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Praise for The Private Lives of Trees
“In The Private Lives of Trees, I found proof of what I had suspected all along: that
writing could offer us, beyond writing itself . . . Finally, I’d found an author who was
writing in order to reach that place not made of words. And he took you there with
him. I know of no greater talent. Not in literature or in life.”
—Margarita García Robayo
“Zambra’s books have long shown him to be a writer who, at the sentence level, is
in a world all his own. His exacting eye, his crack comic timing, his ability to
describe just enough to keep the reader interested; these traits do much to
demonstrate his staying power as an architect of larger stories.”
—NPR
“If you are going to read Zambra, which you should, don’t just read My Documents:
read everything he’s done.”
—The Guardian
“Zambra is so alert to the intimate beauty and mystery of being alive that in his
hands a raindrop would feel as wide as a world.”
—Anthony Marra, author of Mercury Pictures Presents
“Zambra is the defining light of today’s Latin American literature—an author whose
cult is about to take over, the one we’ll all be congratulating ourselves on having
known about in the early days, before his deceptively slender masterpieces lay on
every American reader’s night table.”
—John Wray, author of Godsend
“I read all of Alejandro Zambra’s novels back-to-back because they were such
good company. His books are like a phone call in the middle of the night from an
old friend, and afterward, I missed the charming and funny voice on the other end,
with its strange and beautiful stories.”
—Nicole Krauss, author of To Be a Man
penguin books
THE PRIVATE LIVES OF TREES
Alejandro Zambra was born in Santiago, Chile, in 1975. He is the author of Chilean
Poet, Multiple Choice, Not to Read, My Documents, Ways of Going Home, The
Private Lives of Trees, and Bonsai. In Chile, among other honors, he has won the
National Book Council Award for best novel three times. In English, he has won
the English PEN Award and the PEN/O. Henry Prize and was a finalist for the
Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award. He has also won the Prince
Claus Award (Holland) and received a Cullman Center Fellowship from the New
York Public Library. His books have been translated into twenty languages, and his
stories have been published in The New Yorker, The New York Times Magazine,
The Paris Review, Granta, McSweeney’s, and Harper’s Magazine, among other
publications. He has taught creative writing and Hispanic literature for fifteen years
and currently lives in Mexico City.
Megan McDowell (translator) is the recipient of a 2020 Award in Literature from the
American Academy of Arts and Letters, among other awards, and has been short-
or long-listed four times for the International Booker Prize.
PENGUIN BOOKS
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
This translation was first published, in different form, in the United States of America by Open
Letter 2010
This revised edition published in Penguin Books 2023
Copyright © 2007 by Alejandro Zambra
Translation copyright © 2010, 2023 by Megan McDowell
Penguin Random House 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 Random
House to continue to publish books for every reader.
Originally published in Spanish as La vida privada de los árboles by Editorial Anagrama,
Barcelona.
library of congress cataloging-in-publication data
Names: Zambra, Alejandro, 1975– author. | McDowell, Megan, translator.
Title: The private lives of trees / Alejandro Zambra ; translated by Megan McDowell.
Other titles: Vida privada de los árboles. English
Description: New York : Penguin Books, [2022]
Identifiers: LCCN 2022036033 (print) | LCCN 2022036034 (ebook) | ISBN 9780143136514
(paperback) | ISBN 9780525508038 (ebook)
Subjects: LCGFT: Domestic fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PQ8098.36.A43 V5313 2022 (print) | LCC PQ8098.36.A43 (ebook) | DDC
863/.64—dc23/eng/20220729
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022036033
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022036034
Cover design: Nayon Cho
Cover art: (tree pattern) Orkhan Huseynli / Shutterstock
Designed by Alexis Farabaugh, adapted for ebook by Estelle Malmed
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
pid_prh_6.0_142459014_c0_r0
Contents
Cover
Praise for The Private Lives of Trees and Alejandro Zambra
About the Authors
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
I. Green House
II. Winter White
Green House
J ulián lulls the little girl to sleep with “The Private Lives of
Trees,” a series of stories he makes up to tell her at bedtime.
The protagonists are a poplar tree and a baobab who, at night,
when no one is watching, talk about photosynthesis, squirrels, or the
many advantages of being trees and not people or animals, or, as
they put it, stupid hunks of cement.
Daniela is not his daughter, but it is hard for him not to think of her
that way. It’s been three years since Julián joined the family. He was
the one who came to them—Verónica and Daniela were already
there. He married Verónica, and in some ways also Daniela, who
was hesitant at first, but little by little began to accept her new life:
Julián is uglier than my dad, but he’s nice, she would say to her
friends, who nodded with surprising seriousness, even solemnity, as
if they somehow just knew that Julián’s arrival was not an accident.
As the months passed this stepfather even earned a place in the
drawings Daniela made at school. There’s one in particular that
Julián always keeps on display: the three of them are at the beach,
Daniela and Verónica are making cakes out of sand, and he is
dressed in jeans and a shirt, reading and smoking under a perfectly
round and yellow sun.
Julián is uglier than Daniela’s father, but he’s also younger; he
works more and makes less money, smokes more and drinks less;
he exercises less—doesn’t, in fact, exercise at all—and knows more
about trees than about countries. He is lighter-skinned and less
simple and more confused than Fernando—Fernando, that is
Daniela’s father’s name. He must have a name, even if he isn’t,
exactly, Julián’s enemy, or anyone else’s. Really, there is no enemy
here. That is precisely the problem: in this story there are no
enemies. Verónica has no enemies, Julián has no enemies,
Fernando has no enemies, and Daniela, except for an impish little
classmate who spends all his time making faces at her, has no
enemies either.
—
Sometimes Fernando is a blot on Daniela’s life, but who isn’t, at
times, a blot on someone else’s life.
Julián is Fernando without the blot, but sometimes Fernando is
Julián without the blot.
And then there’s Verónica, who is:
—
For now Verónica is someone who is not home, who isn’t back yet
from her drawing class. Verónica is someone who is lightly absent
from the blue room—the blue room is Daniela’s bedroom, and the
white room is Verónica and Julián’s. There is, in addition, a green
bedroom, which they call the guest room mostly in jest, since it
wouldn’t be easy to sleep in that mess of books, folders, and
paintbrushes. The big trunk where they stored their summer clothes
a few months back is set up as an uncomfortable sofa.
—
The final hours of a normal day have settled into a precise routine:
Julián and Verónica leave the blue room when Daniela falls asleep,
and then, in the guest room, Verónica draws and Julián reads. Every
once in a while she interrupts him or he interrupts her, and these
mutual interferences constitute dialogues, offhand conversations or
sometimes important, decisive ones. Later they move to the white
room, where they watch TV or make love or start to argue—nothing
serious, nothing that can’t be fixed immediately, before the movie is
over or when one of them gives up, wanting to sleep or have sex.
Those fights usually end in a fast and silent screw, or maybe a long
one replete with soft laughter and moans. Then come five or six
hours of sleep. And then the next day begins.
But this is not a normal night, at least not yet. It’s still not
completely certain that there will be a next day, since Verónica isn’t
back yet from her drawing class. When she returns, the novel will
end. But as long as she is gone, the book will continue. The book
goes on until she returns, or until Julián is sure that she isn’t going to
return. For now, Verónica is absent from the blue room, where Julián
lulls the little girl to sleep with a story about the private lives of trees.
—
Right now, sheltered in the solitude of the park, the trees are
commenting on the bad luck of an oak, in whose bark two people
have carved their names as a symbol of their friendship. “No one has
the right to give you a tattoo without your consent,” says the poplar,
and the baobab is even more emphatic: “The oak tree has been the
victim of a deplorable act of vandalism. Those people deserve to be
punished. I shall not rest until they get the punishment they deserve.
I will traverse earth, sky, and sea to hunt them down.”
Daniela laughs hard, without the faintest hint of sleepiness. And
she urgently, anxiously asks the inevitable questions, never just one,
always at least two or three: What’s vandalism, Julián? Can I have
some lemonade, with three spoonfuls of sugar? Did you and my
mom ever carve your names into a tree as a symbol of your
friendship?
Julián answers patiently, trying to respect the order of the
questions: Vandalism is what vandals do; vandals are people who do
damage just for the joy of doing damage. And yes, you can have
some lemonade. And no, your mom and I never carved our names
into the bark of a tree.
—
In the beginning, Verónica and Julián’s story was not a love story.
In fact, they met for more commercial reasons. At that time he was
living through the last gasps of a prolonged relationship with Karla, a
distant and sullen woman who was on the verge of becoming his
enemy. There was, for them, no great reason to celebrate, but all the
same Julián called up Verónica, a pastry chef, at the
recommendation of a colleague, and ordered a tres leches cake that
ended up brightening Karla’s birthday significantly. When Julián went
to Verónica’s apartment—the same one they now live in—to pick up
the cake, he saw a dark, thin woman with long, straight hair and
brown eyes. A Chilean woman, in other words, one who gestured
nervously and seemed serious and happy at the same time—a
beautiful woman, who had a daughter and maybe also a husband.
As he waited in the living room for Verónica to finish packing up the
cake, Julián caught a glimpse of a little girl’s white face. Then there
was a short dialogue between Daniela and her mother, a sharp but
polite, commonplace exchange, perhaps a back-and-forth about
brushing teeth.
It would be imprecise to say that Julián was captivated by Verónica
that day. The truth is that there were three or four seconds of
awkwardness; that is, Julián should have left the apartment three or
four seconds sooner, and if he didn’t it was because it seemed
pleasant to stay looking three or four seconds longer at Verónica’s
clear, dark face.
—
Julián finishes his tale, satisfied with the story he has told, but
Daniela is not asleep; on the contrary, she seems alert, ready to
keep the conversation going. Employing a delicate detour, the girl
starts telling him about school until, out of nowhere, she confesses a
desire to have blue hair. He smiles, thinking it a metaphorical wish,
like the dream of flying or time travel. But she’s speaking seriously:
Two girls and even a boy in my class have dyed their hair. I want a
blue streak, at least—well, I don’t know if I want blue or red, I can’t
decide, she says, as if the decision were hers to make. This is a new
subject: Julián realizes the girl has already talked about it with her
mother in the afternoon, and now she is seeking her stepfather’s
approval. And the stepfather fumbles toward his position in the
game: You’re only eight years old, why would you want to ruin your
hair so young? he asks, and then improvises an evasive family story
that somehow or other proves that dyeing one’s hair is madness.
The conversation continues until, a bit indignant, Daniela begins to
yawn.
—
He sees Daniela sleeping, and he imagines himself, at eight years
old, sleeping. It’s a reflex: he sees a blind man and imagines himself
blind; he reads a good poem and pictures himself writing it, or
reading it aloud, to nobody, encouraged by the somber sound of the
words. Julián simply observes these images, receives them and then
forgets them. Perhaps he has always merely chased images: he
hasn’t made decisions, hasn’t won or lost, just let himself be drawn
in by certain images, and then followed them, without fear or
courage, until he caught up with or extinguished them.
Stretched out on the bed in the white room, Julián lights a
cigarette, the last one of the day, the next to last, or perhaps the first
of an immensely long night, during which he is fated to go over the
pluses and minuses of a past that is, frankly, blurry. For now, life is a
chaos he seems to have resolved: he has been welcomed into a
new intimacy, into a world where his role is to be something like a
father to Daniela, the sleeping little girl, and a husband to Verónica,
the woman who isn’t back, not yet, from her drawing class. From
here the story dissipates, and there is almost no way to continue it.
For now, though, Julián achieves a sort of distance from which to
watch, attentively, with legitimate interest, the rerun of an old match
between Inter and Reggina. It’s clear that Inter will score their goal
any minute now, and Julián doesn’t want to miss it, not for anything.
V erónica was in her second of year studying for an art degree
when Daniela arrived and threw everything off course.
Anticipating the pain was her way of experiencing it—a
young pain that grew and shrank and sometimes, during certain
especially warm hours, tended to disappear. She decided to keep
the news to herself during the first weeks of pregnancy; she didn’t
even tell Fernando or her best girlfriend, though she didn’t have a
best friend, not really. That is, she had lots of girlfriends and they
always turned to her for advice, but she never fully reciprocated their
confidence. That time of silence was one last luxury Verónica could
give herself, an addendum of privacy, a space of doubtful calm in
which to assemble her decisions. “I don’t want to be a pregnant
student. I don’t want to be a student mother,” she thought. She
definitely did not want to find herself, in a few months’ time, wrapped
in a roomy and very flowery dress, explaining to the professor that
she hadn’t been able to study for the test, or later, two years on,
leaving the baby in the librarians’ care. She felt panic when she
imagined those librarians and their besotted faces when she
converted them, suddenly, into faithful guardians of extraneous
children.
During that time she went to dozens of art galleries, boldly
interrogated her professors, and wasted many hours letting herself
be courted by upper-level art students, who, predictably, turned out
to be insufferable rich kids—rich kids claiming to be bad boys, who
nevertheless found success faster than their business administrator
brothers or their educational psychologist sisters.
Sooner rather than later, Verónica found the resentment she was
looking for: this was not a world she wanted to be part of—this
wasn’t a world that she could be part of, not even close. From then
on, every time she was devastated by a dark thought about her
abandoned vocation, she called up the counterexamples she had
collected. Instead of thinking about the healthy disdain some of her
professors felt toward artistic fads, she remembered the classes of
those two or three charlatans who always seem to find their way into
art departments. And instead of thinking about the honest,
unaffected works some of her classmates created, she decided to
recall the naive galleries where obliging and well-connected students
flaunted their newfound savvy.
Those young artists imitated the language of the academy to
perfection, eagerly filling out endless forms for government grants.
But the money soon ran out, and the young artists had to resign
themselves to teaching classes for hobbyists, like the ones Verónica
attends in the inhospitable event hall of a nearby municipal building.
In the mornings, Verónica bakes sponge cakes and answers the
phone. In the afternoons, she delivers orders and attends class,
where she sometimes gets bored and other times enjoys herself: she
works dexterously and methodically, finally comfortable with her
amateur status. She should have been back from her drawing class
over an hour ago now—she must be on her way, thinks Julián as he
watches TV. Then, in the eighty-eighth minute and against all odds,
Reggina scores a goal. And that’s how the game ends: Inter 0,
Reggina 1.
—
Last week, Julián turned thirty years old. The party was a bit odd,
marred by the guest of honor’s glumness. In the same way that
some women subtract years from their real age, he sometimes
needs to add a few on, to look at the past with a willful tinge of
bitterness. Lately he has started to think he should have been a
dentist or geologist or meteorologist. For now, his actual job seems
strange: teacher. But his true calling, he thinks now, is to have
dandruff. He imagines himself answering that way:
Profession?
I have dandruff.
—
He’s exaggerating, no doubt about it. No one can live without a
little exaggeration. If there are in fact stages in Julián’s life, they
would have to be classified along an exaggeration index. He
exaggerated very little, almost never, up until he was ten years old.
From ten to seventeen his pretensions increased steadily, and from
eighteen onward he was expert in the most varied forms of
exaggeration. Since he’s been with Verónica his exaggeration has
been decreasing consistently, notwithstanding the occasional,
instinctive relapse.
Julián teaches literature at four universities in Santiago. He would
have liked to stick to one specialty, but the law of supply and
demand has forced him to be flexible: he teaches classes on U.S.
literature and Latin American literature and even Italian poetry,
though he does not speak Italian. He has read, very closely,
translations of Ungaretti, Montale, Pavese, and Pasolini, as well as
more recent poets, like Patrizia Cavalli and Valerio Magrelli, but in no
way could he be considered an expert in Italian poetry. In any case,
teaching classes on Italian poetry without knowing Italian is not
terribly unusual in Chile, as Santiago is full of English teachers who
don’t know English, dentists who can hardly pull a tooth, overweight
personal trainers, and yoga teachers who wouldn’t be able to face
their classes without a generous dose of antidepressants. Julián
tends to emerge unscathed from his pedagogical adventures. He
always salvages any tricky situation by sneaking in some quotation
from Walter Benjamin, Borges, or Nicanor Parra.
—
He is a teacher, and a writer on Sundays. There are weeks when
he works as much as possible, obsessively, as if trying to meet a
deadline. He calls that his “busy season.” Normally, in the off-
season, he defers his literary ambitions until Sunday, the way other
men devote their Sundays to gardening or carpentry or alcoholism.
He has just finished a very short book that nevertheless took
several years to write. First, he accumulated material: he wrote
nearly three hundred pages, but then gradually reversed course,
discarding ever more passages, as if instead of adding to the story
he wanted to subtract or erase it. The result was meager: an
emaciated sheaf of forty-seven pages that he insists on calling a
novel. Although earlier today he’d decided to let the book rest for a
few weeks, he has now turned off the TV and begun, again, to read
the manuscript.
—
Now he reads, he is reading: he tries to pretend he doesn’t know
the story, and at times he achieves the illusion— he lets himself be
carried along innocently, shyly, convincing himself that he’s reading
someone else’s text. One misplaced comma or jarring word, though,
and he snaps back to reality; he is then, once again, an author, the
author of something, a kind of self-policeman who penalizes his own
offenses, his excesses and inhibitions. He reads standing up,
walking around the room: he should sit or lie down, but he stays on
his feet, back straight, and avoids the lamp, as if he’s afraid that
brighter light would reveal fresh mistakes in the manuscript.
The novel’s first image is of a young man tending a bonsai. If
someone were to ask him for a summary of his book, he would
probably respond that it was about a young man tending a bonsai.
Maybe he wouldn’t say a young man, maybe he would merely say
that the protagonist is not exactly a boy or a mature adult or an old
man. One night, several years ago now, he mentioned the image to
his friends Sergio and Bernardita: a man shut in with his bonsai,
tending it, moved by the possibility of a real work of art. A few days
later, as a joke, they gave him a tiny elm. So you’ll write your book,
they told him.
—
In those days Julián lived alone, or more or less alone; that is, he
lived with Karla, that strange woman who was on the verge of
becoming his enemy. Back then Karla was almost never home, and
she especially made sure to never be home when he got back from
work. After making a cup of tea with amaretto—it seems repugnant
to him now, but in those days he had a passion for tea with amaretto
—Julián took care of his tree. He didn’t just water it and prune it
when necessary: he sat watching it for hours, waiting, perhaps, for it
to move, the same way some children will lie motionless in bed at
night, hoping to feel themselves grow.
Only after monitoring his bonsai’s growth for at least an hour would
Julián sit down to write. There were inspired nights when he filled
pages and pages in a sudden burst of confidence. There were other,
less productive nights when he couldn’t get past the first paragraph.
He floundered there before the screen, distracted and anxious, as if
hoping the book would write itself. He lived on the second floor of a
building facing Plaza Ñuñoa; the first floor was a bar from which
emanated a confusion of voices and the constant pulse of techno
music. He liked to work with that music in the background, though he
got hopelessly distracted when some particularly comic or sordid
conversation reached his ears. He remembers, especially, the sour
voice of an older woman who would talk about her father’s death to
anyone who would listen, and the panic of a teenager who, one early
morning in winter, swore he would never screw without a condom
again. More than once, he thought it would be worthwhile to write
down what he heard, to record those conversations; he imagined a
sea of words traveling from the ground to the window and from the
window to his ear, to his hand, to his book. There would surely be
more life in those accidental pages than in the book he was writing.
But instead of contenting himself with the stories that destiny put at
his disposal, Julián forged ahead with his fixed idea of the bonsai.
G et out of my house, motherfucker.
One afternoon, on returning home from work, Julián
found this message written in thick strokes of red paint on
the living room wall. Melodramatically, at first he thought the words
had been written in blood. And though he soon came across a gallon
of paint and found a few drops spattered on the rug, that false
impression was burned into his memory: even today he catches
himself imagining Karla cutting her skin and wetting her index finger
in a spurting stream of blood. Even today, he thinks that his girlfriend
writing motherfucker on the living room wall was unfair, since in their
history together he had been anything but a motherfucker. He had
been an idiot, an asshole, a bum, a selfish bastard, but never a
motherfucker. And anyway, there was a time when that apartment
had belonged to both of them, and she was the one who suddenly
began to withdraw. Julián had resigned himself quickly, almost
immediately, to Karla’s absence; that was his only mistake—a
necessary mistake, he thinks, now that she doesn’t exist anymore,
now that she has left his life for good.
With suitcase in one hand and bonsai in the other, Julián left the
apartment that same night, and he spent the following several weeks
in full-on alcoholic limbo, staying at friends’ houses, wanting to tell
his story to anyone who would listen. But he was no good at telling
his story. He tried to hide out behind the definitive certainties of his
recent past, but those certainties were few, and Julián knew that very
well. Not even five piscolas can loosen your tongue, his friend
Vicente told him at the end of a drawn-out evening of camaraderie.
And he had a point. The bonsai, meanwhile, hugely resented the
changes of address. In spite of Julián’s guilty ministering, by the time
they reached the final stop, the tree was already well on its way to
drying up.
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