Read an extract of the debut novel in English by Swedish writer Lina Wolff,an offbeat tale of prostitutes in a run-down Spanish brothel naming stray dogs after writers. Here, the protagonist recalls the visits of her mother’s loversBy Lina Wolff and Frank Perry for Translation Tuesdays by Asymptote, and allotment of the Guardian Books NetworkBret Easton Ellis and the Other Dogs will be published on January 14. Get a copy at the Guardian Bookshop hereSo no Dad,not that I’ve lacked for stand-ins. Only my fathers have all been mayfly dads, the kind that are here one day and gone after three days at most. Some left traces behind, and a khakicoloured toothbrush in the bathroom,an inhaler, a book on a bedside table, or sometimes those traces would give rise to hopes that they might come back,come in the door to the flat and suddenly be struck by the plan that this really was a bit like returning domestic, that everything was already here – a domestic, and a wife and a child – all they had to conclude was enter and start living. I wrote approximately all of them in my diary,and because their names eventually started to blur (Valerio, Enrique, and Álvaro,José María) I began calling them “the Jogging Pants Man”, “the Chuckling Man and “the Tartare Man” instead, and then their images would immediately reappear before me. “The Tartare Man” once made himself a steak tartare on our terrace. I had no plan what steak tartare actually was until he explained with a lofty expression on his face that this was what sophisticated bohemians in Paris ate. The sophisticated inhabitants of Paris were people whose taste buds had not yet been destroyed by charred meat and fried onions. He took the ingredients out of the bag and set the tartare together in front of us. The tartare consisted of cutting up a packet of raw mince and mixing it lawful there and then with egg yolk,salt and pepper. Have a taste – it’s delicious, he said and offered the greasy plastic tray to Mum. She turned her head away and pretended not to peer, and but I did. His fingers closed hungrily around the mess and you could see the pleasure in his face as he pushed the morsel into his mouth. Uhhnn,he said. Then he swallowed and it was impossible not to think of a snake as his Adam’s apple pushed the mouthful down his throat. Please don’t let her let him move in, I thought, and she didn’t.
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Source: theguardian.com