Lotería. By Karla Arenas Valenti. Illustrations by Dana
Sanmar. Knopf. $16.99.
A novel of remarkable sensitivity and considerable beauty, and one that
gives far more credit for maturity to its intended preteen readers than do most
books aimed at this age group, Lotería is an
immersive experience from which adults – who really should be among its readers
– will take away just as much as younger readers do.
Like the Pixar movie Coco,
Karla Arenas Valenti’s novel draws on el
Día de los Muertos, a celebration that shows a vastly different attitude toward death from
the typical one in the United States and most other Western nations. There is
camaraderie between the living and the departed inherent in el Día de los
Muertos, and the close-knit
relationship between life and death is made explicit in Lotería by having two of the primary characters in fact be
Life and Death. Valenti personifies them exceptionally cleverly: Life is a
very-well-dressed man referred to as Catrín, Spanish
for “dandy” and the name of one of the tarot-like cards in the Lotería game that gives the book its title. Death is depicted
as a lady named Catrina, based on an etching showing a female skeleton wearing
elegant clothing. The verbal closeness of the words Catrín/Catrina emphasizes the
interrelationship of Life and Death, who are continually referred to in Lotería as friends
– and Death, more often than not, brings touches of beauty to the scenes and
people the two encounter.
The playing of the Lotería game is
essentially a framing tale for the story of 11-year-old Clara and the
otherworldly adventure she experiences after promising to care for her
eight-year-old cousin, Esteban, whose mother dies in a freak accident that may
nevertheless have been fated – the whole notion of free will vs. determinism, a
longstanding and very profound debate in philosophy, underpins the events of
the book and is handled in an age-appropriate way that will nevertheless
stretch the bounds of young readers’ thinking (and probably that of adults as
well). The idea of Life and Death playing cards, with the fate of random mortals
hanging in the balance, is scarcely new. Adult readers may think of Coleridge’s
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner (“the
game is done – I’ve won, I’ve won,” says “the nightmare Life-in-Death”);
moviegoers may think beyond Coco to
Ingmar Bergman’s 1957 masterpiece The
Seventh Seal, whose protagonist plays chess with Death in the full
knowledge that he will lose – but who loses in a positive way. Indeed, Bergman’s vision is comparatively close to
Valenti’s, although Bergman is not mentioned by Valenti as a source (she does
cite plenty of other sources in an excellent, extended Author’s Note at the
back of the book).
Clara is neither more nor less than the human whose fate will be
determined by the outcome of the game played by Life and Death – or rather
whose fate is already determined if you accept Death’s argument that the order
of the cards to be dealt is already set once the pack is shuffled, so Catrín and Catrina are simply revealing Clara’s fate, not
in any way causing it. The focus of Lotería shifts
again and again between the card game and Clara’s magical-realism journey to a
strange land where she needs to learn and obey (or find ways to disobey) a
series of rules in order to catch up to Enrique, who is in the clutches of none
other than El Diablo (not a figure of overwhelming evil here, however, although
certainly a “bad guy”).
The rules of the magical place that Clara visits require her to give
something in order to get something – information, help, anything. After
initially believing she has nothing to give, Clara finds more and more within
herself that she is able to trade with the denizens of the strange land,
eventually becoming no less than a giver of hope – to the equal astonishment of
Life and Death, who are compelled by forces that are even beyond them to play Lotería and accept restrictions and requirements, including
the need to find a suitable gift for the mortal enmeshed in the game.
Lotería is a
complex, beautifully interwoven novel written with rare perception and a willingness
to treat preteen readers with far more respect than authors of novels for this
age group generally accord them. The climax is complex and the ending very
definitely sad, but there is hope and a kind of bittersweet uplift as well (in
this way too Lotería resembles The Seventh Seal). Most of the book’s
flaws are niggling ones. At one point Valenti says “the rules [of the game
played by Life and Death] were clear: if they failed to complete their game in
the allotted [three-day] time, it would be their final round, and they would
never meet again.” Why three days? Who sets the rules? What would happen if
Life and Death never met again? These are questions never answered, never even
asked. Also, there is an intriguing scene in which “a curious bird” lands on
the table where Life and Death are playing cards; they, distracted by watching
events nearby, are not aware when the bird flies away, “unseen by the two
friends as it carried away the top card of the pile, thus unfurling a different
destiny for the girl on the bus [Clara].” In what way is Clara’s destiny
“different”? What has the bird changed? Was the change foreordained? How is it
that neither Life nor Death notices the card deck now numbers 53, not 54? What
exactly is the purpose of this scene? Again, these are questions neither
answered nor asked.
But despite a few matters like these that may perplex attentive and curious readers, the book as a whole is so tightly assembled, so elegant in its progression from place to place and event to event, that it becomes a journey of wonder and a very thoughtful exploration of just what it means to make promises, to discover one’s abilities, to protect others, to give of oneself, to do all the things that constitute living life while on a journey to the inevitability of death. The unobtrusive illustrations by Dana Sanmar complement Valenti’s prose well, especially the repeated portrayal of changes in the boards of Life and Death as new cards are revealed and markers are placed upon suitable pictures in bingo-like fashion. Lotería is, in fact, the game of life, or one game of life, and it is one that Clara must lose (as everyone must) but one filled with beauty, care, concern, love and hopefulness – the elements that are preserved through one’s influence on others (as Clara’s are) even when one has passed into the realm of Death. Lotería is an altogether remarkable book, made all the more so by its steadfast refusal to talk down to preteens or try to shield them from difficult choices and life’s inevitable end. More words from Coleridge come to mind regarding the effect of Lotería on sensitive young readers: after the novel is over, they will find themselves, like the poet’s unnamed wedding guest, sadder and wiser.
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