The scent of Buenos Aires Stories

Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

This collection from Uhart (1936--2018), her first to be translated into English, introduces new readers to a refreshing and unique writer. Uhart's stories are written in a voice that's frank, almost conversational, and occasionally humorous, but they land with surprising gravitas. In "The Stories Told by Cecilia's Friends," the titular stories, though mundane, turn out to be oddly prescient for Cecilia, inducing a new outlook on life. Though none are very long, Uhart's briefest tales are snatches of a scene ("At the Hair Salon"), allegorical ("Christmas Eve in the Park"), or have the tone of a bedtime tale ("The Boy Who Couldn't Fall Asleep"). While some nail their intent, such as "At the Hair Salon," which nicely encapsulates the perfect storm of vanity and gossip in a hair salon, or "Hello Kids," in which children sharply observe animals at the zoo, others can feel like filler, such as "My New Love," which uses lover's language to describe a dog. Still, there's a wonderfully off-kilter humanity to Uhart's writing that readers are sure to respond to. This collection feels like a deserved celebration of a writer's career. (Oct.)

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Review by Library Journal Review

The recently deceased and relatively unknown Uhart was a prolific short story writer with about a dozen published collections dating back to 1962. This anthology of 38 pieces from various stages of her career marks the first book-length appearance of Uhart's work in English. Unlike those of her compatriot Jorge Luis Borges, her tales are more grounded in reality and in domestic situations, taking place in such locales as a kitchen, a beauty salon, the zoo, organization meetings, a piano recital, and schools. Despite the title, some of the work here is set elsewhere in Argentina, including Uhart's hometown of Moreno. The mostly female characters, levelheaded yet sensitive, generally undergo a change, but the stories eschew plot development for mood creation and generally do not end with a twist. Instead, they end quietly and subtly because that's all Uhart has to say. Though the length varies from two to more than 30 pages, the shorter ones, such as "My New Love," which starts out hinting at human love and ends up being canine, are exquisite because of their simplicity and singular purpose. VERDICT These stories cover a broad spectrum of situations and will appeal to a wide range of readers. A remarkable introduction to one of the unsung women writers of Argentine letters.--Lawrence Olszewski, North Central State Coll., Mansfield, OH

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

The first collection in English from the acclaimed Argentine short story writer (1936-2018) who possessed a well-trained eye for life's idiosyncrasies.Uhart's stories often turn on the simplest of everyday settings: baking a cake at home, a trip to a hair salon, a day at an elementary school, a homeowners' association meeting. Yet the delivery is just a touch off-center, as if her prose were microdosed: The narrator of "At the Hair Salon" imagines the woman washing her hair "rations out the assault like a cat" and figures the pedicurist "was destined for heroic deeds, like driving a tank in the steppe"; the homeowners' meeting escalates from complaints about mail delivery to climate change. The offbeat observations are fitting for characters who tend to see the absurdity of existence: "Human beings are radically alone," says one character; "the world was just one big prison," thinks another. Sometimes Uhart's stories take a fablelike form, as in "The Wandering Dutchman," about a foreigner's bemused travels through the Argentine countryside ("the whole world was a concert of cows, doves, and frogs"), or "Mister Ludo," about a man who hikes his family from town to town with six children in a line behind him, as if they were ducklings. But the stories are unified by Uhart's interest in families, especially women's roles within them. The opening "Guiding the Ivy" follows the narrator, who is going about her day while fearing becoming a woman whose "life was in a perpetual state of disaster"; in "The Light of a New Day," an elderly woman fears for the neglect of her neighbor, who's broken her hip. These stories rarely adhere to conventional plots, but as mood pieces they're effective glimpses into the peculiarities of Uhart's characters, who crave order but usually concede that the world's default mode is disarray.A welcome (if, alas, posthumous) introduction to a sui generis writer. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Guiding the Ivy HERE I am arranging the plants so they don't overcrowd one another, pulling off dead leaves, and getting rid of ants. I enjoy watching how they grow with so little. They're sensible, they adapt to their pots. If the pots are small the plants seem to shrink. If they have more space, they grow bigger. They're different from people: some people--small-minded people--acquire a stature that masks their true nature, while others--generous and open-hearted--can be trampled and confused by the weight of life. This is what I think about as I water and transplant, this and the different personalities of each plant: I have one that can withstand the sun. It's tough, like a desert plant, it's secured only the green it needs to survive. Then there's a big ivy, pretty and inconsequential, it doesn't have the slightest claim to originality because it looks like any old ivy you could buy anywhere, with its iridescent green. But I have another plain green ivy that has gotten smaller. It seems to say: Iridescence is not for me . It grows so slowly, shaded and assured by its own restraint. This is the plant I love most. Every now and then I guide it. I sense where it wants to go and it senses where I want to guide it. Sometimes I call the iridescent ivy "stupid" because it forms into pointless arabesques. And the desert plant I respect for its hardiness, but sometimes I think it's ugly. It seems ugly when I see it through the eyes of others, when someone comes over for a visit. In general I like them all. For example, there's a species of small wild daisy known as the red bug flower. I don't know what makes it any different from a regular daisy. Sometimes I look at my garden as if it were someone else's and I discover two flaws: one, that few plants hang gracefully, with the right verdure and sinuous movements. My plants are motionless, stumpy, lodged in their pots. The second flaw is that I have a lot of small flowerpots, in different sizes, instead of large solid pots that are well made, well designed. It's because I keep putting off the task of lightening my load. And there's something dreadful about the idea of "lightening my load" or tidying up--at least when it comes to my plants. For as long as I can remember I've put off using the hatred one needs to survive, ignoring it in myself and in others. I associate hatred with the mundane, with the ability to discern in an instant whether a plant is a red bug flower or a daisy, whether a stone is precious or worthless. I associate (or I used to associate) hatred with choosing to be disrespectful, according to some intentions that no longer surprise me: the way I treat people (lots of people), grudges, the way people and situations seem to repeat themselves. In the end, replacing wonder with an inquisitive temperament has tainted me with hatred, too. But some things still amaze me. About four or five years ago I prayed to God (or to the gods) not to let me become drastic, scornful. I would say: Dear Lord, don't let me become like the mother in that play Las de Barranco --that woman's life was in a perpetual state of disaster. She poked her nose into everyone's business. She lived her life through them vicariously, to the extent that her real wishes were unclear; shrewdness was her only pleasure. Before I started turning into the Barranco mother I was horrified by that archetype, but once it was part of me I felt more comfortable: the comfort of letting go and forgetting when there's so much to remember that you don't want to look back. Nowadays, I think one thing in the morning and something else in the afternoon. My decisions last no longer than an hour and they're missing the sense of euphoria they used to have. Now I make decisions out of necessity, when there's no other option. That's why I rarely even value my thoughts and decisions. I used to love my thoughts; whatever I was thinking about was something I wanted to happen. Now I think about what I want first--but that gets mixed up with my obligations and I can't cry anymore. I have to forget all about what I want and what I have to do, otherwise I just end up in a state of limbo, feeling distressed: setbacks (it's easy to foresee how they'll pan out), or minor frustrations (prone to being analyzed and compensated for). I've discovered the hint of fabrication that goes into needs and obligations, but I respect them--period, without much commitment, because they organize life. If I do cry, it's most likely against my will. I have to distract myself from what I want and from my obligations. I allow only a few tears to well up. My feelings toward people have changed, too. What used to be hatred--sometimes for very elaborate ideological reasons--is now only a bellyache. Boredom now translates into a headache. I've lost the immediacy that makes it easy to interact with children and even though I know I could get it back with some quick games and a couple of funny faces, I don't want to because I envy everything they do: run, swim, play; they want so many things and ask for them endlessly. Lately, I've spent a great deal of time criticizing the manners of young people in Buenos Aires--with whomever, especially with taxi drivers. In general we agree: the kids here are unquestionably rude. But it's such a sad consensus that no conversations can develop from there. Excerpted from The Scent of Buenos Aires: Stories by Hebe Uhart by Hebe UHART All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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