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Sixteen of Mexico's finest fiction writers born after 1945 are collected in this compelling bilingual anthology, offering a glimpse of the rich tapestry of Mexican fiction, from small-town dramas to tales of urban savagery. Many of these writers, and most of these stories, have never before appeared in English. Readers will meet an embalmed man positioned in front of the TV, a mariachi singer suffering from mediocrity, a man's lifelong imaginary friend, and the town prostitute whose funeral draws a crowd from the highest rungs of the social ladder.

The writers that Mexican editor Álvaro Uribe selected for this volume are deeply engaged in the literary life of Mexico and include prominent editors, translators, columnists, professors, and even the young founder of a new publishing collective. Between them they have received dozens of prizes, from the Xavier Villaurrutia prize to Guggenheim fellowships and other international awards.

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The first time he dreamed of the place he never imagined that, in time, it would become an obsession. After all, it had been one of those light, condensed dreams, the kind that leave you with a pleasant aftertaste when you wake up because you remember them so completely and then, a few seconds later, forget them just as completely. That morning he opened his eyes and closed them again, stretched, and then, when he was in the bathroom, beneath the cool spray of the shower, recalled everything. He’d been driving an old car, it was white, and he was on a fast-moving road, full of traffic. In the distance, beyond some parched hills, was a cluster of clouds tinged purple and scarlet. Beyond that there was only that sharp yellow light so characteristic of winter. As he sped along he tried to turn on the radio, to pass the time, but after several attempts he realized it didn’t work. Then, bored, searching for some sort of distraction, he decided to watch the other motorists. All of them, even the children, were staring straight ahead, towards the end of the road, as if it were salvation, or a prize. But their focus seemed resigned, not hopeful. That explained, most likely, why nobody realized that, as the road got steeper and dusk’s colors more intense, an exit came into view. There was no road sign announcing it, nor any indication of its name at the intersection. It was just a little two-lane road with crumbling pavement on which traveled a few other cars as rusty as his own, a bunch of dogs, even a couple of burros. The quadrupeds’ presence forced him to slow down and glance constantly in his rear- and side-view mirrors. He didn’t want to run anyone over. And proceeding thus, with great care, with uncharacteristic precaution, he realized he was there; this was the place. It wasn’t a beautiful place, wasn’t even special. In fact, it seemed perfectly at home amid the chaos and ugliness that a lack of city planning had led to. The layout of the streets and range of architectural styles made it clear that no experts had been employed to oversee the urbanization process. You could tell, by the puddles that dogs lapped from and the string of carts parked on one side of the sidewalk, that public ordinances were few and far between and that the police rarely handed out fines. Soon, dusk’s shadows made it hard for him to see much more. He turned on his headlights and kept creeping along at the same speed until he pulled to a stop in front of a building with vague colonial influences, with a tiled roof and whitewashed walls. When he pulled on the hand break he realized that before him stood the purpose of his trip. For rent. The hand-painted sign offered no further information. When he opened the car door, the outside heat almost forced him to turn back. He did not. Instead, he took off his cashmere sweater, rolled up his shirtsleeves, picked up the briefcase sitting on the passenger’s seat and, with a wry smile, thought to himself that those drastic temperature changes only ever occurred in dreams. The possibility of being in one caused him to feel singularly elated, strangely sure of himself.

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