Bogotá: Seix Barral. 2023. 328 pages.
Language is worthwhile when it tells a good story.
Mario Montalbetti
El minuto is the first published novel by Colombian writer Julián Mejía Tobón. A detective story earned him the Gaceta de Cuento Negro Prize in 2005, a contest promoted by the newspaper El País in Colombia. Julián Mejía Tobón is an architect with a master’s degree in Architecture, Energy, and Environment from the Polytechnic University of Catalonia. This professional detail gains more meaning once we establish that some central plotlines of El minuto take place, precisely, in Barcelona, Peratallada, and Mataró, cities in the autonomous community of Catalonia. In addition, it is worth mentioning that the author worked several different alternative jobs during his stay in Europe in his youth—jobs that helped him understand “what humankind is like”: a purse salesman, a waiter, a bag carrier, a senior caregiver, a messenger, “real estate spies.” All these jobs that form part of the so-called “informal economy,” along with his work as an architect, have been at the service of his narrative. And in this dialectic, we accept the “fictional pact and pretend that what he’s telling us has actually taken place,” as North American philosopher and linguist John Searle once said.
Written with the devices of a psychological police thriller (the chapter “¡Bingo!” in particular), El minuto is divided into four big parts: “Génesis,” “Sirius,” “Nebulae,” and “Exodus.” These four parts, in turn, split off into a series of subchapters or emancipated stories, which at the same time are sheltered under the umbrella of an overarching story on which they depend. The first part (“Génesis”) consists of several of the central characters’ first names—“Jordi,” “Ana,” “Luca,” “Milán,” and “Carlos and Antonia”—while in the subsequent parts (except for “María,” the third chapter) the titles are more periphrastic and allude to other, not explicitly named characters, and to other circumstances or intimate obsessions that are only discovered over the course of the reading process. By way of Easter eggs and in the style of some video games or movies such as Ready Player One, the reader must watch out for clues or appearances (of specific tasks as well as places and supposedly minor characters).
El minuto, “a novel about relationships and human interactions,” as the author himself described it, has the value (or the attribute) of structure, the will to tell, the opportune appearance of the characters, and presents two typically detective-like protagonists: inspectors García and Fauvreau. The latter, a female character, has a double presence in the novel, almost like having two original personalities. To be honest, I could relate to officer Fauvreau’s unaffected strength because it reminded me—allowing for differences—of inspector Croce (Target in the Night by Ricardo Piglia) and sergeant Lituma (Who Killed Palomino Molero? by Mario Vargas Llosa).
The cities in El minuto are an excuse; they are a fragmented greenhouse, a reduced space where, sooner or later, the characters inevitably become involved, intertwined with each other. They are also a lab: the narrator means to intermingle the “turns” of these narrated lives. Why did the author give this noir novel this title? At one moment (or in seconds) a tragedy happens: someone is run over (“And thus, Jordi abandoned the scene of an accident to immediately turn it into the scene of a crime.”) And from this criminal act, other stories as well as other not only human but also humanized characters grow (as is the case with Susana’s dog in the chapter “La balada de Fosc”). The adjectivization, at times, becomes a plus: “‘No, not me, I…’ Susana sweat buckets. García leaned back on his chair and let a few minutes pass to let the woman feel dense, fully-fledged, and aggressive panic” (emphasis added).
“The narrative discourse unfolded by Julián Mejía Tobón is consecrated to the development of stories. It’s usually a direct, even discourse, though sometimes its eye draws nearer to give us more elaborate details about the characters’ intimacies”
El minuto plays with simultaneity and narrative tenses. Therein lies its ludic puzzle-like temperament. The author relies on unexpected twists and his characters’ surprising denouements. He employs the devices of metafiction, autofiction, and alterity (Carlos Bernal could be the heteronym of Julián Mejía Tobón). By the by, I’ll mention one of the book’s most introspective passages, which describes the meeting between Carlos and Marion, a French woman who, in this scenario, functions as a literary critic:
A few hours passed slowly. Carlos finished the plate with provisions, which he had made for them both, and drank half a bottle of wine. Marion’s glass remained untouched while she leafed through the pages, barely making any gestures. When Carlos was on his fourth glass of wine and about to break the silence at any cost, she slammed the book shut, set it aside and began rolling a cigarette.
“Well?” he asked, curious.
“It’s not bad. You’re good but you haven’t suffered, or maybe you don’t pour your soul into what you write. There’s no pain on these pages, only esprit.”
“What’s esprit?”
“Brain, head… Comment dit-on? Intelligence but no soul.”
El minuto is a narrative canvas on which a character draws themself and outlines the presence of others, who also intervene in the parallel plotlines, an example being Jordi and two female characters: Antonia and Luca. The same happens with Marion and inspector García. It’s not easy to mention them without revealing spoilers, so I will restrict myself to naming only one: Luca Slovensk Ramírez, daughter of Filomena Ramírez, mother of Esteban (Esteban Conrado?), friend of Susana, chance partner of Jordi and José. This same procedure is implemented with all the other characters: they uncover each other’s intentions and complement each other’s identities.
The narrative discourse unfolded by Julián Mejía Tobón is consecrated to the development of the stories. It’s usually a direct, even discourse, though sometimes its eye draws nearer to give us more elaborate details about the characters’ intimacies, especially in festive spaces and nocturnal celebrations. There’s no affectation or excessive emphasis on form; there’s controlled relief. The vocabulary is mainly peninsular, save in the scenes related to the city of Cali in Colombia. The novel becomes increasingly interesting as the chapters unfold. In fact, the first chapter leaves some holes that are later filled or complemented. Although Jordi (and “The Impostor,” his other personality) gives rise to the novel’s plots and is the one who triggers the actions by running over a child, this character offers readers few opportunities for empathy. Ana, Luca, Milán, García, and even Susana are more endearing and momentous to us on a fictional and a human level.
El minuto, as previously mentioned, is the first published novel by Mejía Tobón, but not the first one he has written. His first written, independent novel bears the title El caso de la alcantarilla. El minuto, along with two unpublished novels (El administrador and another with no final title) forms part of a trilogy in progress titled Opus hominum. We know nothing as yet about the plots and the central characters of these books that have not been made public, but as readers we believe inspector Favreau should have a second, more comprehensive appearance.
Translated by Milena Sanabria Contreras
