My mother often cried in private. Night sounds could still be heard in his room

Beto, Moco, Carlos and Manu return to the story that bound them together forever and was destined to tear them apart forever. Years ago, they landed in the crosshairs of a teacher, Miss Pringlin, and decided to pay her back nicely, and at the same time show their peers that they are not class losers. What really happened that night when they rebelled against the whole world? Thanks to the courtesy of ArtRage Publishing House, we publish a fragment of the book “Night of High Heels” by Santiago Roncagliolo.

Carlos

In my own way, I wanted to be punished anyway. Maybe that’s why, years later, I went to law school. To face punishment. To make sure everyone gets treated right. And that’s what I wanted for myself too. A month without TV. Two weeks of home detention. Write “I won’t do it again” five hundred times. Kneel with your hands up and a donkey hat on your head. A minor punishment for making a fuss in the classroom, smoking in the toilet and expressing sexual fantasies about the teacher. That would be normal. And I I wanted to be normal.

Santiago Roncagliolo’s high heels night press materials

I’ve had enough of being different. I didn’t play football because no one in my house was interested in football. I didn’t ride a bike because no one taught me. In my house, we discussed politics, Fidel Castro, the United States, topics that no one discussed at school. My parents did not participate in normal family weekend activities. And on vacation, when my friends flew to Miami, they took me to… Huando, to the mountains. Can we really do nothing like other people? But the worst was the divorce. Back then – in early 1980 – my parents engaged in the longest divorce in history.

Even in my earliest memories, my mother and father were constantly arguing. And he often slept on the couch in the living room. I would get up in the morning and wake him up so we could play. I didn’t know it was a bad sign. Over time, I no longer found my dad on the couch. Except he wasn’t in the bedroom either. When he wasn’t sleeping with his mother, he was staying away from home at night. I remember that at that time he was giving one of his strange theories: – Being married is not the same as owning a cow. A relationship must leave room for personal freedom. Or something like that. Regardless, I didn’t understand anyway. When I was ten, my parents called me into the living room and said, “We’ve decided to split up.” And I said, “Okay.

And they said: – But we both still love you very much. And I said: – Okay.

And they said: – We love each other too, but differently.

And I said: – Okay.

Ultimately, however, they did not break up. Two years later, with great difficulty, my father managed to leave the house. He even took some clothes with him. But after six months of grievances and promises, he returned. That day he declared that this temporary separation was a test and that we had passed it brilliantly. “We will be a family again,” he said. – And now forever. […]

In early 1992, they both decided they couldn’t live together, and Dad moved out again, but this time in style, with clothes, furniture, and boxes full of his previous life. However, they soon discovered that they couldn’t live without each other either. This mutual throwing was like quitting smoking: a long series of hesitations, withdrawals, and subsequent intermittent attempts. From time to time, the parents experienced passionate comebacks. A few times a month I would come for breakfast and find my dad in the dining room. – Surprise, man! – he greeted me. – Cereal or toast?

He was talking to me like it was the most normal thing in the world, like he had never moved out and wasn’t going to do it again soon. The next day his chair was empty again. Why couldn’t we live like others? To be a family or not to be a family, but not both. Dad was a very unstable husband, but not an absentee father. He often accompanied his mother to school meetings, something fathers who actually lived with their wives did not do. Or he would invite her to dinner to discuss something involving me. (Usually it was after such dinners that he showed up for breakfast the next day.) – I will never stop being friends with my mother – he explained to me – because she is your mother. I want us to have civilized relations for the good of all three of us.

It sounded very reasonable. But after their civilized meetings, my mother was in a terrible mood for several days. She often cried in private. The sounds of the night still reached my room, but now they weren’t arguments, just sobs and sighs. – Mom, is everything okay? – I asked.

– Lie down, Carlos. Everything’s okay. I just had a bit of a cold.

And she shut herself up to continue crying. However, this eternal divorce of my parents had one advantage: it focused their attention on me. Dad and Mom were so busy tossing and turning that they didn’t really have time for anything else. Including me and my mistakes.