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“I hadn’t seen him for over two years, ” Santiago says. “Since I got married. What made me most sad wasn’t that he’d died. We all have to die someday, right, Ambrosio? It was that he’d died thinking that I’d broken with him. ”

The burial was the next day, at three in the afternoon. All morning telegrams, notes, mass cards, offerings and wreaths had been arriving, and in the newspapers the item was edged in black. A lot of people had come, yes, Ambrosio, even an aide to the President, and as they entered the cemetery, the coffin had been accompanied for a moment by a Pradist cabinet member, an Odrí ist senator, a leader of APR A and a Belaú ndist. Uncle Clodomiro, Sparky and you had stood at the cemetery gates receiving condolences for more than an hour, Zavalita. The next day Ana and Santiago spent the whole day at the house. Mama stayed in her room, surrounded by relatives, and when she saw them come in, she had embraced and kissed Ana and Ana had embraced and kissed her, and they both had wept. He thinks: that’s the way the world was made, Zavalita. He thinks: is that how it was made? Uncle Clodomiro came by at dusk and was sitting in the living room with Popeye and Santiago: his mind seemed to be elsewhere, he was lost in his own thoughts, and when they asked him something, he would reply with almost inaudible monosyllables. On the following day, Aunt Eliana had taken mama to her house in Chosica so that she could avoid the parade of visitors.

“Since he died I haven’t had another fight with the family, ” Santiago says. “I don’t see them very often, but even so, even from a distance, we get along. ”

“No, ” Ambrosio repeated. “I haven’t come to fight. ”

“That’s good, because if you have, I’ll call Robertito, he’s the one here who knows how to fight, ” Queta said. “Tell me right out what the fuck has brought you here, or beat it. ”

They weren’t naked, they weren’t lying on the bed, the light in the room wasn’t out. From down below the same mixed sound of music and voices at the bar and laughter from the little parlor could still be heard. Ambrosio had sat down on the bed and Queta saw him enveloped in the cone of light, quiet and strong in his blue suit and his pointed black shoes and the white collar of his starched shirt. She saw his desperate immobility, the crazed rage embedded in his eyes.

“You know very well, because of her. ” Ambrosio was looking straight at her without blinking. “You could have done something and you didn’t. You’re her friend. ”

“Look, I’ve got enough to worry about, ” Queta said. “I don’t want to talk about that, I come here to make some money. Go on, beat it, and most of all, don’t come back. Not here and not to my apartment. ”

“You should have done something, ” Ambrosio’s stubborn voice repeated, stiff and clear. “For your own good. ”

“For my own good? ” Queta said. She was leaning against the door, her body slightly arched, her hands on her hips.

“For her good, I mean, ” Ambrosio murmured. “Didn’t you tell me that she was your friend, that even though she was crazy you liked her? ”

Queta took a few steps, sat down on the only chair in the room, facing him. She crossed her legs, looked at him calmly, and he resisted her look without lowering his eyes, for the first time.

“Gold Ball sent you, ” Queta said slowly. “Why didn’t he send you to the madwoman? I haven’t got anything to do with this. Tell Gold Ball not to get me mixed up in his problems. The madwoman is the madwoman and I’m me. ”

“Nobody sent me, he doesn’t even know that I know you, ” Ambrosio said very slowly, looking at her. “I came so we could talk. Like friends. ”

“Like friends? ” Queta said. “What makes you think you’re my friend? ”

“Talk to her, make her be reasonable, ” Ambrosio murmured. “Make her see that she hasn’t behaved well. Tell her he hasn’t got any money, that his business is in bad shape. Advise her to forget about him completely. ”

“Is Gold Ball going to have her arrested again? ” Queta asked. “What else is that bastard going to do to her? ”

“He didn’t put her in, he went to get her out of jail, ” Ambrosio said without raising his voice, without moving. “He helped her, he paid her hospital bills, he gave her money. Without any obligation, just out of pity. He’s not going to give her any more. Tell her that she hasn’t behaved well, not to threaten him anymore. ”

“Go on, beat it, ” Queta said. “Let Gold Ball and the madwoman settle their affairs by themselves. It’s no business of mine. Yours either, don’t you get involved. ”

“Give her some advice, ” Ambrosio’s terse, sharp voice repeated. “If she keeps on threatening him, it’s going to turn out bad for her. ”

Queta laughed and heard her own forced and nervous giggle. He was looking at her with calm determination, with that steady, frantic boiling in his eyes. They were silent, looking at each other, their faces a couple of feet apart.

“Are you sure he didn’t send you? ” Queta finally asked. “Is Gold Ball scared of the poor madwoman? He’s seen her, he knows what a state she’s in. You know how she is too. You’ve got your spy there too, haven’t you? ”

“That too, ” Ambrosio said in a hoarse voice. Queta watched him put his knees together and hunch over, watched him dig his fingers into his legs. His voice had cracked. “I hadn’t done anything to her, it wasn’t my business. And Amalia’s been helping her, she’s stood by her in everything that’s happened. She had no reason to tell him that. ”

“What’s happened? ” Queta asked. She leaned toward him a little. “Did she tell Gold Ball about you and Amalia? ”

“That she’s my woman, that we’ve been seeing each other every Sunday for years, that I got her pregnant. ” Ambrosio’s voice was torn and Queta thought he’s going to cry. But he didn’t: only his voice was weeping, his eyes were dry and opaque, very wide. “She’s not behaved well at all. ”

“Well, ” Queta said, sitting up. “So that’s why you’re here, that’s why you’re so furious. Now I know why you’ve come. ”

“But why? ” Ambrosio’s voice was still in torture. “Thinking she could convince him that way? Thinking she could get more money out of him that way? Why did she do a bad thing like that? ”

“Because the poor madwoman is really crazy, ” Queta whispered. “Didn’t you know that? Because she wants to get out of here, because she has to get away. It wasn’t because she’s bad. She herself doesn’t even know what she’s doing. ”

“Thinking that if I tell him he’s going to get the worst of it, ” Ambrosio said. He nodded, closed his eyes for an instant. He opened them. “It’s going to hurt him, it’s going to ruin him. Thinking that. ”

“Because that son of a bitch of a Lucas, the one she fell in love with, the one who’s in Mexico, ” Queta said. “You don’t know about it. He writes her telling her to come, to bring some money, we’ll get married. She believes him, she’s crazy. She doesn’t know what to do anymore, it wasn’t because she’s bad. ”

“Yes, ” Ambrosio said. He raised his hands an inch and sank them fiercely into his legs again, his pants wrinkled. “She’s hurt him, she’s made him suffer. ”

“Gold Ball has got to understand her, ” Queta said. “Everybody’s acted like such a bastard with her. Cayo Shithead, Lucas, everybody she ever had to her house, all the ones she took care of and …”

“Him, him? ” Ambrosio roared, and Queta fell silent. She kept her legs ready to leap up and run, but he didn’t move. “He acted bad? Would you please tell me what fault it was of his? Does he owe her anything? Was he obliged to help her? Hasn’t he been giving her a lot of money? And to the only person who was ever good to her she does something bad like this. But not anymore, it’s all over. I want you to tell her. ”

“I already have, ” Queta murmured. “Don’t you get involved, you’ll be the one who comes out the loser. When I found out that Amalia had told her that she was expecting, I warned her. Be careful not to tell the girl that Ambrosio … be careful about telling Gold Ball that Amalia … Don’t start anything, don’t get mixed up in it. It just happened, she didn’t do it to be mean, she wants to bring some money to that Lucas guy. She’s crazy. ”

“And he never did anything to her, just because he was good and helped her, ” Ambrosio murmured. “It wouldn’t have mattered so much to me for her to have told Amalia about me. But not to do that to him. That was evil, nothing but evil. ”

“It wouldn’t have mattered for her to tell your woman, ” Queta said, looking at him. “Gold Ball is all that matters, you’re only worried about the fairy. You’re worse than he is. Get out of here, right now. ”

“She sent a letter to his wife, ” Ambrosio moaned, and Queta saw him lower his head, ashamed. “To his wife. Your husband is that way, your husband and his chauffeur, ask him what he feels when the nigger … and two pages like that. To his wife. Tell me, why did she do a thing like that? ”

“Because she’s crazy, ” Queta said. “Because she wants to go to Mexico and doesn’t know what to do so she can get there. ”

“She phoned him at home, ” Ambrosio roared and lifted his head and looked at Queta, and she saw the madness floating in his eyes, the silent bubbling. “Your relatives, your friends, your children are going to get the same letter. The same letter as your wife. Your employees. The only person who has acted good, the only one who helped her without having any reason to. ”

“Because she’s desperate, ” Queta repeated, raising her voice. “She wants that airline ticket so she can leave. Let him give it to her, let …”

“He gave it to her yesterday, ” Ambrosio grunted. “You’ll be a laughingstock, I’ll ruin you, I’ll screw you. He took it to her himself. It isn’t just the fare. That crazy woman wants a hundred thousand soles too. See? You talk to her. She shouldn’t bother him anymore. Tell her it’s the last time. ”

“I’m not going to say another word to her, ” Queta murmured. “I don’t care, I don’t want to hear anything more. She and Gold Ball can kill each other if they want to. I don’t want to get mixed up in any trouble. Are you carrying on like this because Gold Ball has fired you? Are you making these threats so that the fairy will forgive you for the Amalia business? ”

“Don’t pretend you don’t understand, ” Ambrosio said. “I didn’t come here to fight, but for us to have a talk. He didn’t fire me, he didn’t send me here. ”

“You should have told me that at the start, ” Don Fermí n said. “I have a woman, we’re going to have a child, I want to marry her. You should have told me everything, Ambrosio. ”

“So much the better for you, then, ” Queta said. “Haven’t you been seeing her secretly for so long because you were afraid of Gold Ball? Well, there it is. He knows now and he hasn’t fired you. The madwoman didn’t do it out of evil. Don’t you get mixed up in this anymore and let them settle it by themselves. ”

“He didn’t fire me, he didn’t get mad, he didn’t bawl me out, ” Ambrosio said hoarsely. “He was sorry for me, he forgave me. Can’t you see that she mustn’t do anything bad to a person like him? Can’t you see? ”

“What a bad time you must have had, Ambrosio, how you must have hated me, ” Don Fermí n said. “Having to hide that business about your woman for so many years. How many, Ambrosio? ”

“Making me feel like dirt, making me feel I don’t know what, ” Ambrosio moaned, pounding hard on the bed, and Queta stood up with a leap.

“Did you think I was going to be mad at you, you poor devil? ” Don Fermí n said. “No, Ambrosio. Get your woman out of that house, have your children. You’ve got a job here as long as you want. And forget about Ancó n and all that, Ambrosio. ”

“He knows how to manipulate you, ” Queta murmured, going quickly toward the door. “He knows what you are. I’m not going to say anything to Hortensia. You tell her. And God save you if you set foot in here again or at my place. ”

“All right, I’m leaving, and don’t worry, I don’t intend coming back, ” Ambrosio murmured, getting up. Queta had opened the door and the noise from the bar was coming in and it was loud. “But I’m asking you for the last time. Talk to her, make her be reasonable. Have her leave him alone once and for all, hm? ”

He’d only stayed on as a jitney driver for three weeks more, which was as long as the jalopy lasted. It stopped for good one morning going into Yarinacocha, after smoking and shuddering in rapid death throes of mechanical bucking and belching. They lifted the hood, the motor had dropped out. The poor thing, at least it got this far, said Don Calixto, the owner. And to Ambrosio: as soon as I need a driver, I’ll get in touch with you. Two days later, Don Alandro Pozo, the landlord, had appeared at the cabin, all very pleasant: yes, he already knew that you had lost your job, that your wife had died, that you were in bad shape. He was very sorry, Ambrosio, but that wasn’t welfare, you’ve got to leave. Don Alandro agreed to take the bed, the little crib, the table and the Primus stove in payment for the back rent, and Ambrosio had put the rest of the things in some boxes and taken them to Doñ a Lupe’s. When she saw him so down, she made him a cup of coffee: at least you don’t have to worry about Amalita Hortensia, she would stay with her in the meantime. Ambrosio went to Pantaleó n’s shack and he hadn’t come back from Tingo. He got back at dusk and found Ambrosio sitting on his doorstep, his feet sunken in the muddy ground. He tried to raise his spirits: of course he could stay with him until he found a job. Would he get one, Panta? Well, to tell the truth, it was hard here, Ambrosio, why didn’t he try somewhere else? He advised him to go to Tingo or to Huá nuco. But Ambrosio had had a funny feeling about leaving so soon after Amalia’s death, son, and besides, how was he going to be able to make it alone in the world with Amalita Hortensia. So he’d made an attempt to stay in Pucallpa. On one day he helped unload launches, on another he cleaned out cobwebs and killed mice at the Wong Warehouses, and he’d even washed down the morgue with disinfectant, but all that was only enough for cigarette money. If it hadn’t been for Panta and Doñ a Lupe, he would have starved to death. So putting his guts where his heart was, one day he’d shown up at Don Hilario’s, not for a fight, son, but to beg him. He was all fucked up, sir, could he do something for him.

“I’ve got all the drivers I need, ” Don Hilario said with an afflicted smile. “I can’t fire one of them in order to take you on. ”

“Fire the half-wit at Limbo, then, sir, ” Ambrosio asked him. “Even if it’s just making me a watchman. ”

“I don’t pay the half-wit, I just let him sleep there, ” Don Hilario explained to him. “I’d be crazy to let him go. You’d get a job in a day or so and where would I be able to get another half-wit who doesn’t cost me a cent? ”

“He let the cat out of the bag, see? ” Ambrosio says. “What about those receipts for a hundred a month he showed me, where had all that money ended up? ”

But he didn’t say anything to him: he listened, nodded, muttered that’s too bad. Don Hilario consoled him with a pat on the back and, when he said good-bye, gave him ten soles for a drink, Ambrosio. He went to eat at a lunchroom on the Calle Comercio and bought a pacifier for Amalita Hortensia. At Doñ a Lupe’s he got another piece of bad news: they’d come from the hospital again, Ambrosio. If he didn’t go and talk to them at least, they’d report him to the police. He went to the hospital and the lady in the office bawled him out for hiding. She took out the bills and explained to him what they were for.

“It was like a joke, ” Ambrosio says. “Close to two thousand soles, just imagine. Two thousand for the murder they’d committed. ”

But he didn’t say anything there either: he listened with a serious face, nodding. So? The lady opened her hands. Then he told her about the straits he was in, he made it bigger to get her sympathy. The lady asked him, do you have social security? Ambrosio didn’t know. What had he worked at before? A little while as a jitney driver and before that for Morales Transportation.

“So you do, ” the lady said. “Ask Don Hilario for your social security number. With that you can go to the ministry office to get your card and then come back here. You’ll only have to pay part of the bill. ”

He already knew what was going to happen, but he’d gone to test Don Hilario’s wiles a second time: he’d let out a few clucks, had looked at him as if thinking you’re even dumber than you look.

“What social security? ” Don Hilario asked. “That’s for regular employees. ”

“Wasn’t I a regular driver? ” Ambrosio asked. “What was I, then, sir? ”

“How could you be a regular driver when you haven’t got a professional license, ” Don Hilario explained to him.

“Of course I do, ” Ambrosio said. “What’s this, if it isn’t a license? ”

“Oh, but you didn’t tell me, so it’s not my fault, ” Don Hilario replied. “Besides, I didn’t put you down as a favor to you. Collecting by bill and not being on the payroll saved you the deductions. ”

“But you deducted something from me every month, ” Ambrosio said. “Wasn’t that for social security? ”

“That was for retirement, ” Don Hilario said. “But since you left the firm, you lost your rights. That’s the way the law is, terribly complicated. ”

“It wasn’t the lies that burned me up most, it was that he told me such imbecile stories as the one about the license, ” Ambrosio says. “Where could you hurt him the most? Something to do with money, naturally. That’s where I had to get my revenge on him. ”

It was Tuesday and for everything to come out right, he had to wait till Sunday. He spent the afternoons with Doñ a Lupe and the nights with Pantaleó n. What would become of Amalita Hortensia if something happened to him one day, Doñ a Lupe, if he died, for example? Nothing, Ambrosio, she’d stay on with her, she was already like a daughter to her, the one she’d always dreamed of having. In the morning he would go to the little beach by the docks or walk around the square, chatting with the drifters. On Saturday afternoon he saw The Jungle Flash enter Pucallpa; groaning, dusty, its boxes and trunks lashed down and bouncing about, the vehicle went down the Calle Comercio raising a cloud of dust and parked in front of the small office of Morales Transportation. The driver got out, the passengers got out, they unloaded the baggage, and kicking pebbles on the corner, Ambrosio waited for the driver to get back into The Jungle Flash and start up: he was taking it to Ló pez’ garage, yes. He went to Doñ a Lupe’s and stayed until nightfall playing with Amalita Hortensia, who had grown so unaccustomed to him that when he went to pick her up she started to cry. He appeared at the garage at eight o’clock and only Ló pez’ wife was there: he’d come for the bus, ma’am, Don Hilario needed it. She didn’t even think to ask him when did you go back to work for the Morales Company? She pointed to a corner of the lot: there it was. All set, gas, oil, everything, yes.

“I thought of running it off a cliff somewhere, ” Ambrosio says. “But I realized that would be stupid and I drove it all the way to Tingo. I picked up a couple of passengers along the way and that gave me enough for gas. ”

When he got into Tingo Marí a the next morning, he hesitated a moment and then drove to Itipaya’s garage: what’s this, have you gone back to work for Don Hilario, boy?

“I stole it, ” Ambrosio said. “In return for what he stole from me. I’ve come to sell it to you. ”

Itipaya was surprised at first and then he burst out laughing: have you gone crazy, brother?

“Yes, ” Ambrosio said. “Will you buy it? ”

“A stolen vehicle? ” Itipaya laughed. “What am I going to do with it? Everybody knows The Jungle Flash, Don Hilario has probably reported it missing already. ”

“Well, ” Ambrosio said. “Then I’m going to drive it off a cliff. At least I’ll get my revenge. ”

Itipaya scratched his head: such madness. They’d argued for almost half an hour. If he was going to drive it off a cliff, it would be better if it served a more useful purpose, boy. But he couldn’t give him very much: he’d have to dismantle it completely, sell it piece by piece, repaint the body and a thousand other things. How much, Itipaya, right out? And besides, there’s the risk, boy. How much, right out?

“Four hundred soles, ” Ambrosio says. “Less than you can get for a used bicycle. Just enough to get me to Lima, son. ”

“I DON’T WANT TO BOTHER YOU or anything, ” Ambrosio says. “But it’s getting awfully late, son. ”

What else, Zavalita, what else? The conversation with Sparky, he thinks, nothing else. After Don Fermí n’s death, Ana and Santiago began having lunch with Señ ora Zoila on Sundays and there they also saw Sparky and Cary, Popeye and Teté, but then, when Señ ora Zoila decided to take a trip to Europe with Aunt Eliana, who was going to put her oldest daughter in a school in Switzerland and take a two-month tour through Spain, Italy and France, the family lunches stopped and they didn’t start up again later on or will they ever start up again, he thinks: what difference did the time make, Ambrosio, cheers, Ambrosio. Señ ora Zoila came back less downcast, tanned by the European summer, rejuvenated, her arms loaded with gifts and her mouth loaded with stories. Before a year was out she’d recovered completely, Zavalita, she’d picked up her busy social life again, her canasta games, her visits, her soap operas and her teas. Ana and Santiago went to see her at least once a month and she would cut them short in order to eat and their relationship from then on was distant but courteous, more friendly than familiar, Señ ora Zoila treated Ana with a discreet friendliness now, a resigned and thin affection. She hadn’t forgotten her in the distribution of her European souvenirs, Zavalita, she’d gotten hers too: a Spanish mantilla, he thinks, a blue silk blouse from Italy. On birthdays and anniversaries Ana and Santiago would come by early and give a quick embrace before the guests arrived, and on some nights Popeye and Teté would show up at the elf houses to chat or to take them out for a drive. Sparky and Cary never, Zavalita, but during the South American Soccer Championship he’d sent you a midfield ticket as a gift. You needed money and you resold it at half price, he thinks. He thinks: we finally found the formula for getting along. At a distance, Zavalita, with little smiles, with jokes: it made a difference to him, son, excuse me. It was getting late.

The conversation had taken place quite some time after Don Fermí n’s death, a week after he’d been transferred from local news to the editorial page of La Cró nica, Zavalita, a few days before Ana had lost her job at the clinic. They’d raised your salary five hundred soles, changed your shift from night to morning, now you would almost never see Carlitos, Zavalita, when you ran into Sparky coming out of Señ ora Zoila’s. They’d spoken for a moment standing on the sidewalk: could they have lunch together tomorrow, Superbrain? Sure, Sparky. That afternoon you’d thought, without curiosity, all of a sudden, what could he have wanted. And the next day Sparky came by to pick up Santiago at the elf houses a little after noon. It was the first time he’d been there and there he was coming in, Zavalita, and there you saw him from the window, hesitating, knocking at the German woman’s door, wearing a beige suit and a vest and that canary shirt with a very high collar. And there was the German woman’s look devouring Sparky from head to toe while she pointed to your door: that one, letter C. And there was Sparky setting foot for the first and last time in the little elf house, Zavalita. He gave him a pat on the back, hi Superbrain, and took possession of the two small rooms with a smiling ease.

“You’ve found the ideal den, Skinny. ” He was looking at the small table, the bookcase, the cloth where Rowdy slept. “Just the right apartment for a pair of bohemians like you and Ana. ”

They went for lunch at the Restaurant Suizo in Herradura. The waiters and the maî tre d’ knew Sparky by name, exchanged a few pleasantries with him and fluttered about, effusive and diligent, and Sparky insisted that he try that strawberry cocktail, the specialty of the house, Skinny, syrupy and explosive. They sat at a table that looked out over the sea wall: they saw the rough sea, the sky with its winter clouds, and Sparky suggested the Lima soup as a starter and then the spiced chicken or duck with rice.

“I’ll pick the dessert, ” Sparky said when the waiter went off with their order. “Crê pes with blancmange. It’s just the thing after talking business. ”

“Are we going to talk business? ” Santiago asked. “I hope you’re not going to ask me to come to work with you. Please don’t spoil the taste of my lunch. ”

“I know that when you hear the word business you break out in hives, bohemian. ” Sparky laughed. “But this time you can’t get out of it, just for a little while. I brought you here to see if some spicy dishes and cold beer would make the pill easier to swallow. ”

He laughed again, a bit artificially now, and while he was laughing, that uncomfortable glow had appeared in his eyes, Zavalita, those shiny, restless dots: oh, Skinny, you damned bohemian, he said twice, oh, Skinny, you damned bohemian. Not half crazy, traitor to your class, full of complexes, or Communist anymore, he thinks. He thinks: something more affectionate, vaguer, something that could be everything, Skinny, damned bohemian, Zavalita.

“Let me have the pill right off, then, ” Santiago said. “Before the soup. ”

“You don’t give a damn about anything, bohemian, ” Sparky said, stopping his laughter, keeping the halo of a smile on his smoothly shaven face; but in the depths of his eyes the uneasiness was still there, growing, and alarm appeared, Zavalita. “All those months after the old man died and you haven’t thought to ask about the business he left. ”

“I have confidence in you, ” Santiago said. “I know you’ll hold up the family name in the business world. ”

“Well, let’s talk seriously. ” Sparky put his elbows on the table, his chin on his hand, and there was the glow of quicksilver, his continuous blinking, Zavalita.

“Get on with it, ” Santiago said. “I warn you, when the soup comes, business stops. ”

“A lot of matters were left pending, as is logical, ” Sparky said, lowering his voice a little. He looked at the empty tables around, coughed and spoke with pauses, choosing his words with a kind of suspicion. “The will, for example. It’s awfully complicated, we had to go through a long process to make it valid. You’ll have to go to the notary’s to sign a whole ream of papers. In this country everything is one big bureaucratic complication, all sorts of paper work, you know that. ”

The poor fellow wasn’t only confused, uncomfortable, he thinks, he was frightened. Had he prepared that conversation with great care, trying to guess your questions, imagining what you would ask for and demand, foreseeing what you would threaten? Did he have an arsenal of answers and explanations and demonstrations? He thinks: you were so bashful, Sparky. Sometimes he would fall silent and look out the window. It was November and they still hadn’t put up the canopies and there weren’t any bathers on the beach; a few cars drove along the Malecó n and here and there groups of people were walking by the gray and agitated sea. High, noisy waves were breaking in the distance and sweeping the whole beach and white ducks were gliding silently over the foam.

“Well, it’s like this, ” Sparky said. “The old man wanted to have things in good order, he was afraid of a repetition of the first attack. We’d just got started when he died. Only started. The idea was to avoid inheritance taxes, the damned paper work. We were starting to give the thing a legal aspect, putting the companies in my name with fake transfer contracts and so forth. You’re intelligent enough to see why. The old man’s idea wasn’t to leave all the business to me or anything like that. Just to avoid complications. We were going to make all the transfers and at the same time leave your rights and Teté ’s in good order. And mama’s, naturally. ”

Sparky smiled and Santiago smiled too. They’d just brought the soup, Zavalita, the plates were steaming and the vapor was mingling with that sudden, invisible tension, that punctilious and loaded atmosphere that had come over the table.