From 1999 to 2005, Magnus, who is of Jewish-German ancestry, lived in Germany where he studied philosophy and Spanish literature on the Friedrich Ebert Stiftun scholarship. When he returned to Argentina, he was struck by the number of Chinese people who had settled in his country. He considered writing a journalistic piece on Chinese immigration, but when that idea didn’t pan out, he turned to fiction instead, inspired by a real event which resounded in local media: the arrest of a Chinese man who allegedly set fire to several furniture stores in Buenos Aires.

Magnus stayed abreast of the trial and went to the hearings. When the Chinese man was found guilty despite scant evidence, Magnus, while in the courthouse bathroom, contemplated an absurd situation, asking himself “What if that Chinese man kidnaps me so I can help him prove his innocence?”

That’s how Un chino begins, with the kidnapping of Ramiro, the protagonist and a witness in the trial against Li, the alleged pyromaniac. The abduction unleashes a series of tragicomic events that make up Ramiro’s story—one of love, friendship, and adventures within Buenos Aires’s Chinatown.

Plagued with hilarious events, the novel showcases Magnus’s style—agile, dynamic, and amusing, yet careful and precise—which leaves readers with the unmistakable feeling that such a story could be told only in that tone, with that language, and in that structure.

Humor, hilarious dialogs, and references to Chinese philosophers or childhood songs, helped the author elaborate a plausible if unreal picture of Argentina’s Chinese community, and, certainly, a keen portrait of the Argentine idiosyncrasy itself.

Magnus recently spoke to Críticas about Chinese people, literary prizes, and what it means to be young.

[Look for a review of Un chino en bicicleta in Críticas next month.—Ed.]

How Argentine is Un chino en bicicleta?

From one to ten: 11. I initially thought this would be an obstacle, first to winning a Latin American [literary] contest and second to getting Latin Americans to read it, but it seems that’s not so. For non-Argentines, the Argentine aspects add exoticism to things Chinese, if that fits, because the Chinese part of it is what’s exotic.

Is Ramiro, the protagonist, like you?

Not at all. He is somewhat fat and dumb. I am, on the other hand, um… Darn!

In the story, there are several topics “against” (laughs at the expense of) the Chinese community, and in smaller doses the Jewish. Did you ever feel the novel could be accused of xenophobia or antisemitism?

Along with the publishing house, we’re anxiously waiting for that moment, what with controversy selling. Still, with humor, no one is safe in the novel. I’d say the Chinese people come out better off than the Argentines.

How did the idea for the novel come about?

The original idea was to write a journalistic account about Chinese immigration in Buenos Aires. The idea was enthusiastically turned down by a couple of publishing houses, so as vengeance, I decided to go with fiction. What came up next was the need to include all things Chinese, so that the novel wound up being more of a journey to my imagination about things Chinese, which stems from infancy. What I didn’t imagine is that it would end up being a pretty humorous novel, too.

One could swear you had a good time writing it.

That’s right. For months I laughed like an idiot in front of my computer. There must’ve been days better than others, but I don’t recall being stumped at any moment.

Did you need to immerse yourself in Buenos Aires’s Chinese world?

I went to Chinatown several times, and much of what appears [in the novel] was inspired by things I witnessed. I bought knick knacks, including records and a wok, and I read Chinese books or Argentine books on China the whole time I was writing.

You’ve been to China. What impressions have lingered?

I was in China for a couple of weeks about a decade ago and I had an awful time there. I didn’t like the country nor its inhabitants. I only felt good in the West, in the Muslim parts. In the rest [of China] I always felt unwelcome, a damned Capitalist white man whose money they needed to take. But in the world’s Chinatowns I always feel fine. Let’s just say I like the Chinese people outside of China.

When did you begin writing?

When I was a kid I used to write stories, but at 13, instead of sending me to a writing workshop, my mother sent me to a journalism workshop. I will always be grateful to her for the twofold favor she did me: she gave me a profession and saved me from literary workshops.

What’s your take on literary prizes?

I used to think all [literary] contests were fixed and that mainly mediocre, if not bad [writers] win them. At least now I know they’re not all fixed.

Were you surprised by the awards you received?

I was very much surprised. With Un chino, I submitted the last thing I’d written, and with Muñecas, I submitted what fell within the guidelines. All I suspected was that I’d be convinced that all [literary] contests were fixed and that mainly mediocre, if not bad, [writers] won them.

Does this recognition, given that you’re so young still, improve or damage a writer’s horizons?

I suppose it improves them. On the outside, for sure, at least if your idea is to live off of literature and its surroundings, as I set out to do after university. On the inside, it could be a threat, it could sink you in self-satisfaction, but if one has things to say, I doubt you’d stop because you’ve received sufficient recognition.

As far as “being so young,” it’s relative. Young are 20 year olds, 25 if you will. You’re young when you write your first book, or your second. I’m past 30, I’ve written regularly for a long time, and I have volumes in a chest. I’m not saying I’m old, but the truly young call me “sir.” I hate them.

Guadalupe Diego is an Argentine journalist and freelance editor living in Peru.