Zoraida Córdova's THE INHERITANCE OF ORQUÍDEA DIVINA

"What is it?" he asked. "And don't say nothing because you look like you've seen a ghost and we've seen too many fucking ghosts to be scared of them."

At what point does Magical Realism cross over into fantasy, genre-wise? A lot of people trot out the former term whenever they're dealing with supernatural literature that has been written by and/or about LatinX people, but for me that term is more subtle than that. You can't just ignore the realism in Magical Realism; the adjective "magical" is a modifier of the noun that follows it. Magic, spells, the undead, afterlife, etc are elements of more than the whole driver of the story. Grace notes, maybe, or that pinch of salt. The story is fine without them, but just enough makes the rest of the ingredients (usually, in my experience, quality social drama and/or historical fiction) really stand out.

I've seen The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina called Magical Realism, but I'd argue that what Zoraida Córdova has created for us here is fantasy. Which is just fine with me, thank you, because it's neither Epic nor Urban; it might be called historical fantasy, but really, it's its own thing. The magical elements aren't just an expressionist touch or a metaphor, but rather fully as important and integral to the tale of the Equadorean-American Montoya clan as its exploration of their founding matriarch's journey from unwanted "bastard daughter of the waves" to a seemingly omnipotent bruja in the process of metamorphosing into a tree.

Said matriarch, the titular Orquídea, was born in Ecuador to an unwed mother who had a fling with a sailor who disappeared after Orquídea was conceived. Mother and daughter have a hardscrabble life in the city in the early 20th century until Orquídea kind of accidentally catches mom a husband, on the advice of a petite crocodilian river monster who is the little girl's only friend and with whom she has made a deal to always share half of her catch of fish in return for the river montster's agreement to stop interfering with same. Did I mention that the magic is absolutely integral to the story? Because it is. Orquídea's life is brimful of magic even before she grows up, turns up in the United States in a place called Four Rivers, and brings the valley there back to life from barrenness, turning it into a lush and fertile garden of a place complete with a beautiful house that magically appears on the land overnight, along with the proper documentation to prove that Orquídea is the legal owner of said valley. But that's much later in her life, though it's the first thing that happens in the novel. Orquídea has to have a place to which to summon her numerous children (by four different husbands) and grandchildren to accept their inheritance from her and get the modern day plot going, after all.

The novel thus tells two parallel stories, of Orquídea's childhood (in which she gets to play Cinderella for her mother, new stepfather and a passel of half-siblings in addition to catching a lot of fish and befriending a river monster) and of several of her grandchildren's journey to Four Rivers from New York City, Oregon and other far-flung locales to which they moved when Orquídea banished them all from their idyllic childhood home, for reasons she didn't bother explaining. Their homecoming is bittersweet; Orquídea is fascinating and charming and beautiful, even as an elderly woman, but she's got so many secrets she can seem cold and inhospitable. How is she so powerful? Why is she so secretive? And what is she bequeathing to her descendants?

We find out at a leisurely pace that lets us get to know the three most important (story-wise) of her grandchildren, cousins Marimar, Reymundo and Tatinelly, each the child of a different one of Orquídea's children, with Marimar and Reymundo being orphaned before adulthood, their parents dying tragically young due to a mysterious curse on the family that Orquídea has always hinted about but never explained. As they gather in adulthood in answer to Orquídea's summons, Marimar and Reymundo are both feeling lost and somewhat wayward, while Tatinelly is very happily married to a guy named Mike Sullivan and expecting their first child very soon. And yes, Chekov's baby gets born on the dramatic night that really gets the dual plots in gear, and yes that child, Rhiannon, winds up being magical AF when the dramatic night's events leave Marimar, Reymundo and Rhiannon with rosebuds growing from the base of Marimar's throat, one of Reymundo's hands, and baby Rhiannon's forehead! This after they've seen the ghosts mentioned above, of course: Orquídea's four husbands and all of the adult children who have since died and been buried with the husbands in the family graveyard on Orquídea's land, and Orquídea, well, I mentioned the tree already.

It's then left to the cousins to sift through a tiny store of clues Orquídea has left behind about her remarkable life before she created the idyllic valley at Four Rivers. As the mystery deepens, so does the sense of responsibility that Marimar and Reymundo feel for each other and the rest of their family, even their unpleasant uncle Enrique and Orquídea's long-lost half-siblings (who only get one scene in the novel but do their very best to channel Lobelia Sackville-Baggins despite there being no silver spoons). There is lots more magic, more than a little romance, some first-rate scenery porn, and enchantment aplenty. 

The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina, then, is one of those books that most confound what I want out of reading: it's impossible to put down and thus impossible to prolong as a read, and at the same time one I was very sad to see end, even if very satisfyingly. I've never had much of an urge to read the author's Brooklyn Bruja novels, as for me a little witchy goes a long way, but I might be persuaded to change my mind if they're as lovely, engaging and affecting as this one. Go see for yourself!