Dobyns - The Two Deaths of Senora Puccini
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- Book:The Two Deaths of Senora Puccini
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- Year:2015;1988
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The Two Deaths of Senora Puccini: summary, description and annotation
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Stephen Dobyns has written a provocative novel of desire, lust, depravity, and dangera classic thriller that holds you tightly in its grasp until its shattering conclusion.
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Praise for The Two Deaths of Seora Puccini
An allegory of corruption, stunningly told.
Los Angeles Times
The Two Deaths of Seora Puccini is wickedly good, combining a poets eye for the luminous detail with a thriller writers sense of narrative compulsion.... It is a work of art.
The Boston Globe
[Dobynss] new book masterfully combines his gift for cliff-hanging narrative with his dark and meditative sensibility. Specifically, the muse of contemporary Latin American literaturethe spirit of magic realismglides through this fascinating tale of power and sexual obsession, self-deception and greed.... With its sinuous narrative and cool atmosphere of the fantastic, reminiscent of the haunting tales of Jorge Luis Borges, this novel is as spellbinding and resonant as an unsettling dream.
Publishers Weekly
Stephen Dobyns is one of the most imaginative and fanciful authors of our time, and he once more demonstrates this in The Two Deaths of Seora Puccini.
San Francisco Chronicle
Gripping and theatrical.
The New Yorker
A ripe melodrama of erotic obsession, set somewhere in Latin America.... Dobynss spirited exercise in mystification has a rich, theatrical allure.
Kirkus
A dark, existential thriller by the author of the Charlie Bradshaw mysteries. Highly recommended.
Library Journal
Also by Stephen Dobyns
POETRY
Winters Journey
Mystery, So Long
The Porcupines Kisses
Pallbearers Envying the One Who Rides
Common Carnage
Velocities: New and Selected Poems, 19661992
Body Traffic
Cemetery Nights
Black Dog, Red Dog
The Balthus Poems
Heat Death
Griffon
Concurring Beasts
NONFICTION
Next Word, Better Word: The Craft of Writing Poetry
Best Words, Best Order: Essays on Poetry
STORIES
Eating Naked
NOVELS
Is Fat Bob Dead Yet?
The Burn Palace
Boy in the Water
Saratoga Strongbox
The Church of Dead Girls
Saratoga Fleshpot
Saratoga Backtalk
The Wrestlers Cruel Study
Saratoga Haunting
After Shocks/Near Escapes
Saratoga Hexameter
The House on Alexandrine
Saratoga Bestiary
A Boat off the Coast
Saratoga Snapper
Cold Dog Soup
Saratoga Headhunter
Dancer with One Leg
Saratoga Swimmer
Saratoga Longshot
A Man of Little Evils
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street
New York, New York 10014
First trade paperback edition 1988
Originally published by Viking Penguin Inc. 1988
Published in paperback by Penguin Books 1989
Copyright 1988 by Stephen Dobyns
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
Blue Rider Press is a registered trademark and its colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Dobyns, Stephen, date.
The two deaths of Seora Puccini : a novel / Stephen Dobyns.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-101-99180-0
I. Title.
PS3554.O2T86 2015 2015017234
813'.54dc23
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
Pursued by threat of war and violence in the streets,
we came to a friends house for dinner.
In the middle of the table was a dead body,
a naked man, not too young, not too old.
We did not know him. We ate and
passed the wine, trying not to look at the man,
trying to pretend he was not really there,
lying flat on his back on the white cloth.
We will make him disappear, we said,
that is not a man, those are flowers
in the middle of the table, yes, a large vase
of white flowers and on the vase itself
are pictures of people dancing and drinking wine.
You know, said one of the guests, when
old age wipes out our generation
that vase will remain behind surrounded
by other troubles than our own. You fool,
said another, what makes you think
any one of us will reach old age? And again
the dead man took his place among us.
For Isabel Bize
P ursued by threat of war and violence in the streets, we came to a friends house for dinner. Nine of us were expected; I was first to arrive. Even though I live only a mile away, my cab was stopped twice by the police. On both occasions, as officers inspected my papers, young smooth-cheeked soldiers kept their weapons trained on the driver. They looked like country boys, suspicious of tall buildings and city-dwellers alike. In the distance, we heard the staccato clatter of automatic weapons punctuated by small arms fire. I asked what was happening but my questions were ignored. The late afternoon light was hazy with smoke and several times we had passed the burning remnants of automobiles. After seeing that my papers were in order, the officers waved us on without comment. Being a journalist helped, and certainly my name is not unknown in the city.
The dinner at Dr. Pachecos had been on my calendar for six months. In a way, it had been on my calendar for nine years, ever since the doctor moved back from the south and joined our group. After waiting nine years for this evening, was I to be stopped by military shenanigans? We are a number of men who were once in school together, and every six months one of us gives a dinner for the rest. For all I knew, the dinner was canceled since the phones at the newspaper had stopped working around four. Nor did the radio tell me much. At times of trouble the stations invariably play classical music. A general strike was scheduled for the day after tomorrow and word came up from the city room that several labor leaders had been arrested, but whether that was connected to the shooting and roadblocks, I could only guess.
The cab let me off in front of Dr. Pachecos house, which was the largest on an old cobblestone streeta few tall trees, plane trees mostly, but also some palms. The adjoining whitewashed fronts were pushed right up to the sidewalk. Many of the houses had small second-floor balconies, windows covered with black iron grates, and flower boxes with bright red and yellow flowers. It was the middle of the summer and the city was broiling. Even though I had gone home to shower and change my clothes, I could feel my shirt clinging damply to my back. I climbed the steps. The air smelt of burning tires. No one else was in sight and on many houses the shutters were closed.
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