Santiago de Chile, 1986, in the dying days of Pinochet’s dictatorship: the streets are flooded with teargas and littered with the remains of anti-government protests. The military is losing its grip on power, citizens are demanding information on the thousands who have been disappeared, and armed cells of communist revolutionaries are plotting to bring down the regime. Amid this turbulence we find the Queen of the Corner, a queer middle-aged former sex worker, embroidering linens for the wives of Chile’s army generals and singing along to corny ballads on the radio. (The cover blurb describes her as a trans woman, while the original 2001 US edition framed her as a drag queen, but the Chilean “travesti” identity of the 80s is culturally specific.)
She’s a marginalised figure, largely apolitical, living in a derelict building she has adorned “like a wedding cake” with paper garlands, and dreaming of love. By chance she meets a young man who claims to be a university student and asks if, since she has so much space, he can store books in her house, and maybe study there with his classmates. Charmed by his good looks and sophisticated manners, the Queen agrees, choosing not to see the reality of the situation; Carlos is using her home as a safe house, a base from which to plan Pinochet’s assassination.
First published in 2001, My Tender Matador is Pedro Lemebel’s only novel, a jewel in a colossal multimedia catalogue that spans live performance, essays and radio programmes. Far more than just an odd-couple romance, it is the story of love’s transformative, emboldening power, as well as a record of the bestial cruelty which the people of Chile fought against for 17 bloody years. It is not a maudlin book; frequently, it is hilarious, especially in the extended monologues of the first lady, who endlessly harangues Pinochet for refusing to take seriously the advice of her psychics and personal shoppers. It’s not that the people of Chile are unhappy with the government, she insists, “the problem is the grey color of your uniform … so dull, and it doesn’t go with anything”. Later, the Queen sizes up a friend: “But she was thick, Lupe was, that’s why she considered herself right-wing.” In such moments you can’t help but recognise the author peeping out cheekily from behind his characters, like a showgirl giving us a flash of leg from behind the curtain.
Indeed, the novel brims with illusion, masquerade and creative fabrication. When they picnic together as a cover for Carlos’s reconnaissance, the Queen directs the experience like a magazine shoot; when she throws him a birthday party, she invites all the neighbourhood children for hot chocolate and cake, just like they do in Cuba, the spiritual home of the communist revolution in Latin America. Carlos delights in the way the Queen beautifies “even the most insignificant moment”, creating a baroque universe from the crumbs of pure penury, a maximalist talent shared with the author himself. Certainly Lemebel’s playful ornamentation belies the fact that, as stylised as his work is, it is actually very lean. There are no unnecessary scenes and the florid atmosphere is perfectly balanced against a plot of genuine threat and tension. Passion informs brutality; action and reflection are held in graceful equilibrium, with crucial details stashed in the middle of unassuming sentences, and moments of humanity afforded even to Pinochet.
It is also deeply romantic. Though the Queen and Carlos know their affair can never come to anything, due both to the political climate and their discordant sexualities, nevertheless they give each other beauty, hope and courage amid the surrounding horrors. As such, Matador offers a study of resilience, showing how to not only survive the tyranny of stupid, vicious men, but to do so majestically – a timely gift.
• My Tender Matador by Pedro Lemebel, translated by Katherine Silver, is published by Pushkin (£10.99). To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
