By: Lilian Ann Slugocki
FROM: Angels Flight Literary West

Ruthie Marlenée’s new, acclaimed novel, Agave Blues, presents readers with a strong sense of place and a strong-willed protagonist, Maya, whose story is interwoven with the magic of Jesus Maria, a small village in Mexico, and her life as a successful lawyer in Los Angeles. The book is a gripping family saga, poetry, and lesson in transformation. An excerpt, plus an in-depth conversation with AFLW Special Projects Editor Lillian Ann Slugocki and the author on her inspiration–and the magic in her writing process.

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AGAVE BLUES

EXCERPT

from
Chapter 12 – “Los Olvidados”

STANDING AT THE border, breathing in the field, I suddenly missed this place, like I’d missed a favorite cousin. And then when a little dove landed on the tip of an agave plant, I stepped a little closer, but the bird took off deeper into the field. Dwarfed by agave on either side, I chased the dove, remembering at once how I would run through here as a child with my cousin, Gabriel.

When I came to a slight peak in the meadow, I stopped. Hands on my knees, I lifted my head, gulping in more air. The sound of children squealing pierced the wind but when I looked all around, I was alone. As I took in the view across to the north, like a valley of death, I felt my eyes go wide, goose bumps erupting on my arms. What used to be rows of thriving agave were now just shriveled plants in dirt choked by weeds. Beyond the edge of the field, scrubby mesquites and ancient oak trees dotted the landscape. Further out, I could see a dried-up riverbed where a couple of emaciated-looking cows grazed. I rubbed my arms and then reached into my pocket to pull out the picture from Papa’s wallet. I held it out in front of me. The river used to be full. I felt a twinge in my stomach, steeling myself for the pain to follow. But surprisingly, I felt no aching.

Stretched before me was the exact panoramic view, the same spot where my father had taken my picture as a girl. I could almost see myself running toward the camera, legs thin as churros caked in cinnamon powder, twin red-ribboned braids flying in the wind.

“Papá,” I whispered now. I cleared my throat and continued to wander back through the rows of agave.

The ancient sky above this part of the field seemed to sparkle more sapphire and certainly bluer than any Los Angeles sky I’d ever witnessed. The dew on the tips of agave glistened like liquid sugar drops. The heart of the field pulsed with life. Insects appeared larger—butterflies more vibrant. Bees buzzed boisterously. The belly of the field was sweet and incandescent, like a child’s birthday cake topped with a generous arrangement of candles.

An orchestra of sound vibrated through me, infusing me with a warmth penetrating my being, dulling my pain—like a good Tequila. I twirled slowly, so enthralled by my surroundings. Another dove joined the first one, and I followed them both deeper into the field until, out of nowhere, I came up behind a man seated in front of a short easel and a canvas.

I stopped in my tracks, taking a moment to watch him paint. His back to me, I strained to peek over his shoulder. He sat barefoot and cross-legged in a loose, gauzy linen-colored tunic and drawstring pants that draped over his reedy frame. His head full of obsidian-colored hair gleamed halo-like in the sun. Staring at the canvas, I sucked in a quiet breath when I noticed no brush gliding across the painting—no hands involved in the creation bleeding onto the work. Shaking my head, I squeezed my eyes shut, but quickly re-opened them. And then before I could try to make sense of what unfolded before my very eyes, and as if sensing my presence, without turning around, the young man said, “Come closer, Maya.” Read Rest of Excerpt and Interview Here