Narrator Gisela Chípe successfully juggles the many characters and subplots in this exciting, odd (in a good way) mystery set in 1970s Mexico. The government underwrites a group of thugs to do whatever’s necessary to keep down student protests and civil unrest. While Elvis is an enforcer, Chípe’s performance makes clear how his inner life conflicts with his work. Chípe also delivers a perfect Maite, a bored 30-year-old secretary with a Walter Mitty dream life inspired by her favorite magazine, SECRET ROMANCE. Maite agrees to cat sit for a neighbor, but the neighbor, Leonora, never returns. Then Maite’s life takes a thrilling turn as not-so-nice men show up searching for Leonora. An artful narration by Chípe and an ingeniously plotted thriller by Moreno-Garcia (MEXICAN GOTHIC) make this prime listening. S.J.H. Winner of AudioFIle Earphones Award, 2021 Best Audiobook © AudioFile 2021, Portland, Maine
Velvet Was the Night
Narrated by Gisela Chípe
Silvia Moreno-GarciaUnabridged — 9 hours, 52 minutes
Velvet Was the Night
Narrated by Gisela Chípe
Silvia Moreno-GarciaUnabridged — 9 hours, 52 minutes
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Overview
From gothic horror to noir cat & mouse plots, here in Velvet Was the Night, the magic, intrigue and mystique of Moreno-Garcia helps remain her grip on our imaginations.
ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR: The New York Times Book Review, NPR, The Washington Post, The Boston Globe, New York Public Library, Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, BookPage, She Reads, Library Journal ¿ “An adrenalized, darkly romantic journey.”-The Washington Post
Mexico in the 1970s is a dangerous country, even for Maite, a secretary who spends her life seeking the romance found in cheap comic books and ignoring the activists protesting around the city. When her next-door neighbor, the beautiful art student Leonora, disappears under suspicious circumstances, Maite finds herself searching for the missing woman-and journeying deeper into Leonora's secret life of student radicals and dissidents.*
Mexico in the 1970s is a politically fraught land, even for Elvis, a goon with a passion for rock 'n' roll who knows more about kidney-smashing than intrigue. When Elvis is assigned to find Leonora, he begins a blood-soaked search for the woman-and his soul. *
Swirling in parallel trajectories, Maite and Elvis attempt to discover the truth behind Leonora's disappearance, encountering hitmen, government agents, and Russian spies. Because Mexico in the 1970s is a noir, where life is cheap and the price of truth is high.
Editorial Reviews
★ 06/21/2021
This seductive neo-noir thriller from bestseller Moreno-Garcia (Mexican Gothic) draws on the real-life efforts of the Mexican government to suppress political dissent in the 1970s. Maite, a 30-year-old secretary in Mexico City who feels life has passed her by, escapes from routine by reading the magazine Secret Romance, oblivious to the political upheaval around her. When her beautiful art student neighbor, Leonora, disappears, Maite, with the help of Rubén, Leonora’s former lover, begins a search that takes her into the world of student radicals. Meanwhile, 21-year-old Elvis, muscle for a clandestine, government-funded shock troop employed to suppress student protests, longs for something more and wishes to escape his old life. When Elvis’s boss assigns him to track down Leonora, his search crosses that of Maite, with whom he becomes fascinated. As the two get closer to discovering the reason behind Leonora’s disappearance, they uncover secrets that shadowy forces, both domestic and foreign, will kill to protect. This is a rich novel with an engrossing plot, distinctive characters, and a pleasing touch of romance. Readers won’t be able to put it down. Agent: Eddie Schneider, JABberwocky Literary. (Aug.)
[Velvet Was the Night] is a noir with a heart of gold, and it’s a narrative in which the empathy we feel for its characters ultimately reveals an important truth: That Moreno-Garcia is not only a talented storyteller but also an incredibly versatile one.”—NPR
“An absolute flex . . . [Velvet Was the Night] left me marveling at what kind of sorceress Moreno-Garcia must be as she reworks genre after genre, weaving in Mexican history and culture, satisfying familiar cravings without resorting to mere pastiche. The most tantalizing suspense of all comes with wondering what she’ll do next.”—Slate
“Moreno-Garcia proves her prowess as a historical fiction powerhouse again.”—BuzzFeed
“Immensely satisfying, refreshingly new and gloriously written . . . Moreno-Garcia mashes up Anglocentric genres with midcentury Mexican history, resulting in a brew flavored with love, heartbreak, violence, music and unsettling dread. . . . The gift of this book, and Moreno-Garcia’s storytelling, is how it imbues this well-worn genre with added strength, grace and even musicality.”—The New York Times Book Review
“An enthralling tale that’s as fun as it is mysterious . . . The characters are fascinating, the tone lush and romantic, and it’s all wrapped up in a mystery with twists and turns one likely won’t see coming. . . . [Moreno-Garcia is] the sort of author whose works automatically end up on your ‘must-read’ list.”—USA Today
“The author’s previous novel, Mexican Gothic, turned the screw on the traditional ghost story; here she gleefully pries hard-boiled noir from the cold, white hands of Chandler and Hammett.”—Oprah Daily
“A delicious, twisted treat for lovers of noir. Silvia Moreno-Garcia is a masterful writer who pulls you into her dark world and never lets you go. From the suspenseful, slow-burn plot to the crisp, desperate characters, you will be obsessed.”—Simone St. James, New York Times bestselling author of The Sun Down Motel
“A lush, magnificent trip into a world of danger and discovery. Not to be missed!”—S.A. Cosby, author of Blacktop Wasteland and Razorblade Tears
“A rich novel with an engrossing plot, distinctive characters, and a pleasing touch of romance. Readers won’t be able to put it down.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Fans of Moreno-Garcia’s other novels will relish this title, as will noir aficionados and readers who like stories about everymen and women rising to the occasion.”—Library Journal (starred review)
“It’s hard to describe how much fun this novel is. . . . A noir masterpiece.”—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“A winner that brings together a romance-fiction obsessed secretary and a lovelorn enforcer during the brutally suppressed student riots in 1970s Mexico City.”—Booklist (starred review)
★ 07/01/2021
Moreno-Garcia (Mexican Gothic) steps away from her usual fantasy for this noir title that mixes history, star-crossed lovers, and political upheaval. In 1970s Mexico City, students are demonstrating against the corrupt government and demanding reform. Goon squads run by shadowy operatives use increasingly brutal methods to quash the protests. During this violent and dangerous time, Maite, a secretary who finds escapism in romance comics and rock and roll records, is cat-sitting for her neighbor Leonora. When Leonora disappears, Maite goes in search of her glamorous neighbor and enters Leonora's milieu of student activists and artists. She's not the only one hunting for Leonora. Elvis, a reluctant goon squad member and lonely heart who loves rock and roll and old movies, is sent by his boss to find Leonora and retrieve some incriminating photos. Surveilling her apartment building leads him to Maite, a kindred spirit. Will these two find each other—or even make it out alive? Moreno-Garcia keeps the suspense high and the action intense, all while sharing a bit of 1970s Mexican history in this perfectly pitched novel. VERDICT Fans of Moreno-Garcia's other novels will relish this title, as will noir aficionados and readers who like stories about everymen and -women rising to the occasion.—Liz French, Library Journal
12/01/2021
Two disparate characters find themselves hoping for a new life in Mexico City at the beginning of the 1970s. Elvis ran away from a small town after some police trouble and is now a 21-year-old Hawk, a gang that has been sent to keep tabs on student dissidents. Maite, a 30-year-old secretary, ignores the world that passes by outside in favor of one she can invent, spending her time reading Secret Romance, listening to and collecting records, and making up stories. These two will find the elements of a traditional noir, coming up against an attractive stranger as they each set out to find a girl who has gone missing. Only as the story progresses will they find out that the danger may lie not only with the side of the dangerous DHS agent, and the gangs, but also with the government that has hired them. Moreno-Garcia presents a gritty and enjoyable tale fictionalizing events after a student uprising. VERDICT A strong choice for readers for whom mature content or language is not a deterrent and who enjoy or film in the genre such as Fargo or The Black Dahlia.—Betsy Fraser, Calgary Public Lib., Canada
Narrator Gisela Chípe successfully juggles the many characters and subplots in this exciting, odd (in a good way) mystery set in 1970s Mexico. The government underwrites a group of thugs to do whatever’s necessary to keep down student protests and civil unrest. While Elvis is an enforcer, Chípe’s performance makes clear how his inner life conflicts with his work. Chípe also delivers a perfect Maite, a bored 30-year-old secretary with a Walter Mitty dream life inspired by her favorite magazine, SECRET ROMANCE. Maite agrees to cat sit for a neighbor, but the neighbor, Leonora, never returns. Then Maite’s life takes a thrilling turn as not-so-nice men show up searching for Leonora. An artful narration by Chípe and an ingeniously plotted thriller by Moreno-Garcia (MEXICAN GOTHIC) make this prime listening. S.J.H. Winner of AudioFIle Earphones Award, 2021 Best Audiobook © AudioFile 2021, Portland, Maine
★ 2021-06-16
An enforcer and a secretary search for a missing student in this explosive noir novel set in 1971 Mexico.
“Life’s a mess.” That’s the motto of Elvis, a 21-year-old man working as an enforcer for the Hawks, a government-sponsored black-ops group whose mission is to spy on, suppress, and harass left-wing protesters and activists. Elvis is in thrall to the group’s leader, El Mago, a mysterious but charismatic figure: “He was Elvis’s god, but a dark god. The god of the Old Testament, that, as a good Catholic boy, he’d learned to fear.” El Mago gives Elvis an assignment: Find a young college student named Leonora who’s gone missing along with some photos El Mago desperately wants. Elvis’ search leads him to a 30-year-old legal secretary named Maite who agreed to feed Leonora’s cat while she was gone and who is herself looking for Leonora. Moreno-Garcia follows both Elvis and Maite, who have a few things in common—they’re both avid readers, with Maite favoring romance magazines in particular, and they’re both suckers for old crooner-style music. They’re also both somewhat lonely, with Elvis’ only friend in the group out of commission after having been attacked at a protest and Maite despairing about ever finding a boyfriend. As they separately search for the missing Leonora and Elvis keeps an eye on Maite, they encounter a host of leftist activists, artists, secret police officers, a charming antiques store owner, and more, as their paths come ever closer to crossing. It’s hard to describe how much fun this novel is—Moreno-Garcia, whose Mexican Gothic (2020) gripped readers last year, proves to be just as good at noir as she is at horror. The novel features memorable characters, taut pacing, an intricate plot, and antiheroes you can’t help but root for.
A noir masterpiece.
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940172848605 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Random House |
| Publication date: | 08/17/2021 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
| Sales rank: | 1,077,404 |
Read an Excerpt
1
June 10, 1971
He didn’t like beating people.
El Elvis realized this was ironic considering his line of work. Imagine that: a thug who wanted to hold his punches. Then again, life is full of such ironies. Consider Ritchie Valens, who was afraid of flying and died the first time he set foot on an airplane. Damn shame that, and the other dudes who died, Buddy Holly and “The Big Bopper” Richardson; they weren’t half bad either. Or there was that playwright Aeschylus. He was afraid of being killed inside his house, and then he steps outside and wham, an eagle tosses a tortoise at him, cracking his head open. Murdered, right there in the most stupid way possible.
Often life doesn’t make sense, and if Elvis had a motto it was that: life’s a mess. That’s probably why he loved music and factoids. They helped him construct a more organized world. When he wasn’t listening to his records, he was poring over the dictionary, trying to memorize a new word, or plowing through one of those almanacs full of stats.
No, sir. Elvis wasn’t like some of the perverts he worked with, who got excited smashing a dude’s kidneys. He would have been happy solving crosswords and sipping coffee like their boss, El Mago, and maybe one day he would be an accomplished man of that sort, but for now there was work to be done, and this time Elvis was actually eager to beat a few motherf***ers up.
He hadn’t developed a sudden taste for blood and cracking bones, no, but El Güero had been at him again.
El Güero was a policeman before he joined up with Elvis’s group, and that made him cocky, made him want to throw his weight around. In practice being a poli meant shit because El Mago was the egalitarian sort who didn’t care where his recruits came from—ex-cops, ex-military, porros, and juvenile delinquents were welcome as long as they worked right. But the thing was El Güero was twenty-five, getting long in the tooth, and that was making him anxious. Soon enough he’d have to move on.
The chief requirement of a Hawk was he needed to look like a student so he could inform on the activities of the annoying reds infesting the universities—Trotskos, Maoists, Espartacos; there were so many flavors of dissidents Elvis could barely keep track of all their organizations—and also, if necessary, f*** up a few of them. Sure, there were important fossils, like El Fish, who was twentyseven. But El Fish had been in one political shenanigan or another since he was a wee first-year chemistry student; he was as professional as porros got. El Güero hadn’t achieved nearly as much. Elvis had just turned twenty-one, and El Güero felt the weight of his age and eyed the younger man with distrust, suspecting El Mago was going to pick El Elvis for a plum position.
Lately El Güero had been making snide remarks about how Elvis was a marshmallow, how he never went on any of the heavy assignments and instead he was picking locks and taking pictures. Elvis did what El Mago asked, and if El Mago wanted him to pick the locks and snap photos, who was Elvis to protest? But that didn’t sway El Güero, who had taken to impugning Elvis’s masculinity in veiled and irritating ways.
“A man who spends so much time running a comb through his hair isn’t a man at all,” El Güero would say. “The real Elvis Presley is a hip-shaking girlie-man.”
“What you getting at?” Elvis asked, and El Güero smiled. “What you saying ’bout me now?”
“Didn’t mean you, of course.”
“Who’d you mean, then?”
“Presley, like I said. The f***ing weirdo you like so much.”
“Presley’s the king. Ain’t nothin’ wrong in liking him.”
“Yankee garbage,” El Güero said smugly.
And then, when it wasn’t that, El Güero decided to use an assortment of nicknames to refer to Elvis, none of which were his code name. He had a fondness for calling him La Cucaracha, but also Tribilín, on account of his teeth.
In short, Elvis was in dire need of asserting himself, of showing his teammates that he wasn’t no f***ing marshmallow. He wanted to get dirty, to put all those fighting techniques El Mago made them learn to good use, to show he was as capable as any of the other guys, especially as capable as El Güero, who looked like a f***ing extra in a Nazi movie, and Elvis had no doubts that his dear papa had been saying “heil” real merrily until he boarded a boat and moved his stupid family to Mexico. Yeah, El Güero looked like a Nazi and not any Nazi but a gigantic, beefy motherf***ing Nazi, and that’s probably why he was so pissed off, because when you look like a blond Frankenstein it’s not that easy to blend in with no one, and it’s much better to be a shorter, slimmer, little dark-haired f***er like Elvis. That’s why El Mago kept El Güero for kidney-smashing and he left the lock picking, the infiltrating, the tailing, to Elvis or El Gazpacho.
El Gazpacho was a guy who’d come from Spain when he was six and still spoke with a little bit of an accent, and it goes to show that you can be all European and pretty much fine because that dude was as nice as could be, while El Güero was a sadist and a bully with an inferiority complex a mile wide.
F***ing son of an Irma Grese and a Heinrich Himmler! F***er.
But facts were facts, and Elvis, only two years with this group, knew that as the most junior of the lot he had to assert himself somehow or risk being sidelined. One thing was clear: there was no f***ing way he was headed back to Tepito.
Therefore, it’s no surprise that Elvis was a bit nervous. They’d gone over the plan, and the instructions were clear: his little unit was to focus on snatching cameras from journalists who would be covering the demonstration. Elvis wasn’t sure how many Hawks would be coming in and he wasn’t quite sure what the other units would be doing, and really, it wasn’t like he was supposed to ask questions, but he figured this was a big deal.
Students were heading toward El Monumento a la Revolución, chanting slogans and holding up signs. From the apartment where Elvis and his group were sitting they could see them streaming toward them. It was a holy day, the feast of Corpus Christi, and he wondered if he shouldn’t go get communion after his work was over. He was a lapsed Catholic, but sometimes he had bouts of piousness.
Elvis smoked a cigarette and checked his watch. It was still early, not even five o’clock. He went over the word of the day. He did that to keep his mind sharp. They’d kicked him out of school when he was thirteen, but Elvis hadn’t lost his appreciation for certain types of learning, courtesy of his Illustrated Larousse.
The word of the day was gladius. He’d picked it because it was fitting. After all, the Hawks were organized in groups of a hundred, and they called the leaders of those groups “the centurions.” But there were smaller units. More specialized sub-groups. Elvis belonged to one of those; a little goon squad of a dozen men headed by El Mago, further subdivided into three smaller groups with four men each.
Gladius, then. A little sword. Elvis wished he had a sword. Guns seemed less impressive now, even if he’d felt like a cowboy back when he first held one. He tried to picture himself as one of those samurais in the movies, swinging their katanas. Now wasn’t that something!
Elvis hadn’t known anything about katanas until he joined the Hawks and met El Gazpacho. El Gazpacho was all over the Japanese stuff. He introduced Elvis to Zatoichi, a super fighter who looked like a harmless blind man but who could defeat dozens of enemies with his expert moves. Elvis thought maybe he was a bit like Zatoichi because he wasn’t quite what he appeared to be and also because Zatoichi had spent some time hanging out with the yakuza, who were these crazy dangerous Japanese criminals.
Gladius. Elvis mouthed the word.
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