Things We Lost in the Fire by Mariana Enriquez (tr. Megan McDowell)

The Argentine writer and journalist Mariana Enriquez grew up during the country’s Dirty War. From 1976 to 1983, when Argentina was in the grip of the military dictatorship, several thousands of citizens were murdered or disappeared, many of whom were not formally documented due to the terrorist regime in place. While the primary targets were communist activists and sympathisers, others were also singled out, from artists, writers and journalists to students, militants and trade unionists – in short, anyone suspected of being a left-wing activist. Things We Lost in the Fire – a superb collection of twelve short stories, first published in Spanish in 2016 – alludes to this history, bringing the country’s horrors to life in vivid, highly compelling ways. I hope to find a place for it in my 2024 highlights.

In these macabre, deeply disturbing stories, elements of Gothic horror and surreal, otherworldly imagery are intertwined with insightful social critique, tapping into the collective traumas from Argentina’s atrocities, both past and present. Time and time again, the country’s dark underbelly bursts through the surface, making its presence felt in the characters’ anxieties and fears. Importantly, the shocks come not only from the violence and traumas we are exposed to directly but also from a growing immunity to these horrors once they become embedded within the fabric of society.

Many of these stories begin in the realms of contemporary normality, only to shift into darker, nightmarish territory as they unfold. In some instances, Enriquez’s protagonists are left questioning whether what they are experiencing is real or imaginary, like a manifestation of past or present horrors resurfacing to haunt them.

In ‘The Dirty Kid’, a middle-class woman who prides herself on being savvy enough to survive in a rough neighbourhood becomes fixated on a homeless kid sleeping on the street corner. When a boy is murdered and his body dumped nearby, the woman becomes convinced it’s the same child, chastising herself for not having helped him more. This excellent story exposes the latent guilt bubbling under the surface of our untroubled lives until it confronts us directly.

Enriquez is terrific at building tension, and this can be seen in ‘Adela’s House’, one of the creepiest, most atmospheric stories in the collection. Siblings Pablo and Carla befriend Adela, a confident, one-armed girl who is mocked by the other kids at school. After developing a taste for horror stories, Pablo and Adela set off to explore an abandoned, bricked-up house, taking Carla with them. What follows is deeply unnerving, tapping into our fears of the unknown and unresolved.

He needed to know what had happened in that house, what was inside. He wanted it with a fervor that was strange to see in an eleven-year-old boy. I don’t understand, I could never understand what the house did to him, how it drew him in like that. Because it drew him to it, first. And then he infected Adela. (p. 74)

Enriquez also excels in using imagery to unnerve both her protagonists and her readers. In ‘Spiderweb’, a woman sees a house engulfed in flames with no firefighters in sight. Ten minutes later, the blaze has disappeared leaving only a patch of scorched earth visible on the ground. How could the fire have been extinguished so quickly? Was it real or just an illusion? It’s hard to tell. The story is narrated by a woman trapped in a loveless marriage who, on visiting her family in the north, becomes increasingly convinced that she should dump her arrogant husband. Other unsettling incidents come to light as the trip unfolds, blurring the margins between the real and the imaginary. It’s another excellent, enigmatic story laced with notes of ambiguity, especially towards the end.

It’s harder to breathe in the humid north, up there so close to Brazil and Paraguay, the rushing river guarded by mosquito sentinels and a sky that can turn from limpid blue to stormy black in minutes. You start to struggle right away when you arrive, as if a brutal arm were wound around your waist and squeezing. (p. 94)

Imagery also plays a key role in ‘No Flesh over Our Bones’, in which a young woman becomes obsessed with a jawless skull she finds by a tree, naming it Vera, short for ‘Calavera’, the Spanish word for skull. Her boyfriend is freaked out by this, especially when she makes a kind of shrine out of the object, complete with candles, jewellery, and a wig. As her obsession with human bones deepens, we wonder where this fixation will end.

We all walk over bones in this city, it’s just a question of making holes deep enough to reach the buried dead. (p. 131)

This creepy, unsettling story is one of many that reflect the dark shadow of Argentina’s past atrocities; and, like others in this striking collection, it leaves the reader worrying about what might happen next.

In ‘Under the Black Water’, another atmospheric, vividly realised piece, a drowned boy appears to come back from the dead, emerging from a heavily polluted river which has been used as a dumping ground for everything from toxic waste to children murdered in the slums. Enriquez shines a light on police corruption here, weaving some coruscating social commentary into her picture of the neighbourhood. 

…that was what the cops did in the southern slums, much more than protect people: they killed teenagers, sometimes out of cruelty, other times because the kids refused to “work” for them—to steal for them or sell the drugs the police seized. Or for betraying them. The reasons for killing poor kids were many and despicable. (p. 157)

Most of Enriquez’s protagonists are women or girls, highlighting the horrors of life in Argentina from the female perspective, ranging from arrogant, unsympathetic partners and violence at the hands of men to mental illness and self-harm.

In ‘The Neighbor’s Courtyard’, one of the most unnerving pieces here, Paula and her partner, Miguel, move into a spacious new home in an up-and-coming part of the city. Paula is studying to complete her sociology degree after being fired from her previous role in charge of a children’s shelter – an isolated incident of negligence she has been trying to come to terms with ever since. Unsurprisingly, she is also recovering from depression – a situation not helped by Miguel, who has no time for specialists or anti-depressants.

When Paula decided to consult a psychiatrist, Miguel flew into a rage and told her not to even think of going to one of those charlatans. Why did she have to talk to someone else, he asked. Didn’t she trust him? He’d even said they probably needed to have a baby. (p. 136)

When Paula catches glimpses of a boy chained by the ankle in her neighbour’s courtyard, an opportunity for atonement beckons; but when she tries to show Miguel, the boy is nowhere to be seen. Is he real or imaginary? A manifestation of Paula’s traumas, from her guilt over the incident at the shelter to the destructive impact of Miguel’s behaviour? Again, it’s not entirely clear – initially at least. This brilliant story ends on a chilling note, neatly suggesting there is no easy escape from the horrors of life.

Other stories, particularly ‘End of Term’, in which a teenage girl hears a man’s voice telling her to self-harm, reinforce the belief that no woman is safe or immune from the effects of trauma.

The collection ends with the titular story, another blistering view from the female perspective. In this piece, women become compelled to participate in burnings, deliberating disfiguring themselves as a response to male violence. In the past, several women have been set alight by men, either in incidents of domestic abuse or in ritualistic burnings stretching back over several years. Now is the time for women to take control as a spate of ‘underground’ burnings sweeps across the city.

“Burnings are the work of men. They have always burned us. Now we are burning ourselves. But we’re not going to die; we’re going to flaunt our scars.” (p. 193)

In summary then, these brilliant, intoxicating stories explore the horrors of Argentine society, encompassing the military, police corruption and brutality, violence, especially towards women and adolescents, poverty, drug addiction, pollution, marginalisation, depression, misogyny and the ghosts of the murdered or disappeared. Elements of Gothic horror and surreal, otherworldly imagery add texture to these tales, dialling up the tension and evocative atmosphere while enhancing the social criticism. I was knocked out by this collection, which I highly recommend, especially to readers of women in translation.   

Things We Lost in the Fire is published by Granta; my thanks to the publishers and the Independent Alliance for kindly providing a review copy.