{"id":166383,"date":"2023-12-20T11:00:29","date_gmt":"2023-12-20T16:00:29","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=166383"},"modified":"2023-12-21T15:51:23","modified_gmt":"2023-12-21T20:51:23","slug":"a-memory-from-my-personal-life","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/12\/20\/a-memory-from-my-personal-life\/","title":{"rendered":"A Memory from My Personal Life"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

Photograph by Agustina Fern\u00e1ndez.<\/p><\/div>\n

Hebe Uhart had a unique way of looking\u2014a power of observation that was streaked with humor, but which above all spoke to her tremendous curiosity. Uhart, a prolific\u00a0Argentine writer of novels, short stories, and travel logs, died in 2018. “In the last years of her life, Hebe Uhart read as much fiction as nonfiction, but she preferred writing cr\u00f3nicas, she used to say, because she felt that what the world had to offer was more interesting than her own experience or imagination,” writes <\/span>Mariana\u00a0<\/span>Enr\u00edquez in an introduction to a newly translated volume of these <\/em>cr\u00f3nicas<\/span>, which will be published in May by Archipelago Books. At the <\/span><\/em>Review<\/span>, where we published one of Uhart’s short stories<\/a> posthumously in 2019, we will be publishing a series of these <\/span><\/em>cr\u00f3nicas<\/span> in the coming months, starting with one of the most personal.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

About thirty years ago, I had a boyfriend who was a drunk. Back then, I was full of vague impulses and concocted impossible projects. I wanted to build a house with my own two hands; before that, there\u2019d been another project, involving a chicken hatchery. I was never cut out for industry or manual labor. I didn\u2019t think that alcoholism was a sickness\u2014I believed he would be able to stop drinking once he decided to. I was working at a high school and had asked for some much-needed time off to improve my mental health, and I spent my days with my drunken boyfriend going from club to club, and from one house to the next. We paid countless visits to the most diverse assortment of people, among them an old poet and his wife who would receive guests not at their home, but in bars. Some turned their noses up at the pair, whispering that it took them a week to get from Rivadavia Avenue to Santa Fe Avenue, as they spent a full day at each bar. It was a year of great discovery for me, learning about these people and their homes, but sometimes it was boring, because drunks have a different sense of time and money. It is like living on a ship, where time is suspended, and as for my boyfriend\u2019s friends, they were always destined for the bottle and stranded at the bar (or so they claimed) until someone could come rescue them. I used to get bored when drunk poets began counting the syllables of verses to see if they were hendecasyllabic, trochaic \u2026 it could go on for hours.<\/p>\n

The whole time I was mixed up in all of this, nobody ever knew where I was going. I would only come home to eat and sleep\u2014I didn\u2019t tell my family anything. They became concerned. My mom had a cousin follow me and report back to her:<\/p>\n

\u201cThey sleep at a different house every night. My advice\u2014buy her an apartment.\u201d<\/p>\n

My mom gave me all her savings (one million pesos, the equivalent of twenty-five thousand dollars) and told me to find an apartment. So my boyfriend and I went together to choose. I would confront people and ask them questions while he hung back, watching me work. Before long we came to an old but giant apartment with a long hallway. \u201cLook at all this space!\u201d I said, thrilled. But there was something strange about it\u2014the wall dividing the apartment from the one next to it was very low (about ten observers looked at us from the other side). I thought: \u201cNo big deal, we can raise the wall later. With all this space, we could get new wallpaper, remodel \u2026? Right?\u201d He said yes to everything because being around so many people terrified him\u2014neither of us knew how to remodel anything. As usual, he looked on fearfully, with admiration, as I confronted people. I felt strong and confident, like an executive. So I hadn\u2019t built the chicken hatchery after all, but I had discovered an interesting hobby. Luckily, I was advised not to buy the apartment. I bought a very old two-bedroom, with a telephone and an elevator that had never been used. A piece of the ceiling had crumbled, so we put the bed in a small foyer beside the front door, a decision we\u2019d agreed upon. The owners had sold me the apartment without cleaning it: when I swept, a cloud of dust would form. So, I told myself: \u201cNo need for sweeping. After so many years, it can\u2019t help but stay dirty.\u201d I had already gone back to work and was performing well, but I was tired of coming home to two or three drunks who had kept me awake the night before arguing about the poetry of G\u00f3ngora or Quevedo, sleeping on the floor of one of our vacant rooms. I could never bring myself to say, \u201cGet out of my house.\u201d<\/p>\n

Instead, I began to focus my energies on curing my boyfriend: I would take him to the doctor and the psychologist, and buy his vitamins for him. After much preparation, he was finally ready for his first job interview; he had agreed to everything, but it didn\u2019t progress any further than that. He never did sober up, but I at least learned how to buy and sell apartments.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Anna Vilner’s translation of<\/span> <\/em>\u201cA Memory from My Personal Life\u201d will appear in a forthcoming collection of Hebe Uhart’s <\/em>cr\u00f3nicas, <\/em>A Question of<\/span> Belonging<\/a>, to be published by\u00a0Archipelago Books in May 2024. The original Spanish version was collected in Uhart<\/span>‘s\u00a0<\/em>Cr\u00f3nicas completas,\u00a0published by Adriana Hidalgo.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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