Reservoir bitches Stories

Women lie, cheat, kill, and die in Mexican writer de la Cerda's searing English-language debut. Like the unnamed narrator of "Parsley and Coca-Cola," who graphically describes her self-administered abortion after getting pregnant from a one-night stand, the women in these 13 linked stories are "trapped in an infinite loop of bad decisions with consequences that are never not dramatic." The title character of "Yuliana" is set to take over her father's drug trafficking empire when a possessive and violent man in her father's employ starts dating her friend Regina. After he murders Regina, having caught her talking to his bodyguard, Yuliana vows revenge even though her father claims the murderer is untouchable. In "Constanza," the title character darkens her blond hair to appear like a mestiza and boost her politician husband's electoral chances. "La China" details the exploits of a female narco assassin who particularly enjoys killing men who abused women. While the circumstances of each narrator vary--some are obscenely rich while others are grindingly poor--their blasé way of speaking, in-your-face sexuality, and violence start to blur together. Nonetheless, de la Cerda offers a refreshingly unapologetic voice for women who refuse to be placated. This is worth a look. (Sept.)

Thirteen "reservoir bitches" tell readers: Sit, stay, escúchame. Mexican author de la Cerda's English-language debut, a story collection translated from Spanish by Sanches and Cleary, presents a group of Mexican women facing down danger and tragedy at every turn. The "bitches" are women from different economic backgrounds--drug empire heiress Yuliana struts the streets in Louboutins, and teen mom Stefi works 12-hour shifts at a shoe store--as well as racial backgrounds--blond-haired and blue-eyed Constanza masquerades as a mestiza to aid her husband's political campaign, and an unnamed narrator seeks revenge on her murderers after being resurrected by a figure from Mexican legend. De la Cerda's narrators have lived very different, equally important lives, but their voices tend to blend into one another. Most have a similar sense of humor and code of ethics, and many make use of an irreverent tone, colloquial language, and nicknames for the reader, such as "fam," "queen," and "amigui" (each of these words appears in its own story--perhaps this is an attempt to distinguish their narrators). These tactics succeed in creating the enchanting feeling that one is sitting across from each narrator, being told their stories as a close confidante. This feeling remains even when we know the narrator is dead--which does not happen just once, but four times. The most prominent theme is the epidemic of femicide, specifically in Mexico. In one of her most powerful moments, de la Cerda writes, "Mexico is a monster that devours women. Mexico is a desert of pulverized bone. Mexico is a graveyard full of pink crosses." The author's demand that we bear witness to the senseless murders, in all their gruesomeness, of these bright young women is sobering and commendable. However, the sheer magnitude of loss and injustice displayed here means that the vengeance secured against the perpetrators, which is posed as badass feminist action, feels limp. De la Cerda sums it up best: "Being a woman means living in a state of emergency." Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.