دانلود رمان Elena Knows 2021

The trick is to lift up the right foot, just a few centimetres off the floor, move it forward through the air, just enough to get past the left foot, and when it gets as far as it can go, lower it. That’s all it is, Elena thinks. But she thinks this, and even though her brain orders the movement, her right foot doesn’t move.

It does not lift up. It does not move forward through the air. It does not lower back down. It’s so simple. But it doesn’t do it. So Elena sits and waits. In her kitchen. She has to take the train into the city at ten o’clock; the one after that, the eleven o’clock, won’t do because she took the pill at nine, so she thinks, and she knows, that she has to take the ten o’clock train, right after the medication has managed to persuade her body to follow her brain’s orders.

Soon. The eleven o’clock train won’t do because by then the medicine’s effect will have diminished and almost disappeared and she’ll be back to where she is now, but without any hope that the levodopa will take effect. Levodopa is the name for the chemical that will begin circulating in her body once the pill has dissolved; she has known that name for a while now. Levodopa.

The doctor said it and she wrote it down for herself on a piece of paper because she knew she wasn’t going to understand the doctor’s handwriting. She knows that the levodopa is moving through her body. All she can do now is wait. She counts the streets. She recites the names from memory. From first to last and last to first. Lupo, Moreno, 25 de Mayo, Mitre, Roca. Roca, Mitre, 25 de Mayo. Moreno, Lupo.

Levodopa. It’s only five blocks to the train station, it’s not that many, she thinks, and she continues reciting the street names, and continues waiting. Five. She can’t yet shuffle down those five blocks but she can silently repeat the street names. She hopes she doesn’t run into anyone she knows today. No one who will ask after her health or give her their delayed condolences over the death of her daughter.

Every day there’s some new person who couldn’t make it to the visitation or the burial. Or who didn’t dare to. Or didn’t want to. When someone like Rita dies, everyone feels invited to the funeral. That’s why ten o’clock is the worst time, she thinks, because to get to the station she has pass by the bank and today’s the day the retirees go to withdraw their pension, so it’s very likely that she’ll run into some neighbour. Or several neighbours.

The bank opens right at ten o’clock, when the train should be arriving at the station and she’ll already have her ticket in her hand about to board, but before that, Elena knows, she’s going to have to pass the retirees lined up outside as if they’re afraid the money will run out so they have to get there early. She can avoid going past the bank if she makes the block, but that’s something the Parkinson’s won’t allow. That’s its name. Elena knows she hasn’t been the one in charge of some parts of her body for a while now, her feet, for example. He’s in charge. Or she.

And she wonders if Parkinson’s is masculine or feminine, because even though the name sounds masculine it’s still an illness, and an illnesses is something feminine. Just like a disgrace. Or a curse. And so she thinks she should address her as My Lady, because when she thinks about it, she thinks “what a bitch of an illness.” And a bitch is a she, not a he. Excuse the expression, m’lady. Dr. Benegas explained it to her several times but she still doesn’t understand; she understands what she has because it’s inside her body, but not some of the words that the doctor uses. Rita was there when he first explained the disease.

Rita, who’s now dead. He told them that Parkinson’s was a degradation of the cells of the nervous system. And both she and her daughter disliked that word. Degradation. And Dr. Benegas must’ve noticed, because he quickly tried to explain. And he said, an illness of the central nervous system that degrades, or mutates, or changes, or modifies the nerve cells in such a way that they stop producing dopamine. And then Elena learned that when her brain orders a movement to her feet, for example, the order only reaches her feet if the dopamine takes it there. Like a messenger, she thought that day. So Parkinson’s is the lady and dopamine is the messenger.

And her brain is nothing, she thinks, because her feet don’t listen to it. Like a dethroned king that doesn’t realize he’s not in charge anymore. Like the emperor with no clothes from the story she used to tell Rita when she was little. The dethroned king, the naked emperor. And now it’s the lady, not Elena but her illness, the messenger, and the dethroned king. Elena repeats the names like she repeated the streets she has to pass to get to the station; the names keep her company while she waits. From first to last and last to first. She doesn’t like the naked emperor. She prefers the dethroned king.

She waits, she repeats, she breaks them into pairs: the lady and the messenger; the messenger and the king, the king and the lady. She tries again but her feet are still foreign to her, not merely disobedient, but deaf. Deaf feet. Elena would love to shout at them, Move, feet, hurry it up! Dammit, she’d even shout, Move and hurry it up, dammit, but she knows it would be useless, because her feet won’t listen to her voice either. So she doesn’t shout, she waits. She silently recites the streets, kings, streets again. She adds new words to her prayer: dopamine, levodopa.

She makes the connection between the dopa of dopamine and of levodopa, they must be related, but she’s just guessing, she doesn’t know for sure, she recites the words, plays with them, she lets her tongue get twisted, she waits, and she doesn’t care, she only cares that the time passes, that the pill dissolves, that it moves through her body to her feet so that they will finally get the message that they have to start moving.

–This text refers to the paperback edition.

International Booker Prize (Shortlist)
Edward Stanford Travel Writing Award – Fiction (Shortlist)
LiBeraturpreis (Winner)

“Short and stylish…a piercing commentary on mother-daughter relationships, the indignity of bureaucracy, the burdens of caregiving and the impositions of religious dogma on women.” ―New York Times

“A lyrical portrait of a woman unable to grieve…incisive commentary on Catholic society’s control of women’s bodies.” ―Publishers Weekly

“A murder mystery with a twist.” ―The Globe and Mail

“Its true brilliance, though, is in how it flips Elena’s insular daily reality into a much broader commentary on how the hypocrisy of Catholic society manifests in the lives and judgments of ordinary people. A highly accomplished and original novel, translated with great sensitivity to tone and atmosphere by Frances Riddle.” ―Irish Times

“A gloriously taut and haunting tale…astonishingly assured.”” ―Denise Mina, author of GODS AND BEASTS and THE LONG DROP

“A fascinating, twisty tale.” ―The Listener

“Contending with sorrow and illness, as well as the burdens of caregiving, bodily horrors, and forced presumptions in the lives of women, Elena Knows is a bold, visceral work of fiction.” ―Jeremy Garber, Powell’s Bookshop

“[Piñeiro’s] words work a kind of magic only very masterful literature does.” ―Lucy Writers

“In Elena, Piñeiro has created an uncommon Virgil who reminds readers of the damaging and even deadly effects of imposing one’s convictions on others” ―Necessary Fiction

“a subtle and skilful exploration of how far women have the right to control their own bodies” ―The Conversation

“riveting, revelatory and brilliantly imaginative” ―Lonesome Reader

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Praise for Claudia Piñeiro
“Not for nothing is Claudia Piñeiro Argentina’s most popular crime writer. Betty Boo is original, witty and hugely entertaining; it mixes murder with love, political power and journalism. Delightful characters include a morose veteran hack and a young trainee known only as Crime Boy. Iscar falls in love and the homicide count has moved up the ladder of Argentine politicians.” ―The Times

“At the start of this thought-provoking mystery from Piñeiro (A Crack in the Wall), maid Gladys Verela arrives at the Maravillosa Country Club, where industrialist Pedro Chazaretta has a house on the grounds. In the living room, Gladys spots Chazaretta sitting in a chair, apparently asleep, but in fact his throat has been slit. In Piñeiro’s artful hands, each of her investigators learns as much about himself or herself as about the murder on the way to the surprising, perfectly executed ending.” ―Publisher’s Weekly

“Those willing to take the time to enjoy the style and the unusual denouement will find themselves wondering why more crime authors don’t take the kinds of risks Piñeiro does.” ―Booklist

“Piñeiro is AWESOME. Her books are dark, have buckets of atmosphere, and they all feel entirely different even though she revisits some of the same issues again and again. She deals with the culture and social structure within gated communities; shows how walling ourselves in seems safer, but actually promotes fear and claustrophobia; she deals with gender roles and prejudice and economic class and long-held secrets that fester.” ―Book Riot