hacia la Directora. Ahora puedes salir, y salió al pasillo color beige. Detrás de ella, Agni salió también, aún con lágrimas en los ojos. Esto no puede seguir así, ayer fue el termo de Hello Kitty de Ana María, antier un graffiti en la pared, la semana pasada la regla de La Mujer Maravilla de Marisol, y hoy, esto. El tono de la Directora era de reproche, como si los padres de Odette tuvieran la culpa de sus recientes fallidos atracos. Al salir de la oficina sus padres la tomaron de la mano y la llevaron a casa sin decir una palabra. La miraban como quien tiene frente a sí a un total desconocido.

Una vez en el coche empezaron los cuestionamientos arduos. ¿Que no quieres ir a Estados Unidos con tu hermana? Su hermana, tan brillante que uno se quedaba ciego de verla y tan obediente que Odette se preguntaba si estaba viva o era un robot. Había llegado a la conclusión de que no era un robot el día que rompió la cama de lujo de su Barbie favorita. Su hermana no lloró (al contrario de Odette quien no paró de llorar por varias horas encerrada en el baño), nunca la había visto llorar, sólo tomó los restos de la cama, los tiró a la basura y le dio a Odette el apodo de: Destroyer nunca más jugarás con mis juguetes. Y lo cumplió. Odette reflexionó que un robot no tendría tal capacidad de auto-represión. ¿Que no sabes que esos juguetes que robas de tus compañeros los vas a poder comprar en Estados Unidos? La angustiada y joven madre de Odette la miraba con compasión pero se le acababan pronto los argumentos y le alarmaba el repentino comportamiento vándalo de su pequeña de siete años. ¿Cómo he podido engendrar a esta niña? se preguntaba con la mirada. Y Odette tampoco lo sabía. Desde aquella tarde de enero en que se sentaron a hablar con “las niñas” en la mesa de madera cuarteada en el comedor de su estrecho departamento, Odette se había transformado pero no sabían en qué, en quién. No prestando atención a los lamentos de una madre preocupada, Odette parecía examinar la avenida al final de la cual brillaba una desproporcionada M amarilla. Apenas unas semanas antes habían abierto el primer McDonalds de la ciudad de México y en tumultos las familias mexicanas se lanzaron a sus puertas varias horas antes de la apertura oficial. Las filas se desbordaron hasta las calles aledañas, los estacionamientos no se daban abasto, en los juegos del patio trasero del restaurante rojo, amarillo y blanco los niños se peleaban por ser los primeros en subirse al tobogán que llevaba a una alberca de bolas plásticas de colores; en el “automac” coches repletos asomaban sus cabezas queriendo hablar por el interfón para hacer un pedido de 2 bigmac con queso, 4 cajitas felices, 6 cocacolas y 6 papas fritas mientras un Ronald McDonald humano se paseaba repartiendo globos con una camisa a rayas rojas y blancas y pantalones azules ridículamente grandes. El coche dio una vuelta en U y la M se quedó atrás de ellos, brillando solitaria. La súplica vino otra vez. Dinos qué estás pensando Odette.

El coche se detuvo en la caseta de la cerrada. Odette y su madre esperaron a que el coche arrancara de nuevo. Tu papá tiene que regresar a trabajar. Caminaron en silencio. Odette trató de alcanzar la mano delgada, casi esquelética, de su madre. Antes de llegar a la puerta, vieron un pájaro muerto sobre el pasto seco. Es la contaminación.

Hoy otra vez lo mismo pausa Sí un lapicero pausa En el recreo pausa No dice nada. Su madre cerró la puerta inesperadamente. Odette no pudo escuchar el resto de la conversación. Tomó su libro y siguió leyendo hasta que su madre abrió la puerta. La escuchó caminar a la sala: no se había quitado los tacones todavía. Tengo que regresar a trabajar, pórtate bien, nos vemos en la noche. Pensó que a lo mejor todos menos ella eran robots.

Desde su cama veía la casa de madera gris de las Barbies inertes. A su lado brillaba la estrella rosada de los Little Twin Stars. La invadió la gana de tocarla. Pero no podía; era la estrella rosada de su hermana. Su hermana que tenía una madre en Estados Unidos y que ahora la obligaba a ir con ella por todo el verano a un lugar remoto. Pero allá hay muchos juguetes y te la vas a pasar muy bien, vas a ir a un campamento de verano con otros niños y puedes visitar un parque de diversiones y comer muchas hamburguesas, podía escuchar en su cabeza la voz suplicante de su madre. Pero aquí también hay hamburguesas.

Llamó por teléfono a la oficina de su madre para avisarle que saldría a dar la vuelta en bicicleta. No, no puedes salir, estás castigada. Colgó, tomó su bicicleta, un termo de agua, unas monedas de la canasta del cambio, unas galletas y salió a dar la vuelta en la bicicleta que recibió de los Reyes Magos. Hubiera preferido un patín avalancha Apache, pero en su carta los reyes notaron que en una ciudad como la de México una tabla con ruedas por debajo y un manubrio al frente no era el mejor transporte, ¡pero es lo que anuncian todos los domingos en la tele!, gritó enfurecida y estalló en un llanto que duró horas y que puso un toque oscuro al que de otra forma hubiera sido un feliz seis de enero.

Dio varias vueltas dentro de la cerrada pero pronto se sintió aburrida por la monotonía de la ruta que, si no era circular, ya la tenía mareada. Se dirigió hasta la caseta, el vigilante abrió la pluma que la separaba de la calle sin preguntar nada y por primera vez pudo andar por las avenidas que hasta hoy le eran territorio prohibido. Al final de la avenida vio la M gigante brillar entre los postes y el cableado de luz. Empezó a pedalear con cierto temor visible que no desapareció ni cuando estuvo sobre el pavimento. Siguió adelante sin fijarse en el flujo de los automóviles que pasaban deprisa indiferentes a su trayecto. Esta nunca ha sido una ciudad de ciclistas. Determinada a llegar a la M, el temor inflamó su deseo. Pedaleó lo más rápido que pudo. Tan rápido que una vez que alcanzó la M no pudo frenar del todo y la bicicleta se derrapó dentro del estacionamiento vacío. Se sacudió el polvo y se levantó como si nada hubiera pasado. Llevando la bicicleta por los manubrios, caminó hacia el edificio de vidrio del restaurante y aunque le era un lugar familiar, se sintió en terreno desconocido.

El interior del McDonalds no la deslumbró como la primera vez. Notó en el suelo manchas de suciedad y en el aire un olor exagerado a grasa y papas fritas. Entró al baño para enjuagarse la cara y las manos y se encontró con una empleada fumando un cigarro, trapeando con agua negra un suelo gris y que la ignoró por completo a pesar de su aspecto maltrecho. En la caja no tuvo que hacer fila porque el lugar estaba desierto. Pidió un refresco y se sentó en una de las mesas en el patio trasero donde

ningún niño jugaba, ningún payaso repartía globos y en el “automac” un joven se aburría esperando un pedido que no llegaba. Los coches seguían pasando uno tras otro en el silencio de la tarde despejada. Dio unos sorbos a su bebida y pensó que no tendría fuerzas para regresar. Puso el refresco sobre la mesa verde e introdujo su mano en el bolsillo de su falda. Con los dedos acarició la tela cálida del interior y confirmó la presencia de su primer atraco exitoso: una versión miniatura del Hombre-Araña. A esta hora, su compañerito estara buscando la figura en su mochila y tal vez mañana llamaran otra vez a sus padres, volvera a la oficina de la Directora y le advertiran que si su comportamiento continúa así, su prometido viaje a la tierra prometida…

First published in Letralia (Año X, No. 126, July 2005). © Aura Estrada.

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