Village

This work of fiction begins and ends on a single Monday in San Marcos, a village far out in rural New Mexico. Told from many villagers’ points of view, the story is built from quotidian details and lists—lists of chores, of insults, of debts and desires—that pile up like so much refuse to form a funny, poetic portrait of a remote community. Lázaro Quintana is the mayordomo of the acequia, the ditch boss responsible for making sure water flows through the town’s historic irrigation canal. He ponders all the rubbish that can get in the way of the flowing water. Onésimo Moro runs the local store, Moro Mercantile, where his wife, Isabel, keeps watch over their customers through a peephole in the ceiling. Onésimo muses on all the folks who owe him money or are guilty of shoplifting, which is just about everybody. Lalo Moro counts up all the cars he’s wrecked. Manny Serrano is the town’s wheeler-dealer, hawking cellphones, cable, and satellite dishes from his Crestview Classic Medallion Deluxe double-wide mobile home. Glenda Louise Serrano and her cousin Benny drive around distributing stacks of Christian literature. Then there are the gringos who have fled civilization to make San Marcos their home: the aging, hapless hippie Porter Clapp, endlessly rehashing his mistakes; his restless, unhappy wife; and the Motts, who illegally siphon water from the acequia for their landscaping business. The climax of the day is meant to be a meeting with some suits from the State Water Office who are coming to explain their right to the town’s water supply, but the only one of them who ends up in San Marco ends up experiencing a hilarious, calamitous surprise. No character is spared this author’s honest assessment, but the reader grows fond of them all. While refusing to make sense of the world he has conjured, Crawford has created quite a strange, wonderful ode in its honor. (Apr.)