The Anthill

by Julianne Pachico

Genres: Hispanic & Latino; Literary Fiction; Horror

Synopsis

"Pachico's The Anthill is superb" (Kelly Link)

A wildly original blend of social horror and razor sharp satire, The Anthill is a searing exploration of privilege, racism, and redemption in the Instagram age.

In the end, it's much easier to not look at the screaming feeling. To not examine it. Better to just keep on rushing on...

Lina has come home to the country of her childhood. Sent away from Colombia to England after her mother's death twenty years before, she's searching for the one person who can tell her about their shared past. She's never forgotten Matty—her childhood friend and protector who now runs The Anthill, a day care refuge for the street kids of Medellín. Lina begins volunteering there, but her reunion with Matty is not what she hoped for. She no longer recognizes Medellin, now rebranded as a tourist destination, nor the person Matty has become: a guarded man uninterested in reliving the past she thought they both cherished.

As Lina begins to confront her memories and the country's traumatic history, strange happenings start taking place at The Anthill: something is violently scratching at the inside of the closet door, the kids are drawing unsettling pictures, and there are mysterious sightings of a small, dirty boy with pointy teeth. Is this a vision of the boy Lina once knew, or something more sinister? Did she bring these disturbances with her? And what will her search for atonement cost Matty?

A visceral, hallucinatory ride by an author who has been called "blunt, fresh, and unsentimental" (The New York Times Book Review) and "remarkably inventive" (The Atlantic), The Anthill is a ghost story unlike any other, a meditation on healing—for both a person and a country—in the wake of horror.

Release date: May 12, 2020

Publisher: Anchor

Print pages: 320

Sample

Lalo

The bus route down from the Medellín airport doesn’t make you nauseous like it used to, not like when you were last driven on it twenty years ago, an eight-year-old girl on her way to Heathrow. Now you’re twenty-eight and the road is still one sharp curved turn after another, past restaurants with names like Sancho Paisa and trashy nightclubs like Oh My Sweet Jesus. Grinning statues of machete-wielding farmers, Texaco gas station stars. PANADERÍA signs on every corner, scraggly half-dead grass on the side of the highway. And down there in the valley below is the city—your city—its far-off lights lurking like tiny star clusters from a distant galaxy, awaiting your arrival.

When you get off the bus at the Sandiego mall, a girl in a collared shirt heaves your suitcase into the front seat of a cab, paying no mind to your apologetic warning of Careful, it’s very heavy. You overtip her out of nervousness and she bows her head: —Thank you, miss. The taxi driver gets lost and keeps refusing to go down the street you insist is correct, based on the directions saved on your phone. —I really think it’s this way, you say, as he turns the steering wheel in the opposite direction of where you’re pointing.

By the time the driver has managed to lurch your suitcase onto the pavement, a man has come out of the building. He stands at an awkward distance, arms crossed, like he doesn’t want to get too close. You pay the taxi driver in exact change and he says, —Thank you, beautiful.

When the taxi finally drives off it feels like the man has been standing there an uncomfortably long time. His head is shaved close to the scalp and he’s wearing a long-sleeved white shirt that hangs past his wrists and white exercise sweatpants with a black line running down the sides. Even his tennis shoes are white: a clean white, like they’ve just been purchased. He could be an assistant football coach, or a sports-shoe salesman.

—. . . Matty? you say.

But the man shakes his head. —He’s not here, he says. He should be back soon. But he told us you were coming. Don’t worry, he left very specific instructions.

—Instructions, you say.

—That’s correct.

A shudder jolts through your torso but you’re able to restrain yourself: hopefully it looks more like a twitch, rather than a violent spasm. An unexpectedly chill breeze makes you grateful for your tights, impulsively purchased at the last minute from Terminal 3’s Boots pharmacy. One of the few memories you have left of Medellín (cradled close to your body, carefully, like you’re carrying a basket of eggs) is the temperate weather. Welcome to the City of Eternal Spring—that’s what the pilot said on the loudspeaker. But you don’t recall Medellín being this cool in the evening.

The man reaches for your suitcase. —This is embarrassing, he says, but I didn’t grab my keys. We’ll have to knock hard and hope somebody’s listening.

His shirtsleeve has risen up his arm. On the back of his hand, you see what looks like scar tissue: puckered wrinkled holes, lumpy like the bark of a tree.

—No problem, you say. Totally fine. (Apparently you’ve turned into a US cheerleader, all optimistic pep talk.)

—Or I’ll tell you what, he says. Are you hungry? Do you want to go get a drink? Let’s take the suitcase and come right back.

—Um, you say. You look down the road. An old woman has come out of a building and is placing a fat garbage bag by a tree. It all seems domestic enough. Sure, you say. Why not.

Your suitcase makes a terrible rasping sound every time it goes over a crack in the pavement. He walks quickly despite dragging your suitcase along and doesn’t seem bothered when it sways dangerously after going over a ledge. Following him down the street, like a duckling trailing after its mother, you tell him about airport security. When you’d sent your suitcase through the conveyor belt, the lady looking at the X-ray screen had furrowed her brow. She’d leaned to the left, Tower of Pisa style, and tried to catch your eye.

Did you pack boxes in here? she’d asked. Dozens of them? Making a rectangular shape with her hands.

—Books, you tell the man now as he pauses by the traffic lights. I brought too many books with me. I’m sorry it’s so heavy.

—I’d never expect a woman’s suitcase to not be, he says. Watch out, here come the motos.

An army of helmeted figures on motorcycles buzz by, an angry swarm. You take a step back, swallowing hard. You hope you’re not standing inappropriately close to him. He has a strong smell of BO, a musky scent you never encounter in London, not even in the sweatiest, swampiest hours on the Tube. Why is being back in Colombia a reminder that you have a physical body, that it’s an actual thing existing in space?

—Those motos sound like insects, you say. From a monster movie.

He makes a face as though what you’ve said is very strange and he needs to struggle to understand it.

—If you ever get lost, he says, tell the taxi driver to take you to the Anthill headquarters. Tell him Circular, and then these numbers . . .

—I know, you say. I have the address. (You don’t add How else would I have got here?)

—Or, he says, just tell them, “The Anthill headquarters, please.” If you’re anywhere near this neighbourhood they’ll know exactly what you mean.

You nod, refraining from thanking him, the most tepid of feminist victories.

—I don’t mean to be condescending, he says, suitcase wobbling wildly as he steps off the pavement. I just want you to be safe. Mattías would kill me if I didn’t protect you. Like, literally kill me.

He makes a gesture across his stomach, velociraptor-claw style. On your face: the slowest of smiles.

—Would he, now, you say, and the feeling of gratitude spreading through your stomach is like something warm getting spilled.

The restaurant is comida pacífica, food from the coast. He orders you a portion of fried fish, which seems a bit heavy for this time of night, but since no one has brought you a menu it feels fussy to request one. For himself, he orders a plate with all the sides (plantain, cabbage, coconut rice) but nothing else.

—I don’t eat animals, he says, moving his knife and fork out of the way as the waitress sets down a basket full of popcorn. But I ordered you ocean fish. Not river. Whenever you can, get ocean.

—Aren’t we a bit far from the ocean?

—Not at all. He shoves a handful of popcorn into his mouth. The owners of this place, their family lives in Chocó. They ship it here direct in special ice containers. Trust me, whenever you can, avoid fish from the river. No tilapia or carp ever; it’s bad for the environment. Have you ever been to the Pacific coast?

—No. I never had the chance to travel when I lived here.

—You didn’t? the man says, tilting his head in the universal manner that signifies Tell me more.

You tell him the basics, speed-dating style. Your Colombian mother, killed in a traffic accident when you were eight. Your British father, a lawyer who sent you to English boarding school. He followed you to England soon after, moving back into his family home in the south-west. He’s still living there—at least, you haven’t heard otherwise.

—Does it look the way you remember it? the man says, taking the beers directly from the waitress before she has a chance to set them down. Medellín, I mean.

—I have a really bad memory, you say, raising the bottle to your lips. I was only eight when I left.

The man nods, as if this is acceptable. He starts talking about himself. In the time it takes you to need a second round of beers, you learn his name is Lalo, he’s a freelance writer, he just came back from a three-week camping trip on the Pacific coast of Chocó, and he’s been volunteering at the Anthill since the day it opened, over three years ago.

—Working at the Anthill saved my life, he says, as you use your tongue to poke at a popcorn kernel stuck in your molar. It did! I would have been lost without it! But remind me again—how is it you know Mattías?

You pinch at the flap of skin beside your thumb, then your index finger, descending down your hand like a musical scale. If you pinch hard enough, you can almost feel the redness. —We grew up together, you say. We lived in the same house when we were kids. (You almost don’t say it, but then go ahead anyway, brutally, like it’s nothing.) We were best friends. Why . . . What did Mattías say about me?

—Exactly that, Lalo says, rotating his beer so that the logo faces him. He said exactly that. How lovely the two of you were able to get back in touch. Did he contact you first? Or—

—No, you say quickly. I, ah, got his email. From a mutual friend.

Lalo picks at the label on his bottle. —Mattías always talks about your father—how he’s been a great friend of the Anthill and all that. Financially, I mean.

This is news to you. —He has?

—Of course! He’s even said that if it weren’t for your father’s contributions, the Anthill wouldn’t exist. Mattías went to so many people! He must have raised around twenty thousand dollars in the beginning! He’s very grateful to your father, obviously.

—Grateful, you echo. Of course.

When the waitress asks if you’d like another drink, you don’t even let her finish the sentence before blurting out, —Yes.

As you push the slice of lime down the bottle’s neck, Lalo gives you the basic lowdown about the Anthill. —The Anthill children come every day, he says, the lime fizzing in your beer. Five days a week. Fridays are different; that’s when we serve Community Meal. We offer all kinds of classes: art, sports, English, computers for the teens. We only have three computers, unfortunately. How long are you in Medellín for? Will you be staying here your whole trip? You could teach English. Or anything you want, really.

—I don’t exactly have a plan, you say, not mentioning your one-way ticket, purchased with your associate tutor stipend. I just thought it’d be good to come back for a bit. It’s been so long.

—Will you be working on anything while you’re here?

—What do you mean?

He drums his fingers on the table. —Like on a book, or something.

—Oh, I’m not a writer.

—Oh!

He sits there, looking at you. So you say, —I study literature. And teach it, I guess.

A young man carrying a stack of CDs approaches the table. He says he’s from Venezuela, that this is a rap single he wrote and recorded himself, that he’d appreciate any help you’re able to provide, God willing. Lalo gives him a crumpled-up bill, you give him a coin, but neither of you accepts a CD. After he leaves, Lalo says, —A lot of people are coming to Medellín these days to be writers. A lot of volunteers. I’m working on a book about Medellín myself, actually. You wouldn’t be alone!

You shake your head. You almost don’t say it, then go ahead anyway, in a rush of beer-induced honesty: —I used to want to be a writer. When I was a kid, I mean.