Private Wounds as Social Memory | An Interview with Renato Cisneros
Interviews
By Fionn Petch
Recently released in English translation by Charco Press, You Shall Leave Your Land is a novel about the search for the origins of a family name—the author’s own. It is a name that has been held by a series of public luminaries in the author’s native Peru, yet he discovers it conceals a murky secret, one that no one in the family wants to talk to him about. Through this story, Renato Cisneros explores the conflict between upholding cherished family tradition and the urge to find out the truth.
The translator of his novel The Distance Between Us (also published by Charco Press), I interviewed Renato after we met each other for the first time at the London book launch for You Shall Leave Your Land.
Fionn Petch: You Shall Leave Your Land’s chapters alternate between the present day—in which you recount the lengthy process that led from your first doubts about the name Cisneros to the investigation you undertook together with your “Uncle Gustavo”—and a historical reconstruction of the lives of your ancestors in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Moreover, this novel was published in the wake of your bestselling book, The Distance Between Us, which concerns the life of your late father, General Luis Federico Cisneros, known as “El Gaucho,” including the many things you didn’t know about him while he was alive, together with the impact he had as a military man and politician on Peru in the second half of the twentieth century. So, where did this pair of books come from? Are they part of a single project, or did the idea for one emerge after the other?
Renato Cisneros: I began writing a novel about my father, and, as I completed the first chapters, I realized that my original obsession—to explore the past of the man who helped bring me into the world—was expanding further, invoking other presences. I felt that it wasn’t enough to know who my father had been before I was born. To do that I also needed to know who my grandfather really was, and then the same question arose with my great-grandfather, all the way back to the root that lay with my great-great-grandfather, the priest. By the time I had finished, I had amassed over 800 pages. I delivered them to my editor as if they were my last will and testament and placed myself in his hands. A few weeks later, he told me that the book really contained two stories: that of my father, and that of the other ancestors. Initially, I found it hard to come to terms with this division. But I agreed that the books should be published separately. In any case, different as they are, they form part of a single narrative ecosystem. The Distance Between Us is a kind of prequel, but they can be read in any order.
FP: Both books have met with extraordinary success in Peru, selling tens of thousands of copies. To what do you attribute this success? Why did they resonate so much with the book-buying public?
RC: Peru is a country with a small market for literature. A book that sells 3,000 copies is considered a great success. It’s also a market where the level of piracy is out of control. It’s estimated that, for every original, three or four pirate copies are sold. The Distance Between Us has sold about 60,000 copies, and You Shall Leave Your Land has sold around 20,000. Both have enjoyed a very positive reception from critics and the public alike. I think the fact that they address episodes in recent (and not so recent) Peruvian history, told from the intimate perspective of a family that was deeply affected by them, creates a sense of empathy on the part of readers. In a country where children tend to obey their parents without question, where the past is hardly discussed—whether it be private wounds or social memory—these novels fostered a debate: an uncomfortable but necessary one.
FP: Was there a difference in how you approached the story of the previous generations of your family compared to the book that focused on your father’s life? I have the sense that although superficially they are similar, your relationship with the subject matter is different.
RC: Yes, there are differences. In the novel about my father, the degree of proximity of the son/narrator with the principal character is inevitably close, despite the rhetorical efforts made to keep a certain distance. The son is devastated by very raw memories, and his research throws up unexpected facts that affect him deeply. That is evident to the reader. The country of that novel, meanwhile, presents a series of challenges that are both entirely contemporary and transferrable to many other countries in the region: political violence, social polarization, dominant castes, and the repression of emotions among men. In the novel about my ancestors, the research took me back to more distant periods. To prevent this from becoming boring for readers, I went for a more colorful language to carry us on this journey into the deep past.
FP: The title You Shall Leave Your Land evokes Biblical stories of exile, as do your epigraphs to the book. For some years now, you’ve been living in a kind of voluntary exile in Madrid. Was it necessary for you to take this distance from your country—or your extended family—in order to be able to write this book?
RC: It was only once I’d finished the book that I realized that, just like the men I had written about, I too had had to leave the country I was born in to be able to find my voice, my character, my identity. It was not something I had planned; it just happened. But it’s symbolic nonetheless. Sometimes the things that are richest in symbolism are the ones that occur with no deliberate intention on our part. I wouldn’t say that I distanced myself from my family, but that my family—not all of it, fortunately—distanced itself from me. It was inevitable. They are books that explore intimate domestic events in minute detail, which is not easy to bear. However, I’ve always believed that a writer has to be ready to break through the walls laid down by family and seek readers beyond those boundaries.
FP: Indeed, much of the book describes the adventures of the various members of the family who sought refuge in Europe and elsewhere for various periods, fleeing scandals or threats. Given these antecedents, you must have felt that, in a sense, you were keeping up the tradition.
RC: All these characters presented an exemplary, admirable public face. Meanwhile, in their private lives, they were cynical egotists. I hope that I’m not victim to such a resounding contradiction! On the other hand, I do find it interesting how, wherever they were exiled, these men engaged with the local culture. My great-grandfather knew the great nineteenth-century French writers and was even present at Victor Hugo’s funeral. My grandfather participated in intellectual life in both Argentina and Uruguay. Although they made very poor personal decisions, I find their literary lives fascinating.
FP: Over the course of You Shall Leave Your Land, we encounter numerous examples of how important family traditions are, especially when the Cisneros come together for their large gatherings. The way you describe it, it is or was customary to recite the texts and poems of distinguished ancestors such as your grandfather, who was named “National Poet of Peru.” When we met recently in London to launch the translation, I was greatly moved when, after dinner, you spontaneously began to recite one of these poems together with your young daughter. It felt like the book was coming to life before my eyes! What does it mean for you to maintain these traditions (which you also have reason to criticize in the novel) and pass them on to the next generation?
RC: I grew up fascinated with this aspect of my family, with the notion of a cultural heritage that was passed down through the generations. My family never amassed great fortunes, but it did have a gift when it came to words. My great-grandfather and grandfather were both well-known poets in their time. Other family members have had successes in the literary sphere. I wanted to keep up this urge to deconstruct reality through images and ideas, this curiosity for the word, the will to melody. That’s why I like to teach poems to my daughter. She may not understand all of the words she recites (they include words whose meaning she hasn’t learned yet, like chimera, gleam, murky), but I can see how she relates to language at the level of emotion and enjoyment. I think that’s a wonderful thing, and I’m really glad you were there to witness that.
FP: Together, The Distance Between Us and You Shall Leave Your Land encompass some 200 years in the history of Peru. Readers who perhaps don’t know much about that history might be left somewhat with the impression that it is a country that stumbles from political crisis to crisis without achieving stability—an impression only reinforced by recent events. As a journalist, you’ve written and broadcast extensively about current affairs in your country. But, in the process of researching these books, I wonder if you came to a deeper understanding of this (apparent) characteristic of the nation?
RC: Peru is a country that recently celebrated its 200th anniversary as an independent republic, which is about as far back as my family tree reaches. From the outset, the country was characterized by animosity between its inhabitants. But it was also characterized by a dignified struggle to overcome challenges. Today, Peru is a country torn by social fractures, one that is still traumatized by the colonial period and where people have been tolerating dreadful habits like corruption and racism for centuries. As is the case elsewhere, history in Peru is a loop, a series of scenes that repeat themselves. If citizens took the time to analyze their shared past, they would be better prepared for these repetitions. It’s like Kierkegaard said: “Life must be lived forwards, but it can only be understood backwards.” My country lacks this. It needs to look in the mirror to understand its weaknesses and its glories.
FP: What does it mean for you to be translated into English or French? Do you find there is a difference in the reception among an audience who perhaps are not as familiar with the Peruvian context? How did you feel coming to London for the first time to present the book and walking the streets that you describe in one of the chapters?
RC: I am very proud that these novels, which I wrote so full of uncertainties, fearing they would be of little interest to anyone, have reached the hands of so many readers in different countries. In France, I was asked a lot of questions about the political themes, perhaps because in most of Europe, unlike Latin America, there is no recent tradition of military dictatorships. As for London, it was very exciting to be here at last. It was my first visit, and I was thrilled to walk the same streets where my great-grandparents, a century and a half ago, spent a season of happiness, learning, discovery—and saw Queen Victoria not once but twice! I would like to return soon.
FP: One of the (few) real challenges I encountered in the course of translating You Shall Leave Your Land was how to evoke the different epochs and cultures that appear in the book through words, identifying the correct terminology for clothing, means of transport, pastimes and other details, while avoiding anachronisms. In the novel itself, you describe the process of research that led you to dusty archives in distant corners of Peru to discover the truth about your family. I wonder, though, if you also had to engage in a parallel research—one less evident on the surface—in order to write the chapters located in past centuries?
RC: Yes, writing You Shall Leave Your Land required days spent in libraries (and on the Internet) seeking information about the customs and traditions of the nineteenth century, and not only in Peru. This research was always undertaken in a literary spirit; that is to say, I needed these data to construct plausible scenes, but it was never my intention to write a typical historical novel. History functions as an instrumental element in the novel, but it does not pretend to take center stage.
FP: And now, where are you as a writer? Is there something more to reveal from the family story, or are you moving on to other themes? Fiction, non-fiction . . .?
RC: During the pandemic, I came across an old newspaper column of mine that told a story I’d heard long ago—a story that takes place during the Second World War. When I reread that column, I felt that I wanted to explore that story further, and for a number of reasons. First, I wanted to leave my comfort zone and write—or try to write—a purely fictional novel, one with no more autobiographical references, something wholly apart from my own family. This required a huge imaginative effort on my part. To create that world and invent those characters has been a great challenge, a new challenge, and, for that very reason, it has infused me with an energy and vigor I haven’t felt for a long time. The curious thing is that some of my habitual themes (or my demons) kept appearing in the creative process. No matter how much one tries to escape one’s favored subjects, some always return, only in different forms. I hope that the novel, which is coming out very soon, will find its way into different languages and encounter many readers.
Fionn Petch is a Scottish-born translator working from Spanish, French, and Italian into English. He lived in Mexico City for 12 years, where he completed a PhD in Philosophy at the UNAM, and now lives in Berlin. His translations of Latin American literature for Charco Press have been widely acclaimed. Fireflies by Luis Sagasti was shortlisted for the Translators’ Association First Translation Award 2018. The Distance Between Us by Renato Cisneros received an English PEN Award in 2018. A Musical Offering, also by Luis Sagasti, was shortlisted for the Republic of Consciousness Prize 2021 and won the UK Society of Authors Premio Valle Inclán 2021 for best translation from Spanish.
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