{"id":12768,"date":"2018-08-26T23:02:13","date_gmt":"2018-08-27T05:02:13","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/2022\/05\/from-the-storm-by-tomas-gonzalez\/"},"modified":"2022-05-28T15:08:43","modified_gmt":"2022-05-28T21:08:43","slug":"from-the-storm-by-tomas-gonzalez","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/2018\/08\/from-the-storm-by-tomas-gonzalez\/","title":{"rendered":"From The Storm by Tom\u00e1s Gonz\u00e1lez"},"content":{"rendered":"<p><img fetchpriority=\"high\" decoding=\"async\" class=\" alignleft size-full wp-image-2393\" style=\"height: 350px; width: 300px; margin: 10px; float: left;\" src=\"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/07\/the_storm_1.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"400\" height=\"467\" title=\"\" srcset=\"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/07\/the_storm_1.jpg 400w, https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/07\/the_storm_1-257x300.jpg 257w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px\" \/><strong>Editor&#8217;s Note:\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>LALT is proud to feature an exclusive preview of Andrea Rosenberg&#8217;s English-language translation of\u00a0<em>The Storm\u00a0<\/em>by Tom\u00e1s Gonz\u00e1lez, which will be published by <a href=\"https:\/\/archipelagobooks.org\/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Archipelago Books<\/a> in November 2018. Read more about the novel on their <a href=\"https:\/\/archipelagobooks.org\/book\/the-storm\/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">website<\/a>:<\/p>\n<p>\u201cArchipelago Books is a not-for-profit press devoted to publishing and promoting outstanding literature from around the world. In our first twelve years, we published over 160 books from more than thirty languages. Archipelago is always striving to find visionary international writers whom American readers might not otherwise encounter. We hope our translations will increase cross-pollination between readers, writers, thinkers, and educators across borders. Archipelago partners with like-minded organizations both in the United States and abroad \u2013 local independent bookstores, community centers, literary and arts organizations, universities, foreign institutions and embassies, and reading series across the country \u2013 to host a wide array of literary events, including interviews, discussions, and readings.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p><strong>Translator&#8217;s Note:<\/strong><\/p>\n<style type=\"text\/css\">p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color: #2c2c2c}<br \/>\n<\/style>\n<p>I first discovered Tom\u00e1s Gonz\u00e1lez on a friend\u2019s recommendation and fell for his work pretty much instantly. There\u2019s a stunning lyricism to his writing combined with a down-to-earth orality, and I found the juxtaposition fascinating and immensely challenging to replicate. As is often the case in Gonz\u00e1lez\u2019s work,\u00a0<i>The Storm<\/i>\u00a0alternates perspectives, switching from the protagonists who are heading out to sea to fish as a storm bears down on Colombia\u2019s Caribbean coast to the assorted family members, employees, and tourists who remain behind on shore. This multivocal quality adds to the feeling of building chaos as the storm intensifies.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<hr \/>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<style type=\"text\/css\">p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'}<br \/>\np.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; min-height: 15.0px}<br \/>\n<\/style>\n<p>Saturday, 4:00 a.m.<\/p>\n<p>Angrily, but with great care, Mario placed two oars in the boat and went to his father\u2019s house to fetch the gas cans. Javier had already brought the coolers full of ice and the jugs of water, and by now he\u2019d be back at his bungalow, boiling the breakfast eggs and pouring coffee into the thermoses. Mario had been born two hours after Javier and frequently wished he\u2019d never been born at all. The thirty-foot motorboat was a sky-blue fiberglass craft, and a Coleman lantern glowed on one of the benches. Despite the chill at this early hour, Mario wasn\u2019t wearing a shirt. The heat of his resentment toward his father kept him warm enough.<\/p>\n<p>Had he bothered to notice them, he\u2019d have admired the net of stars stretching over the vault of the heavens. But though he looked up at the sky, he didn\u2019t see the stars or refused to see them. Javier knew about ursas major and minor and southern crosses; Mario was the one who could take an outboard motor apart and put it back together with his eyes closed and navigate the gulf even though he knew nothing about crosses. A bolt of lightning, its tentacles reaching down toward the horizon, caught his eye, and he also noted the absence of wind. His notice was not born of admiration, since he wasn\u2019t the sort to admire the shape of lightning or the wind or the absence of wind, but because he was alert to everything related to the sea and fishing.<\/p>\n<p>The guest who\u2019d been up drinking all night in the only bungalow besides Mario\u2019s that was lit up at this hour turned off his Carlos Gardel album and switched out the lights. Between Gardel, Olimpo C\u00e1rdenas, and the gale of resentment inside him, the twin hadn\u2019t been able to sleep much that night. The tourist\u2019s bungalow was only a few meters from his, and even though he didn\u2019t have the music turned up loud, it was still audible. But Mario wasn\u2019t upset about it; these disruptions were part of his job. The guests were paying to get drunk at the seaside, and that\u2019s how he made his living, how all of them did.<\/p>\n<p>He went to the rear patio of his father\u2019s bungalow. The old man was currently a mile away, off the coast by the airport, pulling in bait with the cast net. Mario picked up two red gas cans and placed them in the prow of the boat. Then he went back for the other two. The insects flung themselves against the Coleman lantern, wheeled around it. The waves unfurled almost silently over the sand. By the bungalows, bats were flitting among the coconut palms and the almond trees, though neither Mario nor anyone else could see them at the moment. Maybe God was aware of them, but as far as Mario was concerned, God didn\u2019t exist.<\/p>\n<p>They were preparing for a full day and night of fishing in a place some two hours out to sea, just beyond the mouth of the gulf. The plan was to bring in seven or eight hundred pounds of mojarras, blue runners, sea bass, crevalle jacks, Atlantic tarpons, lane snappers, and black margates, which the guests, perpetually ravenous thanks to either the sea air or their hangovers, would wolf down in the hotel restaurant with fried plantain, coconut rice, and tomato-and-onion salad, as they\u2019d been doing during the high season, day after day, for many years.<\/p>\n<p>Mario placed the other two gas cans in the boat and went to fetch the mangrove-wood pole that they used to push against the sandy bottom. Beside his bungalow was bungalow number two, where his mother had been talking to herself day after day, also for many years. The bungalows went from one to fifteen, with the numerals crudely painted in white on raw pieces of wood and mounted above the front doors. His was number three; his brother was in nine. The father\u2019s didn\u2019t have a number. Actually, Nora hadn\u2019t been talking to herself\u2014she\u2019d been talking to a large number of people, sometimes in a quiet voice, sometimes a little louder, but almost never shouting. Despite being a \u201ctotal nutcase\u201d\u2014that\u2019s how the twins referred to her condition, though they loved their mother\u2014she was lucid enough to realize that her husband might come and shut her up.<\/p>\n<p>Mario took the pole and carefully settled it on one side of the boat. He headed back up to the hotel kitchen. They would be taking a pot of beans, which the father himself had prepared, and one of rice. The people here on the coast didn\u2019t know how to cook them properly, the father always used to say, so if you wanted to eat a good plate of beans, you had to make it yourself. Picking up the pots, Mario muttered, \u201cOld bastard thinks he\u2019s the cow that shits the biggest turds. Any dumb-ass can cook some beans. It\u2019s not rocket science.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Resentment warmed his skin, but only frosty gusts reached his heart.<\/p>\n<p>The cluster of bungalows was called Hotel Playamar.<\/p>\n<p>He put each pot in a plastic bag and then placed them both in an empty Styrofoam cooler, no ice, where they nestled snugly together, and carried the cooler out to the boat. <i>I\u2019d better not forget the arepas<\/i>, he thought, and went back to the kitchen. <i>The old bastard will kill me if I leave those behind. <\/i>Along with the bag of arepas and the soft drinks, he grabbed the large, very sharp knife that the cook used to slice the fish into steaks. He stashed the arepas in the cooler with the beans, and the Coca-Colas in one of the coolers with ice that they\u2019d use later for storing the gutted fish. He tucked the knife into the cooler too, since he couldn\u2019t think of where else to put it. He\u2019d forget to move it somewhere else, and his father, once they were out at sea, would tell him to open the cooler and hand him his first Coca-Cola:<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhat\u2019s that for?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cJust in case.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cIn case what?\u201d<\/p>\n<p><i>You\u2019re a total loser<\/i>, the father was always insinuating whenever he spoke to his sons.<\/p>\n<p>Mario went back to his bungalow to collect the bottle opener and his fishing rods, but first he went by his mother\u2019s bungalow to see whether she was sleeping or talking with the throng. Nora had turned off the air conditioner and was sleeping, or at least she wasn\u2019t talking, though you could still sense the crowd of people. The throng was always there, whether she was awake or asleep. Mario didn\u2019t make any noise. He didn\u2019t want to wake her up if she was sleeping, or let her know he was there, since they were going to be leaving soon and she\u2019d try to start talking to him. Mario didn\u2019t think <i>Poor thing <\/i>or <i>What a sad life<\/i>. The twins never thought or talked about their mother in those terms; they\u2019d simply been by her side forever and had done everything they could to make sure she didn\u2019t suffer any more than God, who didn\u2019t exist, had decided she should. And when some unwitting guest, out of nosiness or empathy, told them her life was too hard, they\u2019d respond, \u201cYou think so?\u201d and the tourist would refrain from offering any further opinions after that.<\/p>\n<p>The father, his chest furred with gray hair, his legs muscular and veiny, emerged from the darkness, shirtless and wearing athletic shorts, carrying the cast net over his shoulder and a mesh backpack full of sardines and shrimp to use as bait. He came up to the boat and put the bait in the other cooler with ice. To someone looking in from the outside, who couldn\u2019t see the orange glow of hatred in the son\u2019s belly nor the greenish flame of contempt in the father\u2019s, time would seem to keep flowing the way it always had.<\/p>\n<p>The father saw that everything was ready but didn\u2019t say anything. Mario felt relieved, and then angry.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhere\u2019s Javier?\u201d his father asked.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI\u2019ll go get him.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Mario went to his brother\u2019s bungalow and, just as he expected, found him in the living room, reading in his hammock under the bulb dangling from the ceiling, wearing yellow athletic shorts and a red nylon waterproof jacket. Javier had the same intense black eyes as the father. He was slightly nearsighted and wore a pair of small, sturdy glasses that always fogged up in the sea spray and he\u2019d clean them with the little towel he kept draped around his neck when they went out in the boat. There were books all over the bungalow: in the living room, in the three bedrooms, and even in the bathroom and kitchen, not in bookcases but piled in stacks of ten to fifteen, as if it were some kind of warehouse or storage facility.<\/p>\n<p>On the floor beside the hammock were his fishing rods, the plastic bucket with the reels, and the woven Arhuaco bag where Javier always carried a book, a pack of cigarettes, a pocketknife, and an assortment of smaller fishing supplies: hooks, sinkers, and so forth. He also carried a jam jar of marijuana and a pipe. When he smoked pot on the boat, Javier tried to keep the smoke from blowing toward his father, who disapproved and always told him to knock off smoking that crap. Beside the bag were the four large thermoses they always took with them, full of very sweet, very strong coffee, and a plastic bag with ten unpeeled hardboiled eggs.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cAre we ready?\u201d Javier asked.<\/p>\n<p>Mario was steering the boat. The father, though he\u2019d grown up in the mountains, considered himself a better boatman than his sons, but for a while now he\u2019d enjoyed lounging as they sailed, the wind on his weathered, handsome, clean-shaven face. He was seventy-one years old and looked sixty. A bolt of lightning sliced through the sky at the horizon, like a crack extending down the side of a bowl. Mario grabbed the Evinrude\u2019s steering arm with his left hand. The sea was a black mirror.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>5:00 a.m.<\/p>\n<p>Nora had sensed the twin\u2019s presence, but she preferred to let him think she was sleeping. The engines squealed like a hog at slaughter, and the chorus of prophets chanted from the ceiling:<\/p>\n<p>\u201cDistant murmurs that illuminate the stars. Squall that trembles and chatters.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYes,\u201d Nora replied. \u201cThese things happen. That\u2019s life.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>December twenty-ninth. On the twenty-third her husband, the King, had with his own hand stabbed a pig down on the beach that had been making such a racket it sounded like a dozen pigs and the boat is moving away moving away. Dawn won\u2019t be long now.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cIt keeps dawning and dawning. What for?\u201d Nora wondered aloud.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cFeverish sun that chars the beaches, sun that lays waste,\u201d the throng prophesied, though the scorching sun that did the father such harm was still many hours off.<\/p>\n<p>The ceiling of pine planks was low and oppressive, but it was cold in the bungalow. They\u2019d taken Nora\u2019s fan away after the night she stuck her fingers into its blades, and she\u2019d suffered the heat for a long time because the father refused to buy her an air conditioner. When the twins bought one with their own money, the father initially refused to install it because of the electricity cost, but in the end he relented and now the whole world shivered when she forgot to turn it off.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cKnock-knock,\u201d someone said at the door.<\/p>\n<p>It was Do\u00f1a Libe, a neighbor who came by every morning with her youngest daughter and invited Nora to take a walk on the beach. Sometimes she went with them and sometimes she didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWho\u2019s there?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cOrange you glad it\u2019s Do\u00f1a Libe!\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Nora wanted to walk. Do\u00f1a Libe and her daughter always came before sunrise and the three would watch the slow birth of light on the mangroves. The daughter was sixteen years old and mentally retarded. The neighbor was pale-skinned, not very tall, about fifty years old, stout and thick-waisted. She was always wearing a bathing suit and had her eyes all made up. They saw the first herons emerge from the trees where they\u2019d been sleeping and wing their way toward the swamp that lay to the south. Do\u00f1a Libe asked if the boys had ended up going out this morning, and the throng was about to start singing, prophesying to the neighbor, just imagine it, the possible disaster awaiting them, when Nora hissed at them and signaled and winked and made other movements with her eyes to keep Do\u00f1a Libe from noticing:<\/p>\n<p>\u201cShhh, all of you shut up. Not now! What are you thinking? Idiots!\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWho are you talking to, Do\u00f1a Nora?\u201d Do\u00f1a Libe asked, smiling. She and her husband owned a small hotel half a league away, off in the direction the herons were flying in.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cMe?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYes, Do\u00f1a Nora.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cNobody, why?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cOh, nothing,\u201d the neighbor answered in a singsong voice, smiling again.<\/p>\n<p>Out at sea there was no sign of disaster. The lights of the trawlers were visible further out and, not far from shore, the little lights of the smaller fishing boats headed to the spots where they would drop anchor.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou see?\u201d Nora told the members of the chorus sternly, scolding them for giving Do\u00f1a Libe the opportunity to pry.<\/p>\n<p>They\u2019d been walking along with the water up to their ankles. Do\u00f1a Libe was illuminating the sea foam with the flashlight. To their left, the crabs scuttled in terror across the pure white sand of the gulf, as if the Final Judgment had been announced and they were looking for holes to crawl into to elude God. To the right the throng was now moving along in silence, but a few of them got in the way and blocked her view, and Nora had to lean sideways a little to see the lights out at sea.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cMove out of the way, would you? You\u2019re blocking my view,\u201d she told them in a voice that had grown strangely flutelike because of her illness, and the neighbor looked at her curiously. But not the little girl, who because of the confusion in her brain didn\u2019t engage much with her surroundings.<\/p>\n<p>That\u2019s the direction the boat would go.<\/p>\n<p>Nora thought about her sons and wished for them to return unharmed. The chorus misinterpreted her concern as permission to begin chanting: \u201cWatery moon that glimmers. Moon that crucifies verse.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHey now, hey. Everybody pipe down,\u201d Nora interrupted in her frail voice.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThey talk a lot, huh?\u201d Do\u00f1a Libe remarked, always kind and willing to put herself in other people\u2019s shoes.<\/p>\n<p>They were blocking Nora\u2019s path. Her worry about her sons in the boat was blocking her path too. The throng, in chorus, seemed eager to proclaim it, and she to shush them so her neighbor wouldn\u2019t notice. Nora didn\u2019t discount the possibility that Do\u00f1a Libe was part of the plot against her hatched by the death squadrons on her husband\u2019s orders, and she eyed her neighbor suspiciously, seemingly ready to believe she was part of a conspiracy.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHe\u2019s a bootlicker,\u201d she said suddenly, furious as a bird, referring to the president. \u201cA lackey, a lackey!\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cOh, you shouldn\u2019t talk about people like that, Do\u00f1a Nora,\u201d the neighbor said. She didn\u2019t know what lackey meant, but it hadn\u2019t sounded very nice to her.<\/p>\n<p>They walked past Do\u00f1a Libe\u2019s hotel and waved to her husband, who, in the light of the streetlamps, was watering the lawn with the hose as if it were a phallus, Nora thought to herself. He was dark-haired, tall, with a mustache, sixty or so, and his light eyes gleamed when he smiled. They kept walking toward the marsh, past the vacation houses that belonged to people from Medell\u00edn, which were occupied by their owners at this time of year. It was five thirty in the morning, and the owners and caretakers were still asleep. Nora stood looking at the slabs with marine designs set into the wall of one of the houses until Do\u00f1a Libe gently tugged her by the elbow and managed to get her spirit to relinquish those images of ships and sunsets that had her so engrossed. Then the three of them went back to the part of the beach where the still-dark water soaked their ankles.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cDon Alberto looks like the devil,\u201d Nora said suddenly, and the neighbor smiled with pleasure, besotted.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cDevilishly handsome and gallant,\u201d she agreed. \u201cIsn\u2019t that right, sweetie? Isn\u2019t your father very handsome?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The neighbor said the girl had ended up a little dim after a bout of meningitis, but Nora always thought she\u2019d been ill-constructed from the beginning. It looked like she\u2019d been cut clumsily out of a piece of cardboard with scissors and ended up with a flattened skull, a large hooked nose, and very close-set eyes.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cSimmer down, all of you!\u201d she shouted as a preventive measure. Where a captain rules, a sailor has no sway, she thought. Hopefully the twin would stab the sailor\u2019s captain. And hopefully not. He could also drown him\u2014they say it\u2019s a sweet death. A sweet death in saltwater, what do you say to that.<\/p>\n<p>Out on the smooth sea, the fishermen\u2019s canoes looked like little scratch marks. <i>They\u2019re going to empty out the sea. They aren\u2019t going to leave anything for my boys<\/i>, Nora thought bitterly.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cOh dear, I don\u2019t know when I\u2019ll be able to take a vacation,\u201d she said then, a weary expression on her face, and this time the neighbor looked sincerely moved and surprised.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cAnd where is it that you work, Do\u00f1a Nora, if you don\u2019t mind my asking?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThe Ministry of Foreign Affairs, with all those nobodies.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>They walked almost to the little huts right at the edge of the marsh. Soon they would fill up with tourists who\u2019d come in on buses from Sincelejo and Monter\u00eda to spend the day dancing, eating, drinking, and swimming in the sea. Now the sand was clean and swept, impeccable, and it seemed impossible that in just a few hours it would all be covered in refuse. One Sunday afternoon, Nora had come with her children and spotted the tidy cylinder of a piece of human excrement bobbing in the sea, rolling on the waves, while the crowd of oblivious tourists, who had arrived early to start strewing paper and bottles everywhere, splashed around beside it. Now, whenever she saw the palm-thatched huts, Nora always felt the urge to turn back. It was as if that cylinder was still there, rolling on the waves, waiting for her.<\/p>\n<p>They returned home, where the neighbor said goodbye and went off with the little girl, who never said goodbye.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cStorm that roils the compass. Sextant that cannot find the horizon.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYes, I know, you don\u2019t have to keep repeating it. It\u2019s annoying. You know what? We should have a party instead.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>She made sure the doors and windows were firmly shut, turned down the air conditioner, and they had a party.<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: right;\">Translated by Andrea Rosenberg<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Angrily, but with great care, Mario placed two oars in the boat and went to his father\u2019s house to fetch the gas cans. Javier had already brought the coolers full of ice and the jugs of water, and by now he\u2019d be back at his bungalow, boiling the breakfast eggs and pouring coffee into the thermoses.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":2396,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[],"tags":[2963],"genre":[2012],"pretext":[],"section":[2365],"translator":[3159],"lal_author":[3158],"class_list":["post-12768","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","tag-colombia-es","genre-fiction-es","section-translation-previews-and-new-releases-es","translator-andrea-rosenberg-es","lal_author-tomas-gonzalez-es"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12768","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=12768"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12768\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2396"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=12768"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=12768"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=12768"},{"taxonomy":"genre","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/genre?post=12768"},{"taxonomy":"pretext","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pretext?post=12768"},{"taxonomy":"section","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/section?post=12768"},{"taxonomy":"translator","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/translator?post=12768"},{"taxonomy":"lal_author","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/lal_author?post=12768"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}