I remember learning in business school that Disney’s Magic Kingdom in Florida has a vast network of tunnels built beneath the park, inside which cast members and workers may change costumes, transport waste, receive deliveries, and conduct all park operations out of sight of visitors. The tunnels, or “utilidors” are integral to Disney’s enduring success because they preserve the magic of the park, allowing guests to believe, if only for a little while, that garbage magically disappears, and Cinderella is never taking a smoke break. Disney wants its labor to be truly, literally, invisible.
I was reminded of this gold standard of resort operation when I read The Grand Paloma Resort, the latest from Cleyvis Natera whose first novel, Neruda on the Park (Ballantine, 2023), won the Silver Medal from the International Latino Book Awards for Best First Book of Fiction.
The Grand Paloma Resort focuses on the men and women who staff a world-renowned luxury resort on a gorgeous stretch of beach in the Dominican Republic (DR), staff who are asked to do anything—anything—their guests want, no matter the cost to themselves. Laura is a local young woman who’s risen through the ranks of the resort to become its de facto manager, though she’s hardly compensated enough for how much of herself she gives to the job. Her teenage sister, Elena, also works at the resort as a babysitter, though her recklessness often puts her and her sister in difficult situations. When one of Elena’s young charges is accidentally knocked unconscious, the two sisters must scheme a way to deal with the child’s injuries without alerting her parents or the resort. This kicks off a series of events that culminate in a boiling over of resentments and misdeeds that coincide with a devastating hurricane slamming the vulnerable island.
In addition to the two sisters, we also hear from Pablo, a fisherman turned sometimes gigolo who must decide whether he will continue to embrace his moral decay, and his ex-girlfriend Vida, a healer and one of the only people in the novel who doesn’t work at the resort.
It will be a welcome read for anyone who’s felt queasy about their own possibly (definitely?) exploitative tourism, and for people who love messy clashes between the haves and have nots, as seen in HBO’s smash drama, White Lotus.
I spoke to Natera via Google Docs about the human cost of tourism in countries like DR, character-driven writing, and knowing when a novel is finished.
The Rumpus: I remember hearing a portion of this novel as the short story, “Fog,” that you shared with the podcast, Ursa Short Fiction. How did the idea for this story come about? Did you originally conceive of this as a short story, and if so, how did it evolve into a novel?
Cleyvis Natera: I first conceived of this book as a collection of short stories. Several of those stories were published between 2020 and 2022: “Curandera” came out in the Kenyon Review in 2020, “The Odd Difficulty of Sinking” was published in Memorious later that same year, and then “Fog” was published, as you mentioned, in Ursa Short Fiction in 2022. I’d been thinking about these characters and the resort where they worked for several years before the first short story was published. But it wasn’t until I was stuck at home during the pandemic, a time when I was thinking desperately about escape while simultaneously waiting for the market to ease up so we could take my debut novel, Neruda on the Park to market, that I felt compelled to write the stories.
I suppose we’re not meant to speak about these things openly, but the truth is that the evolution from short stories into a novel was financially driven. After speaking to both my literary agent and the acquiring editor, I realized there was a significant financial difference between selling a book as a collection of short stories versus a novel. The more I considered form, the more I realized that the spine of this narrative could remain the same with a thoughtful reframe. The novel as a form has undergone several shifts in the last several decades that enabled me to accomplish much of what I wanted to do with character, perspective, and structure with simple changes in the narrative arc.
Rumpus: In that same podcast, you shared that, for you, character comes first, that your ideas often begin with characters. Can you share a little about your writing process, and how a character can blossom into a full-fledged story?
Natera: Yes, I remember that wonderful conversation with Dawnie Walton and Deesha Philyaw. For me, the most compelling story ideas start with a “who” versus a “what.” With The Grand Paloma Resort, I first wrote about Vida and Pablo as protagonists in two separate short stories that were interlinked. At the time, I was writing the book as a collection of short stories and I wanted the narrative arc that concerned the two of them to be rooted in their conflicting desires.
Because this would be a multi-cast book, there was a lot of overwriting that happened during my first draft. But once I wrote that first full draft of the novel (articulating the full arcs of the other characters), it became clear to me that the most compelling characters to carry the novel were Laura and Elena and not Pablo and Vida (though I decided I would keep the two of them as central characters). I love the idea of allowing characters to discover their desires (whether they pre-exist or not) and then placing them in impossible situations where they have to make decisions toward that desire. I think the character’s movement, action, and decisions are what ultimately make a narrative interesting. If I, as a writer, can make the character compelling enough, then the narrative takes shape around them.
Rumpus: At one point Elena jokes that her sister, Laura, has a “PhD in capitalism.” Elena means this as an insult, though Laura doesn’t take it that way. How do you think capitalism perverts the relationship between the people who live in countries like DR and the tourists who go there on vacation? Did you feel that, upon emigrating to the US, you needed to get this same degree?
Natera: Countries with a history born of colonialism understand intimately that the perversion of the power dynamics in the relationships we see in today’s tourist economy isn’t anything new. It’s just a remix of the same old dynamic. As someone who was born in DR and immigrated to the US as a child, I became aware of the depth of the distortion of those power dynamics the more I traveled globally as an adult. The traces of exploitation, resource drain, and recklessness are impossible to detangle from the seduction of power, wealth, and privilege. I found those to be really interesting ideas to play with, especially when it came to building the world of The Grand Paloma Resort.
As far as whether I felt that I needed to get a PhD in Capitalism once I emigrated to the US, I will just say that it had less to do with immigration and more to do with my two decades working in corporate America. Navigating toxic workplaces is such a common practice for us in the US that I wonder if most of us realize we’ve all attained higher degrees when it comes to capitalism.
Rumpus: Paloma Falls is a significant place to Elena and Laura, as it’s the site where they found their mother’s body years before. The sisters also found that, because of the constant churning of the water beneath the falls, it’s impossible to sink there. I took this to be a metaphor about the two women—they cannot allow themselves to sink. No matter what, they must survive and persevere, especially where their mother did not. Did you intend this metaphor?
Natera: Yes, it was an intentional metaphor. But not just for Elena and Laura but for the cast of employees we meet throughout the novel. As I conducted interviews with workers at resorts and hotels over the last several years, it became clear to me that there is a relentlessness when it comes to the pace at which those who work in these kinds of spaces are expected to function. Survival often hinges on staying afloat under impossible circumstances. I wanted the relationship between the sisters, Laura and Elena, to symbolize that reality. Beyond that, there is a historical legacy of trauma and violence that these young women are wrestling with both from a family perspective but also more broadly from the history of their town and their birthplace. I wanted the metaphor of perseverance and survival to be the arc on which the transformation for these characters hinge.
Rumpus: It’s painful to leave your home and start over somewhere else. We are changed when we leave. The genie can’t really go back in the bottle, so to speak. How do you feel your time spent in the US has given you a perspective on DR that you wouldn’t have had if you’d stayed? Do you think you could write about DR in the same way if you’d never left?
Natera: The Dominican Republic is one of the most beautiful places in the world. I’m not sure I’d be aware of where it sits in the hierarchy of natural beauty had I not traveled as much as I have. So, I think I have benefited from traveling—even beyond the US—in terms of appreciating my birthplace. The thing about being Dominican is that culturally, we have some really complicated relationships to race and class. This is particularly true as it relates to the way Dominicans of Haitian descent are perceived and treated in our society. If I had never traveled outside the DR, I don’t know that I would understand the extent of the horror faced by people who are perceived as an underclass. It’s because immigrants are treated so deplorably in the US, especially these days, that I think I’ve been able to understand a perspective that I may have been blind to had I stayed in DR my entire life.
Rumpus: Pablo and Elena (and sometimes Laura) often give over to this certain kind of hope where, despite what looks like an oncoming disaster, everything will somehow work out. That someone somewhere is probably taking care of things, and they can relax and continue doing what they want to do without a guilty conscience. It’s the same way that children will assume that someone will stop them before they get too close to the edge—will bail them out if everything goes to hell. I find that fascinating given how precarious your characters’ lives often are. Can you speak about that kind of hope?
Natera: I want readers to consider how hope and optimism can be a by-product of invisible labor. I chose to imbue Pablo and Elena with a child-like optimism because I wanted to show two instances where the mindset a human being gets to hold over their lifetime—whether male or female, young or fully adult—is ultimately rooted in the invisible labor of those who love them.
For Elena, she has been sheltered in this very specific way from all kinds of misfortune and discomfort because of her sister’s work in the hotel, work that is often dehumanizing to Laura. Elena grows up to be hopeful and empowered directly as a result of Laura’s caretaking. In Pablo’s case, though he hasn’t been sheltered from misfortune or discomfort, he benefits from a certain privilege as he is often cared for in a spiritual sense (likely to be forgiven for errors or missteps) because he’s a man. It’s almost like he gets to remain childlike forever. I consider that state to be denied to most women.
Rumpus: “Optimism can be a by-product of invisible labor.” Wow, that’s brilliant.
Several characters recite the phrase, “You can be in a place, but not of it.” Do you think that’s true?
Natera: No. I absolutely don’t think that’s true. But I find it fascinating that many people I’ve observed believe that they can be in a place and not be of it. It’s a belief that can be a dangerous proposition depending on your place in society.
Rumpus: At one point Pablo thinks to himself, “The more disposable he knew himself to be, the stronger the urge to give everything of himself away to become valuable.” That’s fascinating. Can you say a little bit about this line?
Natera: There was a version of that line I used to recite to myself during times in my work life when I was being treated poorly. The exact way I thought of it was: They think I’m disposable? I’m going to prove to them just how valuable I am. It was a statement that filled me with focus and purpose; it propelled me to achieve some formidable gains. It’s only now that I’ve been away from that corporate world for five years that I realize how utterly toxic and demoralizing that kind of mentality can be. Because I knew that Pablo was someone who, like Laura, has truly bought into the promise that work is his only path to freedom, I knew this sentiment was a meeting place for him as character and myself as writer: the two of us on the page as human beings exchanging insights. Only Pablo is a lot more honest with himself than I was with myself.
Rumpus: Though your novel is set in the present, the often violent history of DR and Haiti is always sort of lurking in the background. Can you talk a little bit about how you wove this history into the novel without flashbacks?
Natera: I gave myself two constraints as I was writing this book. First, I wasn’t going to compromise the relentless pace of the tension of the novel. No saggy middle! Second, I somehow had to figure out how to provide the rich backstory of the town and the violent history of the country without disrupting the present action of the narrative. Calibrating these constraints was difficult and it took a lot of revision to get it right. I’m lucky that I have some remarkable writer friends who helped me think through this challenge. I remember one of them saying: “Use all the tools you’ve set up for the story.” There are letters the resort writes to the guests. There are multiple characters who are keeping secrets. And then there’s my own personal experience in DR. The truth is that most unpleasant things in my birthplace, much like everywhere else in the world, aren’t ever spoken about aloud. I have often thought what makes the violent history of the US, as well as my birth country, so combustible is that it is always lurking, always present. I thought having horrors everyone is aware of happening just outside of the frame of the narrative would make the narrative feel truer to life. But context could only meet content within the confines of the characters in the story.
Rumpus: I’ve seen this novel pitched as a “literary White Lotus,” and Laura even alludes to the show when she sees a guest watching it on her tablet, and how false she thinks it is: “She found the idea that the most interesting thing at any resort could ever possibly be the guests absurd.” Do you agree with Laura?
Natera: I’m much more neutral than Laura is! I began to write this book several years before White Lotus came on the air so I had the opportunity to be more tongue-in-cheek about how my book gets to interact with the phenomenon that is the show. I anticipated that people would assume I was riffing on White Lotus when the truth is that I was thinking about these characters and publishing stories about them years before the show aired. I’m a big fan of the show and think it’s kind of terrific that there is room for both my book and the show to exist at the same time. What I’m doing with my book is different from what the previous three seasons of the show have done or what the show aims to do. The central difference is that my book is concerned with the employees as sole protagonists. I can’t lie! I love that I get to be part of a moment when it feels critical for different art forms to engage in a discussion about wealth, class, privilege, and tourism.
Rumpus: Besides White Lotus, a lot of media has focused on the people who serve the ultra wealthy. I’m thinking of Downton Abbey, Upstairs, Downstairs, and two stunningly disturbing films from 2022, Triangle of Sadness and The Menu. I’d say Squid Game even belongs in this genre to some extent.
At this point we’re well aware that the poor are exploited, that the ultra wealthy quite literally get away with murder, and that the divide between the two groups is seemingly unbreachable. So my question is, given that we know these facts, and given that, despite knowing these facts a majority of Americans vote for politicians who want to widen the income gap even further, how should artists respond? If art must “disturb the comfortable,” as many believe it should, then are we doing enough?
Natera: The response from artists to a moment such as the one we’re living through is, as Toni Morrison has been quoted as saying, to “get to work.” It seems simple but I know the disturbing horrors we’re living through can just as easily trigger paralysis. So, first, I think we all need to keep working, archiving what’s happening, and telling the truth. For me, the truth is that many of us who grow up with little money are often portrayed as being powerless and I don’t think that’s true. In this novel, I wanted to show how even when Laura, Elena, and Pablo are in compromised and complicated positions, they still have the ability to act, choose, exercise agency, and gain power. That they have different paths to freedom and happiness. I also believe that the trappings of real power are only possible when we think as a collective, act as a community, and reject what is often handed to us as the path to freedom: individual greed and ambition.
Rumpus: You’re absolutely right. The path to freedom is often framed as being attainable only through individual greed and ambition.
I want to congratulate you, as I saw that you sold your third novel, which will take place in the same universe as The Grand Paloma Resort. Did you always envision this as a multi-book series? And if so, how did you know when this current book was finished?
Natera: Thank you! I’m so happy about selling the third book. You’ve known me since I first got back into this writing game after a long absence so it’s kind of wild to consider how slow and hard it was to sell the first book versus how much faster it was to sell this third book. Back in 2020, when I first started writing the short stories that would ultimately become The Grand Paloma Resort, I knew that I wanted to write several books about employees at resorts throughout the world. I’ve always been fascinated by class, race, wealth, privilege and, because of where I was born, tourism. I think a resort is the perfect setting to tackle all of that plus some personal obsessions I have around work, gender, and the tensions that arise in personal relationships when all of those things are in conflict. I’m excited to explore a new resort and a new set of employees in my third book. The great thing about this conceit is that each book can only last a week, so that’s how I’ll know when each book is finished. When the seventh day hits, it’s time to check out!
