Rookie at the villa
Amanda Vilanova
I cannot believe I have even been considered. Just the idea of a writer’s retreat is unimaginable. The good news comes. I jump and cheer. A few days later I am apprehensive. I will share the space with people who know what having a book with their name across the front feels like. What do I know? I’m the Latina rookie writing in her second language. I call my family that lives five hours behind and they cheer me on. I print the one full-length thing I’ve written and place it in a plastic sleeve to share with the professionals. I remind myself why I’m going. My intention is to tell the fictionalised story of Victoria, Arita, and Lorena: three generations of women in my family. I am writing a story based on Puerto Rican women’s lives, a story that captures their history.
The first moments in Villa Lugara unravel and I realise the absolute wonder of it. We have no unwanted distraction. We have space to listen to nature, look around us, and between us and find the words that suit our intention. We have time to work on stories untold, to focus on them completely. We have beautiful food that melts in our mouth and warms us.
The views take my breath away, but it’s the company that’s something else. These astonishing people gift me their attention. They are curious and interested. They ask questions and give astute answers to mine. They express feelings of being others in the place they call home. I feel the relaxing release of commonality. They are willing to help me shape the stories in my head. They each do it in their own way: a coffee, an anecdote, a table tennis game, a reassurance, a conversation on a bench, a soup, a joke, a well-timed silence, a smile. I am honoured to do the same. We talk about ideas, writing, politics, family, memory, and more. We truly listen to one another. They open passages in my mind and make me laugh. They are wise and never arrogant. They write from deep places within themselves and are generous enough to let me see a piece of this daily.
The month has passed with pages written and conclusions drawn. These people who used to be strangers have become a welcome sight; the first chords of a song you’ve been dying to listen to. They’ve cheered me on like family does and let me know that there is space for me in this place I now call home. I have found a road to complete this work. I have ideas for other stories. I am on my way. I feel I am a writer. I can go into rooms and say it with my head held high, in either language. I’m a rookie who’s been told by some of the most talented people I’ve ever met that I can do it; that I am a storyteller. I have no words to express the change it signifies. I can only give thanks to those who made it possible and those I’ve shared it with. Gracias familia.
Below is an extract from my final story. It follows Lorena, a Puerto Rican immigrant in the United Kingdom, whose body has decided to communicate with her in a unique way. It is a part of what this experience and this outstanding group of people has helped me discover.
LORENA: The Curve
She knows she has to look, but the day has run away from her. She’s had things to tick off the list, so the slow dulling of her pain and the walk were enough to push the curve out of her mind. Her left side hurts and itches. She resists the urge to scratch. She heads to her room. A heavy base seeps in from next door. She takes off her grey jumper and looks at herself in the mirror. Her blue t-shirt is old, the collar stretched and loose. She takes off her shirt and unclasps her bra. Both breasts plop down in front of her. She turns to look at the painful, itchy spot. She screams and then covers her mouth. She looks again. She opens and closes her eyes. The base thumps and thumps and thumps.
She stares at her left breast as her skin ripples. It starts at her ribs and up into her cleavage. One ripple at a time. She turns. The curve is open and as she approaches the mirror it smiles. Two lines of sharp fangs are intertwined just east of her areola, almost touching the gap between breast and chest. They look back at her. She turns her breast toward the mirror then closes and opens her eyes. She looks at the spot again. The curve smiles. A thin blood red tongue brushes above each half of the smile and sends a ripple with every circle. She blinks. The tongue is thin at its tip and widens as it deepens into her flesh. She blinks again. It is all still there.
She covers up and googles: ‘What to do if you hallucinate?’ The friendly search quotes a paragraph from WebMD that speaks of schizophrenia. The phrase: ‘go see a doctor’ is highlighted. She laughs out loud. Her side starts to itch. She walks around her flat and hears the familiar creak of the floorboards underneath. If this was all written what is its purpose?
She hears the key on the lock and her entire body freezes. ‘Hey, darling,’ he says as he walks in and turns to shut the door. His long hair catches the light. She smiles and the image of thin teeth on skin flashes across her mind. She relaxes her mouth into what feels like a neutral face. ‘Hola,’ he says in his English accent and smiles. He kisses her mouth. His lips are dry and delicious.
The evening moves along as usual, except Lorena sweats under her arms and between her thighs. He jokes about her not cooking. He stands in front of the stove, turns cogs, fries minced meat, and cuts vegetables. They talk about his day. All the while there is an itch or a tug or a vibration she cannot stop. It moves, writhes, and presses. They sit to have their pasta and she puts her fork into the steaming bowl. She turns it and watches the red strands make a nest. She brings the nest to her mouth and opens wide. Her side itches. She munches down as the skin across her left side stretches and releases, she stops munching. The stretching stops. It’s chewing with me.