Paradise Misplaced: Book 1 of the Mexican Eden Trilogy
Autor Sylvia Montgomery Shawen Limba Engleză Paperback – apr 2012 – vârsta ani
I knew the secret as a child before anyone else did—that God planted the Garden of Eden just seventy-five kilometers south of Mexico City, near the town of Cuernavaca. He scattered seeds so only the most colorful flowers and the best climbing trees would grow in that semitropical paradise. He filled the stables with the fastest, strongest Arabians; mother’s aviary with more birds than anywhere else in the world. Then he constructed a wall twice as tall as Father and encircled our Eden to keep it safe. We named the garden the Hacienda of San Serafin. I swore that I would spend the rest of my life there, where nothing bad ever happens . . .
Captain Benjamín Nyman Vizcarra, son of the wealthiest man in Mexico, has everything a young man could want. But in the days leading up to the Mexican Revolution of 1910, he finds himself questioning whether he can support the old regime—and more and more distracted by his brother’s bewitching fiancee, Isabel. Setting out to expose her as a gold-digger, he instead falls deeply in love, setting himself on a path that leads to war, poverty, and alienation from his family.
Accused and convicted of his father’s murder after a fateful late-night encounter, Benjamín faces his inner demons, beginning a process that Swedenborg describes as regeneration. As he plots escape with a fellow prisoner, a Tarahumara Indian known only as El Brujo, he relives his love affair and eventual marriage to Isabel. A new question begins to form: will he run, or will he stay to confront his mistakes and win back the woman he loves?
Captain Benjamín Nyman Vizcarra, son of the wealthiest man in Mexico, has everything a young man could want. But in the days leading up to the Mexican Revolution of 1910, he finds himself questioning whether he can support the old regime—and more and more distracted by his brother’s bewitching fiancee, Isabel. Setting out to expose her as a gold-digger, he instead falls deeply in love, setting himself on a path that leads to war, poverty, and alienation from his family.
Accused and convicted of his father’s murder after a fateful late-night encounter, Benjamín faces his inner demons, beginning a process that Swedenborg describes as regeneration. As he plots escape with a fellow prisoner, a Tarahumara Indian known only as El Brujo, he relives his love affair and eventual marriage to Isabel. A new question begins to form: will he run, or will he stay to confront his mistakes and win back the woman he loves?
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9780877853411
ISBN-10: 087785341X
Pagini: 304
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 x 28 mm
Greutate: 0.4 kg
Ediția:1
Editura: Swedenborg Foundation Publishers
Colecția Swedenborg Foundation Publishers
ISBN-10: 087785341X
Pagini: 304
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 x 28 mm
Greutate: 0.4 kg
Ediția:1
Editura: Swedenborg Foundation Publishers
Colecția Swedenborg Foundation Publishers
Recenzii
"Shaw has a killer of an opener: 'The plan was simple and well-intentioned. So, too, was the murder.' And thereby hangs an ambitious, three-part tale, set during the Mexican revolution of 1910 and centered on the Nyman family, headed by the domineering Gen. Lucio Nyman Berquist, a Swede whose marriage to the Mexican Manuela Vizcarra has produced three sons, a daughter, fabulous wealth, and strife. The narrative has two major pieces; one describes the immediate aftermath of the opening killing. The second is a flashback, a memoir penned in prison. Memoir writer Benjamin Nyman Vizcarra, one of the general’s sons, describes the events that have led him to prison, including his wild love for Isabel, a woman he thinks has betrayed him. The flamboyant story is equally colored by magical realism (El Brujo, a wizard-like Tarahumara Indian character who runs unceasingly in the prison yard) and Swedenborgianism (heroine Isabel is a Swedenborgian). But the reader need not be familiar with Swedenborg to understand and delight in the narrative arc." — Publisher's Weekly
"What a compelling read this is, and so satisfying: a story of a man becoming free, a spiritual love story with all the tension of a thriller and a plot of mistaken identities worthy of Shakespeare." — Linda Proud, author of The Botticelli Trilogy
"Paradise Misplaced, Sylvia Shaw's first novel, challenges readers to consider what the loss of Eden (which she places in Mexico) has meant to the world. She leads us through a moral landscape that is not necessarily new to us but newly imagined. The Mexican Revolution acts as the background to this novel of star-crossed lovers that recasts, however obliquely, the tale of the consequences of uncovering truth, and all that that, good and bad, can bring. In her pellucid and engaging prose, Shaw insists that we re-examine the hurried judgments we make about others. Only then, when thinking and compassion become one, as Milton would have it, 'over wrath shall grace abound.'" — Professor Meg Tyler, Boston University
Notă biografică
Sylvia Montgomery Shaw is a Mexican-American writer and scholar who was born in Mexico, grew up fully bilingual, majored in Spanish literature as an undergraduate and earned a doctorate degree in English. Her teaching career has taken her to the University of Rhode Island, Clark University, Boston University, and Bryn Athyn College. Her research interests include Emanuel Swedenborg's influence on writers of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries and studies on the historiography of the Mexican Revolution of 1910.
Extras
Prisoner 243 contrived to gain access to the upper corridor every morning before any of the other inmates were awake. Only he and the Tarahumara Indian had permission to leave their cells a full two hours before the official time. Arranging it had been easy. Benjamín, who continued to play the catatonic prisoner during the monthly visit of his mother's attorney, had instructed his bodyguard on Mangel what to say.
“Sir, we’ve noticed that Captain Nyman seems to perk up a little whenever we wheel him outdoors and the air is cool.”
“The captain reacts?” The attorney swung around to stare at the man in the wheelchair who was facing the wall.
“Oh, just the slighest flutter of the eyes, nothing more!” Mangel rushed to divert the man’s attention away from Benjamín. “Yet it is something—a bit of hope. Well, not enough to get his dear mother’s hopes up! We wouldn’t want to do that, but enough to make us keep trying to bring him around ever so slowly. Anyway, we think that the captain would benefit greatly by being allowed out of his cell every morning before the others, so he can enjoy fresh air without being jostled or troubled by the rougher element of this establishment. Since you are authorized by the family to pay the necessary compensation to the warden . . .”
It was arranged.
At first Benjamín and the Tarahumara Indian were closely guarded. It wasn’t long, though, before it became apparent to the guards that the morning routine was nothing more than a rich man’s whim and a poor man’s obsession. Escape was not the object. Benjamin had paid the bribes simply so he could watch the Indian run free.
For Benjamín, it was also about surreptitiously restoring strength to his legs while perpetuating the illusion that he was still completely wheelchair-bound. In his cell, he had his bodyguards work his legs as Dr. Siqueiros had originally instructed, but his legs felt utterly mechanical and separate from him—pistons that moved only when moved by others. On his own, he was able to take no more than a stumbling step before collapsing. On the other hand, he could work successfully on upper body strength, regaining muscle tone in his arms, back and chest. But even doing pushups required that one of his bodyguards position his feet and grip them tightly to keep them from splaying out under the weight of his inert legs. Benjamín worked tirelessly, clinging to the hope that at least the exercises would keep his muscles from atrophying.
As for the early morning run, he had to content himself with simply observing the Tarahumara. Yet Benjamín soon began pulling himself out of his chair, leaning heavily against the railing as he watched. He worked up to the point where he could stand unassisted, from a few seconds to a full five minutes before slumping back into his chair. Day by day he grew stronger, remembering to sit down simply to maintain the illusion of his disability. One morning the Tarahumara ran past him, then circled back and murmured, “Come with me.”
“No. I’m not ready.” Benjamín clutched the railing, his wheelchair ready to catch him.
The Tarahumara disappeared into the dark, pre-dawn chill and ducked into his cell. A few minutes later he reappeared. Without breaking his stride, he pulled up alongside the wheelchair. Running in place, he held out a gourd.
“Drink this.”
“What is it?” Benjamín stared up into the dark, angular lines of a face he did not yet know how to read. It was granite-hard, immutable and ageless. Was the man thirty years old or sixty? He seemed at once youthful and old.
“Iskiate.”
“Getting me drunk won’t change the fact that my legs are dead.” Benjamín handed back the gourd.
The Tarahumara continued to run in place. “It’s not what you think. Drink it.”
In a flash, the man was off again, his bare feet gently skimming across the cold tiles. El Brujo—“The Witch Doctor,” as the inmates called the Tarahumara—was rumored to be a full-fledged shaman. Benjamín’s interest in him was as a runner. He noted that the man seemed to defy gravity, his feet barely touching the ground, his back straight as a knife, knees slightly bent, feet shuffling in a kind of tip-toeing motion, never punching or pounding. After making another circuit, he returned to Benjamín.
“All of it.” And he was off again.
Nyman stared into a murky slime. What’s the shaman put into it? Mouse droppings and frog eggs? He smelled the brew. It had a faint scent of lime. Well, what the hell! Benjamín took a mouthful and spit it out. The thick, custard-like texture startled him, yet it left a pleasant aftertaste of lime in his mouth. Don’t think. Just drink it.
Twenty minutes or so after he had downed it and the shaman had not yet returned, Benjamín pulled himself out of his chair and peered over the railing into the courtyard below. Where the devil has he gone? He was halfway down the corridor before he stopped and shot a startled look at his abandoned wheelchair.
“Brujo! Brujo!” He half-shouted, half-laughed the name. A hawk shadow flew past him, then circled around him.
“Run!” The Tarahumara spoke softly by his side.
“Sir, we’ve noticed that Captain Nyman seems to perk up a little whenever we wheel him outdoors and the air is cool.”
“The captain reacts?” The attorney swung around to stare at the man in the wheelchair who was facing the wall.
“Oh, just the slighest flutter of the eyes, nothing more!” Mangel rushed to divert the man’s attention away from Benjamín. “Yet it is something—a bit of hope. Well, not enough to get his dear mother’s hopes up! We wouldn’t want to do that, but enough to make us keep trying to bring him around ever so slowly. Anyway, we think that the captain would benefit greatly by being allowed out of his cell every morning before the others, so he can enjoy fresh air without being jostled or troubled by the rougher element of this establishment. Since you are authorized by the family to pay the necessary compensation to the warden . . .”
It was arranged.
At first Benjamín and the Tarahumara Indian were closely guarded. It wasn’t long, though, before it became apparent to the guards that the morning routine was nothing more than a rich man’s whim and a poor man’s obsession. Escape was not the object. Benjamin had paid the bribes simply so he could watch the Indian run free.
For Benjamín, it was also about surreptitiously restoring strength to his legs while perpetuating the illusion that he was still completely wheelchair-bound. In his cell, he had his bodyguards work his legs as Dr. Siqueiros had originally instructed, but his legs felt utterly mechanical and separate from him—pistons that moved only when moved by others. On his own, he was able to take no more than a stumbling step before collapsing. On the other hand, he could work successfully on upper body strength, regaining muscle tone in his arms, back and chest. But even doing pushups required that one of his bodyguards position his feet and grip them tightly to keep them from splaying out under the weight of his inert legs. Benjamín worked tirelessly, clinging to the hope that at least the exercises would keep his muscles from atrophying.
As for the early morning run, he had to content himself with simply observing the Tarahumara. Yet Benjamín soon began pulling himself out of his chair, leaning heavily against the railing as he watched. He worked up to the point where he could stand unassisted, from a few seconds to a full five minutes before slumping back into his chair. Day by day he grew stronger, remembering to sit down simply to maintain the illusion of his disability. One morning the Tarahumara ran past him, then circled back and murmured, “Come with me.”
“No. I’m not ready.” Benjamín clutched the railing, his wheelchair ready to catch him.
The Tarahumara disappeared into the dark, pre-dawn chill and ducked into his cell. A few minutes later he reappeared. Without breaking his stride, he pulled up alongside the wheelchair. Running in place, he held out a gourd.
“Drink this.”
“What is it?” Benjamín stared up into the dark, angular lines of a face he did not yet know how to read. It was granite-hard, immutable and ageless. Was the man thirty years old or sixty? He seemed at once youthful and old.
“Iskiate.”
“Getting me drunk won’t change the fact that my legs are dead.” Benjamín handed back the gourd.
The Tarahumara continued to run in place. “It’s not what you think. Drink it.”
In a flash, the man was off again, his bare feet gently skimming across the cold tiles. El Brujo—“The Witch Doctor,” as the inmates called the Tarahumara—was rumored to be a full-fledged shaman. Benjamín’s interest in him was as a runner. He noted that the man seemed to defy gravity, his feet barely touching the ground, his back straight as a knife, knees slightly bent, feet shuffling in a kind of tip-toeing motion, never punching or pounding. After making another circuit, he returned to Benjamín.
“All of it.” And he was off again.
Nyman stared into a murky slime. What’s the shaman put into it? Mouse droppings and frog eggs? He smelled the brew. It had a faint scent of lime. Well, what the hell! Benjamín took a mouthful and spit it out. The thick, custard-like texture startled him, yet it left a pleasant aftertaste of lime in his mouth. Don’t think. Just drink it.
Twenty minutes or so after he had downed it and the shaman had not yet returned, Benjamín pulled himself out of his chair and peered over the railing into the courtyard below. Where the devil has he gone? He was halfway down the corridor before he stopped and shot a startled look at his abandoned wheelchair.
“Brujo! Brujo!” He half-shouted, half-laughed the name. A hawk shadow flew past him, then circled around him.
“Run!” The Tarahumara spoke softly by his side.
Descriere
In the days following the Mexican Revolution of 1910, Captain Benjamin Nyman Vizcarra -- officer to some, traitor to others -- is convicted of murdering his father, the wealthiest man in Mexico. Imprisoned, he relives the months that led up to the fateful late-night encounter that resulted in his father's death: his affair with, and eventual marriage to, his brother's fiancee; his decision to join the revolution in defiance of his family; the fateful provision in his father's will that unraveled his attempts to build a new life.
As he plots escape with a fellow prisoner, one question haunts him: will he run from his past, or confront his mistakes and try to win back the woman he loves?
As he plots escape with a fellow prisoner, one question haunts him: will he run from his past, or confront his mistakes and try to win back the woman he loves?