Wendolin Kramer

By Laura Fernández

The quixotic adventure of a quirky redhead determined to rid the world of supervillains—and an explosive cocktail of pop culture and noir, destined to become a cult classic 
Wendolin Kramer is not just any girl. She’s Wondergirl. Or so she thinks. She keeps an outfit, complete with a cape, in her wardrobe and waits for Kirk Cameron to answer her letters. Almost thirty years old, she lives with her domineering mother, her henpecked father, and her depressed, pink pooch, Earl, in a tiny apartment in post-Olympic Barcelona, running a detective agency from her bedroom. When she accepts a case to follow private investigator-cum-gigolo Francis Dómino, Wen plunges into an adventure that will change her life forever. While dealing with her mysterious client, she tangles with a comic-store clerk, an assassin, and the fans of Vendolin Woolfin, the bestselling romance novelist who hides a dark secret. Can superheroines take on the world without turning into supervillains? Wen is about to find out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barcelona eBooks
• Release date: Oct 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781453264065

Book preview

1

EARL’S GIANT SMILING BONES

The redheaded girl was reading stupid comics in her stupid blond doll room. Her mother was in the living room, sewing a golden felt boot onto the right lapel of her only blazer. Her father was trying to watch TV through his lensless glasses. And the dog, oh, no, the poor, bored dog was sleeping; sleeping and dreaming of touring the world on a giant smiling bone. The stupid dog had no idea. Had he had any, perhaps he would have gotten up and started his own business: Earl’s Giant Smiling Bones. But that’s not what he was going to do. He was going to stay home and change the part of the world that began in that yellow living room. For ever and ever. Bow wow.

Mom? This was the redhead.

Something wrong, honey? The mother was thinking: Golden boot, I need to sew that boot, boot toot toot. The needle was not going to slow down. In, out, up, and down it weaved. What is it, honey?

Can I take Munk for a walk?

Munk? The mother glanced at the magazine the girl was holding, without losing her rhythm: in, out, in. Who’s Munk, honey?

Earl raised his eyebrows.

The dog, said the father.

Oh, the dog, right.

Earl hid behind his tiny front paws.

And where are you going to take Gus, honey? In, out, in, out.

It’s not Gus, Mom, it’s Munk, said the girl.

Oh, yes, of course, honey.

What’s that? asked the father, reaching towards the comic.

A contest for Munk, said the girl.

A contest? In, out, in.

The father folded the comic over and read: "1989 Canine World Beauty Contest. Your pup could be the next Mister Can. Now in Spain, for the first time." Then he turned the page over and glanced at the cartoons inside.

What type of comic book is this? he asked, taking off his glasses and adding, in a whisper to the mother, The girls are all naked, Marion.

God, Ron, am I not going to get to finish sewing this boot for another million years?

The father shrugged his shoulders and handed her the comic.

All right, let me see that thing. Jesus Christ, why did I have to marry such a stupid idiot? This last bit she said in German. Or in what she and her daughter thought was German.

The girl laughed.

What’re you laughing at, cutie? The father put his glasses back on.

What happened to your lenses, Ron? asked the mother. She had driven the needle into the heel of the golden boot, which was actually lemon yellow, and was flipping through the comic.

Did you buy it for her? asked the father.

Well of course I bought it! What, do you want Wen to be like you, Ron? Look at the cover, toothface, it’s a Wondergirl comic book, do you know who Wondergirl is? Knock, knock, Ron, anybody home? Ever heard of Wonder Woman? The woman with the red boots? Stupid! screamed Marion, in German.

The girl smiled.

Okay. Don’t get so upset, Marion. I didn’t say anything. The father sunk back in his chair and smoothed over a wrinkle of fabric that had formed over his kneecap. Then he turned the volume up on the TV and pretended to enjoy himself while watching a documentary about anteaters which he could barely see.

So, can I? insisted the girl.

Of course you can, Wen, said the mother (in German).

And that’s how little Earl forever changed the story of his family and that of his adoptive family, whom the rest of the world knew as the Kramers, by the express wish of the head of the family: Marion Kramer.

And what became of Earl’s Giant Smiling Bones? Earl’s Giant Smiling Bones would never even become a dream. Let’s just say that it was more like one of those highway exits you don’t take in time. Had it been otherwise, Francis Dómino would still be alive. And little Wen would never have met Depressed Pisces.

2

DEPRESSED PISCES

The letter came in a yellow envelope. It was her father who found it in the mail and handed it to Marion.

I think you ought to take a look at this, honey, he said.

And Marion screamed:

DO YOU NOT KNOW HOW TO READ, RON?

Of course I do, honey.

AND WHERE EXACTLY DID YOU SEE THE WORD ‘MARION’ ON THIS?

Nowhere, Marion. I think it’s for the girl, honey.

THE GIRL? WENDOLIN IS ALMOST THIRTY, ROOON!

Don’t get so upset, honey. I didn’t say anything.

So Ron left the letter on his daughter’s desk and returned to his chair.

Ron Kramer was a good man. And, by the way, Ron wasn’t his real name, or Kramer his real surname. Ron Kramer was actually called Julio Durán, but nobody could say his real name in the presence of his wife. Marion had created Ron Kramer in much the same way she had created herself.

And she had created little Wen.

Little Wen, who would always be little, redheaded, and freckled. Wen, who was about to turn twenty-eight and still believed in superheroes and supervillains, just as her grandfather had believed in God (he had even framed the top half of a 1976 wall calendar featuring the sweaty, tearful face of Jesus Christ) and just as her mother had believed in Lindsey Buckingham, Clark Kent, and Raphael. Though she would never admit to believing in the latter, because he hadn’t been quite as famous in the Germany of her youth, where she had definitely been born, but not raised, as she would have everyone in the world believe, including Wen.

Meanwhile, at that very moment, Wen was humming the chorus to Eighties Fan, her favorite song. It had been written by a bored Scottish girl addicted to strawberry ice cream.

She was waiting for the owner of The Daily Bugle to come back from the stock room.

The Daily Bugle was a narrow and poorly lit downtown comic-book store and the stock room was a small area in the depths of its jumble of comics. And what the owner was looking for in the stock room was the latest issue of Wondergirl.

Have you seen this, Munk? Wen was talking to the little dog, who was still little, as he was only about fourteen inches tall. Superman let Lex kidnap Lois yet again.

That’s an old one, stupid, answered little Earl, except it came out as: Bowowowowowww.

Yeah. I don’t understand Mom either, said Wen (in German).

Here it is, said the owner’s irritating, sandpapery voice, from afar. I haven’t even had a chance to put it on the shelves. We just got it in.

Wen eagerly opened her ridiculous, yellow change purse and counted out two euros in coins. The owner turned the out the light in the stock room and came back to the counter. Along with the latest issue of Wondergirl, he’d brought with him an old Spider-Man, What If … ?

Wen had never really taken a liking to Spider-Man.

Peter Parker’s a wimp, she thought.

She would often discuss it with her mother.

He’s a wimp because all superheroes have problems and none of them complains, said Wen. They all hang in there but him. Parker’s a whiner.

Marion Kramer was in total agreement with her daughter.

One ninety-five? asked Wen. A red curl fell across her forehead.

The man, a puny guy with gaps in his teeth and a nauseating odor, gave her a nod.

He didn’t dare look at her. So he looked down at his hands. His nails were black.

You know this one? asked Marvin.

He was referring to the What If … ? that he’d brought with him from the back.

The Spider-Man What If … ?

Anyway, the guy was called Marvin. Marvin Rodríguez. A strange name. He was given it by his mother, who had always been crazy about Marvin Gaye. She still had a little shrine for him in her house. Marvin hated it. He hated Marvin Gaye and he hated his mother. Marvin hated everybody. Everybody except Wen.

By the way, Marvin was thirty-five, with tiny eyebrows and a blow-up redheaded doll he called Mary Jane.

Mary Jane.

OH, YES, MARY JANE, I LIKE THAT, MMM, DON’T STOP, OH, DON’T STOP, YESSSS.

Those were the kinds of things Marvin would say to his blow-up doll.

Marvin went over his gray hairs with a felt-tip marker and lived like Peter Parker.

He also took photos of himself dressed as Spider-Man.

Only he didn’t do so on the street, but rather in his bedroom.

Spider-Man? No, thanks, said Wen, referring, of course, to the What If … ? that the guy had handed her. Spider-Man’s a whiner.

The guy, Marvin Rodríguez, stammered:

A wh-what?

A whiner. Wen could be pretty obnoxious. And even more so when she started talking in what she and her mother thought was German. And that’s what she had just done. My mom says he’s a wimp.

Your … your …

"I refuse to own a Spider-Man What If … ? continued the girl. She put the coins on the counter and added: I don’t understand how Wondergirl ever permitted it."

Wen was referring to the issue Marvin Rodríguez had brought with him, What If the Amazing Spider-Man Married Someone Else? Which happened to be one of his favorites. He had used it on numerous occasions for, ahem, well, you get my drift.

Yes, the blow-up doll was a redhead.

Like Mary Jane Watson. Like Wondergirl.

And like Wen herself.

I’m sure it wasn’t her own doing, he answered, humiliated, and shrugging so much he slouched over the coins Wen had left on the counter. His hair, greasy as wet vinyl, smelled like rancid cheese.

No, of course not. Wen grabbed her Wondergirl and tugged on Munk’s leash—or little Earl’s, which was the real name of the pooch: a strange breed of hairless Chihuahua known as rusty, of which little Earl was a rare pink specimen. Come on, Munk.

Pretty name, said Marvin, landing a sweaty hand on the prized copy of What If … ? Is he a good boy?

The best, said Wen, smiling, proud, with all those teeth. Wen’s mouth seemed to have at least twice as many teeth as most people’s.

Good old Marvin smiled, though he had a knot the size of a hand grenade in his throat.

Wen went out the way she had come in.

She hadn’t the slightest idea what awaited her at home. Nor did what awaited her have the slightest idea it would have to wait so long.

3

THE MOST POPULAR BOY IN SCHOOL

Back when Wen was at school, the most popular boy in her class was named Iván, Iván Rojas, but to her, he was Dirty Fingers. He was tall and very cute, and all the girls would fight to be the first to grab hold of the pencil he’d left on his desk. All the girls but Wendolin Kramer. All Wen thought of was finishing him off, just as Wondergirl finished off each one of her supervillains. So she started following him and writing up reports. Wen would note down everything she saw him do in her Wonder Notebook and then write him long, threatening letters that the boy took as suggestive and wild missives of love. He slept with them under his pillow and dreamt of doing it with the redheaded girl who’d penned them. How Iván knew Wen was behind the letters was a total mystery. The fact is that he knew it from the beginning. But he told no one.

Don’t do it. That was Lisi, her best friend, trying to warn her that asking Dirty Fingers out on an Attack Date was a bad idea.

I have to finish him off. Wen was convinced she could do it. She would free the world of Dirty Fingers and nothing and no one was going to stop her.

He’ll make you cry and then it’ll be worse.

He won’t make me cry. Wondergirl never cries.

You’re not Wondergirl.

What do you mean?

Lisi’s fat cheeks paled.

Are you serious?

About what?

You’re really going to kill him? Lisi swallowed noisily.

I’m going to finish him off, said Wen.

Shhh! Quiet! yelled Velma Ellis, the substitute English teacher. Of course, she yelled it in English. And she turned red as a tomato when she yelled.

The girls shut up.

You might say they were a pair of obedient students.

Wen took the opportunity to write one of her letters.

Iván found it floating among his pens later that afternoon. Wen had managed to slip it in with his things before class had ended. The letter read:

I will liquidate you this very night. Meet me in the alley where you made out with Samantha last Monday. I’ll be waiting for you. Come as soon as you finish dinner.

WONDERGIRL

The boy rubbed his hands together. Oh, yes, finally. A date with the redheaded girl. Iván had never kissed a redhead. He thought maybe she would taste like strawberry. The boy was not very bright. But it wasn’t exactly his fault that all the blonds he’d ever kissed tasted of peach because they all used that stupid peach-flavored lip gloss found all over the racks of the cheesy cosmetics store in the mall.

Iván was a good boy, so he had dinner, brushed his teeth, and said:

Mom, I’m going down to take out the trash.

And the mother answered: Are you feeling all right, honey?

And the boy didn’t answer; he just looked in the mirror before leaving and wished himself luck.

Wen was waiting for him on the other side of the street.

The alley they’d agreed to meet in was right in front of Dirty Fingers’s house, so you might say they were on his turf and that that might complicate things, but Wen had faith that Golden Boot would throw him off. She hadn’t realized that, if anything, it would be the suit, and not Golden Boot, that might have this effect.

At this point, Wen paused the story. She took a sip of her milkshake and pointed at the cover of one of the comic books on the table.

My suit looked just like that one, she said.

Oh. The woman on the other side of the table—a woman with a hat with a feather in it—feigned interest. Little Earl was snoozing by her feet. It’s … pretty.

My mother made it for me.

She had sewn it a million years ago, or more precisely, fifteen, one Saturday night. That night so long ago, Marion had sewn and sewn, in, out, in, out, with tears in her eyes, while Ron read a stupid book called The Impossible Blond.

What is that? the father had asked, when he’d finished what he thought might be the key chapter in the story: the Impossible Blond was sitting in a salon chair, her hair smeared with dye, so there was no going back. The next chapter simply had to be the last. She had done it, she was blond, now what? Ron wondered, closing the book and seeing that he had more than half of it left. How could the author have written seven hundred and twenty-three pages of such absurd quotidian drama? he wondered next. Then he looked up and saw his wife sewing.

It was then that he asked:

What is that?

As he did so, Marion Kramer was just finishing the last stitch on the golden boot. She had sewn a golden boot onto a cape.

It’s a suit for your daughter.

A suit with a cape?

It’s a Wondergirl suit.

Oh, no.

WHAT? YOU THINK I’M CRAZY?

Who ever said you’re crazy?

You just said it.

Me?

WHAT DID YOU SAY?

Nothing. I didn’t say anything, Marion.

STUPID, grumbled Marion, in German.

Little Earl raised his eyebrows, thinking he heard thunder and that the thunderclaps would mess up his coat. And his coat could not be messed up. A dog would kill for a coat like that. Ever since Wen had had the fabulous idea of entering him into a beauty contest, the money troubles were over in the Kramer household, and in the even more coquettish apartment belonging to little Earl. An apartment which, by the way, was located underneath Wen’s desk, and which the redhead had furnished with a toy sofa, a portable TV, a couple of puppy posters, and a chewed-up rubber bone. The sofa was a sofa bed, of course. And little Earl lay himself down carefully on it every night, so as not to mess up his coat. Nothing and no one would mess up that coat. Not even Mama Kramer’s barking.

Are you happy now, Ron? You woke Gus up.

Me?

No, it was actually the thunder, Earl would’ve liked to clarify. And stop calling me Gus and Munk. My name is Earl, he wished he could add.

But everyone knows that dogs can’t talk.

Dogs bark, like Mama Kramer.

It was really fun, Wen added, starting to tell the rest of her story to the surprised woman in the hat with the feather.

That night, the night Wen fought a duel with Dirty Fingers, it was hot as all hell and all Wen could think of was going home to play with little Earl. She liked following Dirty Fingers around and she liked writing up reports

Reviews for Wendolin Kramer

[William Oliver · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Wendolin Kramer, an intriguing mix of telenovela, comic book, noir fiction and hard boiled detective mystery stirred all together with dark humor.