Flies, Felonies and Feel-Good Feminism
Claudia Piñeiro, trans. Frances Riddle, Time of the Flies
Charco Press, 356pp, £12.99, ISBN 9781913867867
reviewed by Bronwyn Scott-McCharen
If, in the 20th century, Argentina was primarily known for its tumultuous and oftentimes violent political landscape, one of frequent military coups and the transformation of disappeared into both a noun and a (newly transitive) verb, then in the 21st it is perhaps more positively regarded for its early and enormous strides made in gender equality and LGBTQ rights. Argentina was the first country in Latin America to legalise same-sex marriage in 2010, as well as a worldwide pioneer in transgender rights with the sanctioning of the Gender Identity Law just two years later. What followed was a period of feminist consciousness-raising that culminated in the nationwide Ni una menos (Not One Woman Less) demonstrations against femicide in 2015. Since then, feminist concerns have played a large part in shaping cultural debates and, soon thereafter, state policy.
But every spring has its winter, and Argentine feminism now finds itself in the midst of a particularly cold and cruel one. Current right-wing president Javier Milei, patron saint of angry, terminally online young men, has long branded himself as the ultimate anti-feminist crusader, while the center-left Peronists, who, in recent years have made feminism their cause célèbre, have been shaken by revelations that former president Alberto Fernández — Milei’s Peronist predecessor — physically and psychologically abused his now ex-wife while in office. How long this winter will last is anyone’s guess but, as of now, what many had believed to be an iron-clad feminist consensus has found itself challenged by forces both internal and external.
Initially published in 2022, Time of the Flies (El tiempo de las moscas) is a long-awaited sequel to Tuya (2005), translated by Miranda France and published in English as All Yours (Bitter Lemon Press, 2012). Tuya follows Inés, a middle class housewife who suspects her husband Ernesto is cheating on her and ends with Inés murdering his lover. Fifteen years later, Inés returns in Time of the Flies after being released from prison, an event she naturally likens to rebirth, going so far as to mark the occasion with a name-change — Inés Pereyra becomes Inés Experey or ‘ex-Pereyra’. Shortly after regaining her freedom, Inés goes into business with Manca, her best friend from prison who has also been released, and they form a corporation-cum-sisterhood that provides (non-toxic) pest control and (potentially toxic) private investigation services. FFF–Flies, Females and Fumigations; the name of the company, could very well be a statement of the novel’s central motifs.
While Inés deals with insect problems, Manca focuses on human ones, though the two soon intersect when a new fumigation client, the mysterious and vaguely sinister Ms. Bonar, offers Inés a precious wad of US dollars in exchange for procuring some special high-grade bug poison for her. What, exactly, are Ms. Bonar’s intentions with said poison? And why does she seek out Inés specifically?
What follows is a twisty, page-turning plot that will please any reader of mystery and crime fiction. However, it soon becomes abundantly clear that Piñeiro has more highbrow expectations and intentions for Time of the Flies. From the Greek chorus of contemporary feminist discourse and debate — complete with epigraphs from Medea and quoted citations of famous North and Latin American feminist writers and thinkers — to Inés’s long-winded, poetic musings on the virtues of the fly, this is a Literary crime novel. And more than that, it is a Feminist Literary crime novel. Much as fellow Argentine Mariana Enríquez has done for horror, Piñeiro — or the Anglophone marketing of her work in translation — has made a name for herself as the female — and feminist — face of a traditionally masculine genre.
The feminism of Time of the Flies is feel-good, surprisingly so for a novel that deals with the darker side of the human and feminine experience. The points about solidarity and sisterhood are obvious, common sense, and more likely than not shared by any reader of the novel in any language. A cursory knowledge of Spanish would draw attention to the fact that ‘mosca' — fly — is feminine, a fitting image for the women who populate the novel’s cast — or perhaps women more broadly — who are often seen as little more than annoying pests by the men in their lives and/or society at large. No doubt Inés sees this, too, as these inherently feminine flies are the only pests she refuses to kill as a fumigator. ‘The moscas (flies, women) united, will never be defeated’ seems to be the ideal toward which both Inés and Manca work towards, though making this ideal a reality is not without its challenges.
Within all the feminist discourses that the book amplifies through its anonymous Greek chorus and its own storyline, it is the question of violence that is at the heart of Time of the Flies. Is violence the sole dominion of men, or is it possible for women to commit violence against each other, or even against men? Inés justifies her lack of violence towards her beloved flies by projecting innocence onto them. ‘If you’re going to kill someone,’ she says, ‘there has to be a reason, a valid motive, a need to avoid some greater harm.’ Harm avoidance, as such, remains central to Inés’s post-prison ethics, though the harm of betrayal is what motivated her to kill her husband’s lover; it’s a contradiction the consequences of which she’s forced to live with. Inés then adds another reason that violence, in any case, could be justified: to ‘suppress some pain’, as ‘pain is the greater evil’. But all the pain of betrayal results in the pain of imprisonment and estrangement from her daughter, Laura, a different sort of pain but no less severe.
Time of the Flies demands to be read as a novel of ethics and feminism and/or of feminist ethics. What duty do women have to this global sisterhood? How should women react when their ostensible ‘sisters’ engage in the supposedly masculine practice of violence? This question rises to the forefront as Ms. Bonar’s ill-intentions are slowly revealed, intentions that lie at the root of her relationship with Inés and Laura. But Ms. Bonar’s sinister plot is foiled and in feel-good feminist fashion, all’s well that ends well — more or less. Laura and Inés learn to love each other again, as mother and daughter should, but Ms. Bonar still escapes justice for attempted murder. While Time of the Flies intends to teach its readers a lesson on power and responsibility of sisterhood in the trappings of the crime and thriller genres, perhaps the lessons it ends up leaving readers with are less so. No matter its intentions, a novel cannot escape the complexity of the real world and the many kinds of humans — not just women — that inhabit it.
But every spring has its winter, and Argentine feminism now finds itself in the midst of a particularly cold and cruel one. Current right-wing president Javier Milei, patron saint of angry, terminally online young men, has long branded himself as the ultimate anti-feminist crusader, while the center-left Peronists, who, in recent years have made feminism their cause célèbre, have been shaken by revelations that former president Alberto Fernández — Milei’s Peronist predecessor — physically and psychologically abused his now ex-wife while in office. How long this winter will last is anyone’s guess but, as of now, what many had believed to be an iron-clad feminist consensus has found itself challenged by forces both internal and external.
Initially published in 2022, Time of the Flies (El tiempo de las moscas) is a long-awaited sequel to Tuya (2005), translated by Miranda France and published in English as All Yours (Bitter Lemon Press, 2012). Tuya follows Inés, a middle class housewife who suspects her husband Ernesto is cheating on her and ends with Inés murdering his lover. Fifteen years later, Inés returns in Time of the Flies after being released from prison, an event she naturally likens to rebirth, going so far as to mark the occasion with a name-change — Inés Pereyra becomes Inés Experey or ‘ex-Pereyra’. Shortly after regaining her freedom, Inés goes into business with Manca, her best friend from prison who has also been released, and they form a corporation-cum-sisterhood that provides (non-toxic) pest control and (potentially toxic) private investigation services. FFF–Flies, Females and Fumigations; the name of the company, could very well be a statement of the novel’s central motifs.
While Inés deals with insect problems, Manca focuses on human ones, though the two soon intersect when a new fumigation client, the mysterious and vaguely sinister Ms. Bonar, offers Inés a precious wad of US dollars in exchange for procuring some special high-grade bug poison for her. What, exactly, are Ms. Bonar’s intentions with said poison? And why does she seek out Inés specifically?
What follows is a twisty, page-turning plot that will please any reader of mystery and crime fiction. However, it soon becomes abundantly clear that Piñeiro has more highbrow expectations and intentions for Time of the Flies. From the Greek chorus of contemporary feminist discourse and debate — complete with epigraphs from Medea and quoted citations of famous North and Latin American feminist writers and thinkers — to Inés’s long-winded, poetic musings on the virtues of the fly, this is a Literary crime novel. And more than that, it is a Feminist Literary crime novel. Much as fellow Argentine Mariana Enríquez has done for horror, Piñeiro — or the Anglophone marketing of her work in translation — has made a name for herself as the female — and feminist — face of a traditionally masculine genre.
The feminism of Time of the Flies is feel-good, surprisingly so for a novel that deals with the darker side of the human and feminine experience. The points about solidarity and sisterhood are obvious, common sense, and more likely than not shared by any reader of the novel in any language. A cursory knowledge of Spanish would draw attention to the fact that ‘mosca' — fly — is feminine, a fitting image for the women who populate the novel’s cast — or perhaps women more broadly — who are often seen as little more than annoying pests by the men in their lives and/or society at large. No doubt Inés sees this, too, as these inherently feminine flies are the only pests she refuses to kill as a fumigator. ‘The moscas (flies, women) united, will never be defeated’ seems to be the ideal toward which both Inés and Manca work towards, though making this ideal a reality is not without its challenges.
Within all the feminist discourses that the book amplifies through its anonymous Greek chorus and its own storyline, it is the question of violence that is at the heart of Time of the Flies. Is violence the sole dominion of men, or is it possible for women to commit violence against each other, or even against men? Inés justifies her lack of violence towards her beloved flies by projecting innocence onto them. ‘If you’re going to kill someone,’ she says, ‘there has to be a reason, a valid motive, a need to avoid some greater harm.’ Harm avoidance, as such, remains central to Inés’s post-prison ethics, though the harm of betrayal is what motivated her to kill her husband’s lover; it’s a contradiction the consequences of which she’s forced to live with. Inés then adds another reason that violence, in any case, could be justified: to ‘suppress some pain’, as ‘pain is the greater evil’. But all the pain of betrayal results in the pain of imprisonment and estrangement from her daughter, Laura, a different sort of pain but no less severe.
Time of the Flies demands to be read as a novel of ethics and feminism and/or of feminist ethics. What duty do women have to this global sisterhood? How should women react when their ostensible ‘sisters’ engage in the supposedly masculine practice of violence? This question rises to the forefront as Ms. Bonar’s ill-intentions are slowly revealed, intentions that lie at the root of her relationship with Inés and Laura. But Ms. Bonar’s sinister plot is foiled and in feel-good feminist fashion, all’s well that ends well — more or less. Laura and Inés learn to love each other again, as mother and daughter should, but Ms. Bonar still escapes justice for attempted murder. While Time of the Flies intends to teach its readers a lesson on power and responsibility of sisterhood in the trappings of the crime and thriller genres, perhaps the lessons it ends up leaving readers with are less so. No matter its intentions, a novel cannot escape the complexity of the real world and the many kinds of humans — not just women — that inhabit it.