{"id":39451,"date":"2025-03-29T15:42:02","date_gmt":"2025-03-29T21:42:02","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/2025\/03\/gloria-a-novel-translated-by-will-vanderhyden-by-andres-felipe-solano\/"},"modified":"2025-03-31T14:46:43","modified_gmt":"2025-03-31T20:46:43","slug":"gloria-a-novel-translated-by-will-vanderhyden-by-andres-felipe-solano","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/2025\/03\/gloria-a-novel-translated-by-will-vanderhyden-by-andres-felipe-solano\/","title":{"rendered":"Gloria: A Novel, translated by Will Vanderhyden"},"content":{"rendered":"

It is a bright spring Saturday: April 11, 1970. The famous Argentine singer Sandro is about to become the first Latin American to perform at Madison Square Garden, and Gloria will be one of the lucky attendees at what will be a legendary concert. At just twenty years old, the young woman walks through the electric streets of New York City full of hope and possibility. The disturbing images she recently encountered at her job at a photographic laboratory, the trauma of a father who was murdered when she was a child, and even the long-term prospects of her relationship with Tigre, her irascible boyfriend, are problems for another day. This day should be perfect and should last forever. Which it will, in surprising and unexpected ways.<\/span>
\n<\/span>
\n<\/span>Five decades later, Gloria\u2019s son reflects on his mother\u2019s life and realizes that their formative years\u2014imprinted as they are by sojourns in New York at exactly the same age\u2014are a bridge between generations that draws the pair closer through a shared sense of longing and potential.<\/span>
\n<\/span>
\n<\/span>A novel of mothers and sons spanning New York City, Colombia, and Miami, <\/span><\/em>Gloria<\/span> is a sophisticated and daring excavation of a woman\u2019s life that asks us to consider how the choices we make in our youth reverberate throughout our possible futures.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She has never smoked and may never light up a cigarette, but today, which I decide to imagine bright and bustling, she should, she should take advantage of her boyfriend being late to slowly inhale the smoke, aware of how her lipstick is leaving a mark on the filter, the nervous pressure of her lips giving it a slightly oval shape. Inside that silvery blue cloud of smoke, the wait is less agonizing, more bearable, as they say of certain afflictions, because that\u2019s what it is, a disquiet she discovered upon waking that morning, earlier than usual, when the light slipped softly in through her room\u2019s window and she couldn\u2019t yet hear animals knocking over bottles on that street corner in Queens. When she first opened her eyes, she\u2019d even felt hopeful, reentering the\u00a0 world without fear. It usually takes her a little while to come\u00a0 to terms with what it is to be alive and awake, a few minutes to tentatively break the waters of sleep, but today is different, because today is a day that should last forever\u2014that is, if Tigre ever bothers to show up. The feeling of disquiet, far from receding, became a stabbing pain in her chest that, as the\u00a0 hours passed, under the spray of the shower, eating the one piece of toast she had for breakfast, calling Tigre to arrange where to meet, swelled into an irrepressible stormy sea, rising furiously through her whole body. So now the best thing she can do is smoke. Yet let\u2019s suppose\u2014because that\u2019s also what this is about, supposing. We suppose, then, that Tigre doesn\u2019t like smelling nicotine in the folds of her polka-dot blouse, in her chestnut hair, in her eyelashes, curled with the aid of a device purchased the previous week, after her shift at the photo lab. And to dispel the issue, she had made a deal with him. Yes, a deal, knowing that he would never hold up his end. Fine, I\u2019ll quit smoking if you start showing up on time, she said. A laugh in response, a laugh like an empty can of crackers rolling down a long staircase. That laugh and showing up late and a volatile temperament and wide-collared shirts are the defining characteristics of Tigre, a nickname he earned in\u00a0 a legendary fight, he told her as they walked through Manhattan on one of their first dates. In fact, that\u2019s how he\u2019d introduced himself months before. Nice to meet you, Tigre, he said, smiling and confident in a parking ramp, in a vague imitation of those young fighter pilots she saw as a girl on the screen of a damp-walled movie theater in the small city\u00a0 where she was born. And as he did so, as he said the nickname that\u2019d become a permanent stand-in for his real name, Tigre reached out his large, white, hairy-fingered hand to take her\u00a0 slender, white, long-fingered hand. A minute later, they were in the van that would take them to Niagara Falls. But that was last year, at the end of autumn, and now we\u2019re in a diner in the middle of the spring of 1970, at 4:25 p.m., and he\u2019s nowhere to be seen. From one moment to the next, she feels disgusted by the smoke, by the smell, like how sometimes, bored of a beach or a mountain, she turns her back on it without any regret. I suggest she leave the cigarette half smoked. She does so. She stubs it out slowly, firmly, sitting at a table beside the window, watching people pass by outside, a table where she\u2019s been waiting for Tigre for an hour, maybe less. <\/span>La Ma-llor-qui-na<\/span><\/i>, she reads, separating the syllables, on the side of the hexagonal ashtray, before saying to herself, how strange, he\u2019s never been this late. Almost an hour now, maybe more. The seed of disquiet, discovered in the center of her chest when she got up that morning, has grown into a tangled mess of tachycardia and burning palm trees. And it\u2019s not helping\u00a0 to have an old man leering at her from the opposite corner of the establishment. Dominican? Puerto Rican? Cuban? It must be the red miniskirt, but how could she not wear it, it fits so well and she\u2019d been saving it for weeks, months, for that day, for today.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

She lifts her right arm that, bored, she\u2019d left dangling under the table, and looks at her watch again. Her mother gave it to her a week before she boarded the plane to the United States. It\u2019s one of the few things she brought with her. She\u2019s placed a strange faith in it, a certainty common for others but not for her. A faith that her mother really does love her, despite the fact that everything she does demonstrates the opposite. The first and worst was having sent her when she was seven years old to the capital to attend a boarding school full of varicose nuns. The last, not having come to El Dorado Airport to see her off. Let\u2019s see: 4:32 p.m. She would insult him if she could, the problem was that, with Tigre, the insults never came, it was as if she\u2019d stashed them in a box and when she opened it to use them, they weren\u2019t there. Just an empty box, smelling of wood shavings and dust, a dead insect inside, a ladybug devoid of color, a box like the ones in the ironing room of her family\u2019s enormous home in Bogot\u00e1. She\u2019s ready\u00a0 to remember it, to go down the stairs, sensing the ghost in her belly, the house is haunted, to glimpse her reflection out of the corner of her eye in the quartz crystal mirror hanging in the\u00a0 living room, to pass through the dining room with eight place settings, to enter the kitchen, to walk across it and out onto the patio to greet the toucan that her mother\u2019s friend brought them from the Amazon, but before she can, she\u2019s seized by that very particular fear that\u2019s overcome her every so often since she\u2019s been in New York. Because so far, it\u2019s only happened to her in New York, never in Missouri, where she spent a few months she\u2019d considered unforgettable but no longer were, not after confronting the resounding roar of the city. The only city. The thing is, she\u2019s come to believe that, suddenly, without warning, she\u2019ll forget something simple, fundamental, at moments such as this, reading the hands on her watch in La Mallorquina diner, waiting for Tigre, who\u2019s nowhere to be seen, fucking hell. Or frying an egg. Her name. Things like that. Last week she even felt like she was going to wake up someday having forgotten how to play ping-pong. She\u2019s been thinking about it and is sure that in another time, in another place, that fear would\u2019ve wrecked her. It would\u2019ve paralyzed her, prevented her from even pulling up her stockings in the morning. There, on those electric streets where even the rumble of parading taxis and the howls of the people excited her, never, not a chance. If the sacrifice for being here\u00a0 is to forget everything and learn it all over again, I\u2019m ready to accept it. She\u2019s surprised by how calmly she says it. She didn\u2019t know you could have a feeling like this for a city, that you could long for it the way she\u2019s begun to long for New York, though it might also be because her mother isn\u2019t there and not just because of the musical rattle of the subway platforms, the magazines in that new language she already finds herself thinking in once or twice a day, the shop windows that change weekly, the way life should change, the men and their newfound beauty, her stable Friday paycheck, and her new addiction\u2014pizza. What a strange food, so simple yet so perfect. She\u2019d never seen anything like it in Bogot\u00e1.\u00a0 She\u2019d eaten hamburgers at Crem Helado de la Treinta y Dos with her sisters, sure; never pizza. She tried it on her landlady\u2019s recommendation and now it\u2019s all she eats. Cheese, with a sprinkle of oregano, and that\u2019s it. They already know her at John\u2019s, on the corner of Grand Avenue and Haspel Street.\u00a0 They see her come in and before she sits down at the bar, they\u00a0 have a slice served up on a piece of wax paper. Being young in\u00a0 that city, making connections with people, smiling at them,\u00a0 having them smile at her, hating them, having them hate her. Let\u2019s see: 4:39 p.m., 4:40! The hands seem to have begun to accelerate. She calculates. She goes over the subway stops to\u00a0 Madison Square Garden. She\u2019s already memorized all of the F Line stops down to Midtown. In a taxi, not a chance, at that time of day, they would never get there on time and it would end up costing a lot. Tigre had twenty minutes to show up or they wouldn\u2019t get in. Not one minute more. And if they didn\u2019t get in, she would find those lost insults. Or invent some new ones if she had to. New insults invented for Tigre and Tigre alone.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHey, shouldn\u2019t you be in line already?\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The voice startles her, a voice she hears almost every day.\u00a0 In general, it\u2019s a voice that helps her relax, makes her feel safe, a lighthouse in a stormy sea, but she wasn\u2019t prepared to hear it in that diner and at such close proximity. Amparo has the bad\u00a0 habit of close talking. Luckily, she doesn\u2019t have bad breath. When had she come in? If she hadn\u2019t asked for the day off, the\u00a0 two of them would\u2019ve left the lab together and walked to the salon where her friend worked a five-to-nine shift. Two jobs, three if you counted the people she saw at home on Sundays.\u00a0 Amparo\u2019s mother is bedridden, which was why she couldn\u2019t go to the concert. They live alone, opposing mirrors replicating each other infinitely, in an apartment near LaGuardia,\u00a0 full of tables covered with embroidered tablecloths, smelling of cheap powders and desiccated drool, where she visited them two weeks ago and they drank hot chocolate as if they were living in a mountain town in Colombia and had just come home from mass. La Sola, that\u2019s Carlota\u2019s nickname for Amparo. Ehhh, hanging out with la Sola again? Carlota called her la Sola until one day, in the middle of Roosevelt Avenue, she asked her to, please, stop. Hearing the nickname, she couldn\u2019t help but think of a white tapeworm\u2014<\/span>una\u00a0 solitaria<\/span><\/i>\u2014like the one that had emerged from the rectum of one of her boarding-school classmates in the middle of the\u00a0 night. The daughter of Our Dear President, the mother superior repeated annoyingly every time she referred to that fragile and ugly girl, all bones, a heron-girl from a <\/span>llanera <\/span><\/i>song. She remembers how she accompanied the sobbing girl to the bathroom so she could finish passing the worm without the embarrassment of the nuns and everyone else finding out. In the end, the worm escaped the toilet and wound up stranded on the cold tiles, writhing in the moonlight. That\u2019s the kind\u00a0 of memory she has of the boarding school her mother sent her to. Intestinal parasites and an inexplicable fear of the Colombian flag. If she passes by a really big one, she\u2019s overwhelmed by the feeling that it\u2019s going to wrap around her and swallow her whole.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m waiting for Tigre.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAh, Tigre. You and your Tigrecito\u2026\u201d Amparo says,\u00a0 still standing.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

There\u2019s a contemptuous, even argumentative, tone when she says his name. When Amparo uses diminutives, and she often does, there\u2019s usually a hint of warmth, but now she\u2019s not so sure. She\u2019s been a little hostile since she told her in the locker room that she was going to see Him in concert.\u00a0 So silly, she thought in that moment, so silly she repeats to\u00a0 herself now, gesturing for her to sit. If she hadn\u2019t, Amparo would\u2019ve stood there until she turned gray, she\u2019s one of those women who believe certain formalities help prevent existential collapse. She doesn\u2019t know her that well, maybe that means they\u2019re just work friends, not being able to anticipate her reactions. She thought Amparo would\u2019ve been surprised, the way her sisters were when she called to tell them from one of the phone booths at Jackson Heights subway station. Their jubilation on the other end of the line was infectious and only then did she really comprehend the true dimension of what she was going to experience on Saturday, that is, today, April 11, 1970. Oh, that\u2019s nice, was all Amparo said when she\u2019d told her in the locker room.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Amparo pulls back the chair she\u2019d indicated and sits down for a chat, while pushing back her long red hair, which gets washed out every summer. Under the lights in the photo lab,\u00a0 she doesn\u2019t look this haggard, and might easily pass for much younger than her actual age, which is forty. Carlota doesn\u2019t\u00a0 understand this either, how she\u2019s befriended a woman twice\u00a0 her age. The thing is that Amparo is as loyal as an echo.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTomorrow, right? At four. Try to think of something he liked and bring it if you can. It could be a food or a drink,\u201d Amparo says.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The concert had occupied her mind for days and she hadn\u2019t\u00a0 remembered that tomorrow, Sunday, she was supposed to go to Amparo\u2019s apartment for a formal session. She hadn\u2019t told\u00a0 anybody what she hoped to do, especially not her mother, when she called her a couple days ago and her mother let slip: <\/span>seventeen years ago today, your father was\u2026 <\/span><\/i>She always\u00a0 trailed off at that point, unable to utter the most terrible verb\u00a0 of all. Her friend is a medium and has promised to contact her father. Amparo\u2019s mother had been a witch back in Colombia, but a more powerful witch had waged a war against her, in the countryside and the cities, and she\u2019d been forced\u00a0 to flee and come live in the United States with her daughter. The battle left her mother debilitated and weakened, but not beaten. Amparo inherited some of her powers, among them the ability to commune with the dead. That\u2019s why she\u2019d gone to drink hot chocolate at Amparo\u2019s apartment. She wanted to hear in detail, away from eavesdropping coworkers, how and when Amparo was going to contact him, her father. Was it\u00a0 possible for her to miss him even though she was barely three years old when he was buried? Yes, it was possible. Sometimes a future that never took shape weighs more heavily\u00a0 than any past.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Amparo stares at the cigarette butts in the ashtray without\u00a0 judgment and begins humming a song, a kind of olive branch, and all is forgotten, let\u2019s be work friends again. She starts\u00a0 out quietly and only when the song imposes itself over the\u00a0 conversations at the other tables does she recognize it. It\u2019s an old one, but it\u2019s one she likes. She starts humming along and then adds the lyrics. Soon they find themselves singing the tango she\u2019d heard walking hand-in-hand with her widowed mother, her jewelry jingling, past one of the little caf\u00e9s of her childhood, where tie-wearing men drunkenly embraced each other in the full light of day and every so often a bottle of aguardiente slid off the table and crashed to the floor. Now she\u2019s the one leading, imitating the deep voice of Sarita Montiel\u2026 <\/span>Fumando espero al hombre a quien yo quiero, tras\u00a0 los cristales de alegres ventanales<\/span><\/i>\u2026 A tall and slender waiter appears, and they get embarrassed by their spontaneous musical outburst. They fall silent and the remnants of the song disperse in her mind, tatters of burning paper\u2026 <\/span>Mientras fumo mi vida no consume porque flotando el humo me suele adormecer<\/span><\/i>. Amparo orders a caf\u00e9 con leche and then reaches out a\u00a0 hand to softly touch the hem of her red miniskirt. From the expression on the face of the old man in the corner\u2014Haitian? Venezuelan? Colombian like them?\u2014he appears to envy her.\u00a0 Amparo nods, indicating that she approves of the finish. She tells Amparo about Alexander\u2019s, a department store she discovered last week in Manhattan. We should go together, she says, afraid of going overboard. Her friend smiles without a hint of bitterness and says yes, one of these days, when she has something to spend. I\u2019m poor here, but I wasn\u2019t born poor, let\u2019s keep that clear, Amparo often repeats in the locker room.\u00a0 From rector of a girl\u2019s school to machine operator. A house of her own in Colombia for her younger siblings and renting an apartment in a run-down building near LaGuardia, where you hear planes land every five minutes and the windows vibrate. She\u2019s a machine operator too, they work side by side, but the word <\/span>poverty <\/span><\/i>doesn\u2019t even enter her mind. Maybe because it\u2019s all an adventure and New York hasn\u2019t knocked\u00a0 her down yet. Not yet. For now, there\u2019s just too much litter on the sidewalks. The blackout, the rats\u2019 nests, the burning buildings, and the sex epidemic are far away. And anyway, her mother lives in a mansion with four employees and a ton of Meissen porcelain and she works as a machine operator at the Agfa photo labs, so what does that make her exactly? She doesn\u2019t know.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The caf\u00e9 con leche arrives steaming, without the milk skin having formed. Amparo smiles at the waiter and, to keep him there a few seconds longer, orders a mallorca, the Puerto Rican sweet roll that gave the place its name. She\u2019s always angling for attention and has nice teeth and prominent breasts, but the excess eye makeup, two raccoon stripes, scares off most prospects. She doesn\u2019t dare tell her, knowing that being single for a while has made Amparo sensitive to\u00a0 such comments.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPlain mallorca,\u201d the waiter responds without returning Amparo\u2019s smile. She comes out in support of her friend, offering a safety net in the form of a question, a question that, without being aware of it, will end up triggering a horrible memory that\u2019ll accompany her the rest of the time she spends waiting for Tigre to appear.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAnd Mr. Murray? Is he okay?\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mr. Murray is their boss. His son had an accident\u2014if you\u00a0 can call drinking a bottle of Baygon an accident\u2014and he hadn\u2019t come into work the day before.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes, he\u2019s okay. They pumped his son\u2019s stomach, and it didn\u2019t lead to anything serious,\u201d Amparo says, taking three little sips of her coffee. Then she leaves it on the table and\u00a0 doesn\u2019t touch it again.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBut that doesn\u2019t matter. I almost forgot. Guess what. They came for the pictures. Mr. Murray\u2019s secretary told me,\u201d she\u00a0 adds, widening her eyes and slapping the table with the palm\u00a0 of her hand. The spoons and ashtray jump, the coffee almost spills, and she thinks that the shadow of revenge is once again hovering over them, why else would Amparo want to ruin her afternoon by bringing that up now? She hadn\u2019t thought about what had happened for a while and now it would be hard to get it out of her head.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Amparo suddenly grabs ahold of her wrist and looks at her watch.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTen to five! I have to go. I\u2019ll tell you all about it tomorrow at my place. Eat the mallorca, they\u2019re really good here. And have fun at the concert.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Amparo stands up, smooths her skirt, gives her a quick\u00a0 kiss on the cheek, and leaves, waving to her all the way across the restaurant until she\u2019s out the door. She watches her pass in front of the window, smiling, not really understanding why, it\u2019s impossible that four hours of washing strangers\u2019 hair would make her happy. She lets the doubt spread further to avoid thinking about what Amparo had said and asks the waiter to clear the caf\u00e9 con leche. She hesitates to take a bite of the powdered-sugar-dusted mallorca. She\u2019s hungry, but not that hungry. If she does, she\u2019ll have to eat the whole thing, and if she doesn\u2019t, it\u2019s possible they\u2019ll serve it to someone else. The worst would be for them to throw it away without anyone having touched it. It\u2019s inescapable. It starts with those words: Guess what? They came for the pictures. They came. That was exactly what she\u2019d said. They came, instead of he came. The man who took the pictures and one of the women? Two\u00a0 men? Or was it an indistinct they came; a they came that was really a he came? Just one. It\u2019s Tigre\u2019s fault, if he\u2019d shown up sooner, they would be talking about where they were going to meet Carlota or at least fighting about why he was so late.\u00a0 So, to avoid contemplating the absolute tragedy, the misery, the meaninglessness of her life if they got there and the doors\u00a0 were closed, she decides to think about what had happened at the Agfa lab. She does so with legs crossed, sitting sideways in her chair, slightly back from the table she\u2019d specifically picked out so she could see when Tigre arrived. She finds herself ready to examine the incident with renewed attention, a cool head, now that she has more time and isn\u2019t being ambushed by those images, walking alone in a park or down the aisles of a supermarket. She hasn\u2019t told Tigre anything about it, of course. The vileness of the whole story hasn\u2019t faded, touching her to later drift away and disappear into the New York sewers. Just the opposite. It\u2019s taken up residence deep inside her, entangling her soul, and she\u2019s terrified that somebody might find it. Or at least that\u2019s what I think. <\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Translated by Will Vanderhyden<\/span><\/h5>\n
Excerpted from <\/span>Gloria<\/span><\/i>. Reprinted by permission of Counterpoint Press.<\/span><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

Gloria <\/span><\/i>is available via<\/span> Counterpoint Press<\/span><\/a>.\u00a0<\/span><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n
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It is a bright spring Saturday: April 11, 1970. The famous Argentine singer Sandro is about to become the first Latin American to perform at Madison Square Garden, and Gloria will be one of the lucky attendees at what will be a legendary concert. At just twenty years old, the young woman walks through the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":5,"featured_media":39022,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2893],"tags":[5254],"genre":[],"pretext":[],"section":[],"translator":[2528],"lal_author":[3070],"class_list":["post-39451","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-adelantos-de-traduccion-y-novedades-editoriales","tag-numero-33","translator-will-vanderhyden-es-2","lal_author-andres-felipe-solano-es-2"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/39451","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\/5"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=39451"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/39451\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":40147,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/39451\/revisions\/40147"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/39022"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=39451"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=39451"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=39451"},{"taxonomy":"genre","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/genre?post=39451"},{"taxonomy":"pretext","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pretext?post=39451"},{"taxonomy":"section","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/section?post=39451"},{"taxonomy":"translator","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/translator?post=39451"},{"taxonomy":"lal_author","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/lal_author?post=39451"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}