María Reimóndez is the author of seven novels, including The Knitting Club (2006), Pirate (2009) and three novels in which the secondary characters of one novel become the protagonists of another: On the Road to Extinction (2012), From the Conflict (2014) and The Music of Living Beings (2015). She is the founder of an NGO, Implicadas/os no Desenvolvemento (Involved in Development), devoted to eradicating gender discrimination in countries such as India and Ethiopia. She has written a guidebook to feminisms of the world, Feminisms (2013), in collaboration with Olga Castro. She has numerous works of poetry and children’s literature, and has translated authors such as Rotraut Susanne Berner, Elena Poniatowska and Max Velthuijs into Galician.
Pirate (344 pages) is a novel about the love affair between two women pirates, Mary Read and Anne Bonny, whose lives were recorded in the 1724 text A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the most notorious Pyrates by Captain Charles Johnson. In wider terms, it is about the right of women to take their own decisions and not to be defined by others’ perceptions.
Blue. Words. Water. Sea. Blue. Thick. Fog. Blue. Words. Break. Waves. Break. Climb. Fall. Sky. Clear. Blue. I don’t understand. Warm water. Break. Break. I break.
He is sitting on deck, just like any other night. Sitting on deck, on top of the bollards. In the sky is a strange light that is not black. It is a different colour. Sitting on the swaying waves. The warm wind in his face. His gaze lost on some immense sky. He lowers his eyes, and there they are. His hands. Those hands are his, even if sometimes they don’t look it, in that strange dissociation he sometimes feels towards his body. They’re big hands, strong and sturdy. With calluses. And black nails. Broad hands, stubby fingers. He gazes at them with pride. They’re not pretty. But he feels proud of them. He looks at his hands and ceases to see them. They do what they have to with ease. With the force of colliding jaws. Hands that are used to blood. To not hesitating. His thoughts lost on things he would like to tell if he had the words. This itching to relate, for some time now, like scabies. The itching doesn’t blind the sharpness of knowing what he’s missing. Until now, he’d always thought about what he had, not about what he didn’t have. A vital philosophy. But to relate he needs words. He doesn’t have them. To relate, he needs someone to listen. And that… That’s even more difficult to achieve. To relate, the swear-words and shanties on board are not enough. To listen… well, who cares about that?