Shopgirl, de Steve Martin

Lo que digo yo:

Mirabelle es una chica que lleva una vida, digamos, de rutina. Trabaja vendiendo guantes en una tienda de departamentos en Los Angeles. El humor empieza con semejante paradoja: a pesar de que ella está ahí, esperando a sus clientes, lo hace precisamente en una ciudad que poco necesita de ellos.

En la breve novela quedan retratadas su soledad, que se puede tocar al repasar la historia que nos cuenta el autor, las relaciones amorosas que vive, los problemas en que se mete sin siquiera pretenderlo (como con su compañera de trabajo, envidiosa hasta la médula).

La riqueza de este libro está en los temas que toca, sobre todo porque lo hace sin remarcarlos, sin subrayarlos. Aún así, creo que mientras “The pleasure of my company” es una obra maestra de retrato psicológico, esta, probablemente, se queda en la pretensión. De todas formas es muy entretenida.

Lo que dice la contraportada:

Mirabelle, the image of fragile, feminine loveliness, is the shopgirl. She works in the glove department at Neiman’s in L.A., where she’s come to escape the provincialism of her Vermont hometown. And though she may remind people of Olive Oyl, once the resemblance is noted, many readers also will find a likeness to Chaplin’s little tramp, the poor, lonely soul with a heart of gold. But Mirabelle is not just a shopgirl; she spends her nights toiling as an artist. Her specialty is creating a striking image surrounded by a black background. Mirabelle lives with two cats; one is always hiding. She has a few friends, who invariably forget to include her in their social activities, and she can barely claim the interest of Jeremy, an awkward, inexperienced young man without means, whom she met in a laundromat. Then, abruptly and mysteriously, Mr. Ray Porter, a millionaire, comes into her life. They becomes lovers, and that initiates the ire of Mirabelle’s antagonist, Lisa Cramer. Cramer’s aim in life is to be flawlessly pleasing to men, to which end she has viewed a few “`educational’ porno tapes,” discussed techniques extensively with other women, and “once attended a class given by Crystal Headly, a down and going sex-film actress.” The action moves quickly, yet the narrative takes its time to develop, which is a very skillful bit of writing business. Martin’s literary fable of a novella is disarming, particularly for those who come to it expecting the biting, zany humor of Pure Drivel (1998), but it may mark a new direction in a noteworthy writer’s career. (Reviewed July 2000)