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Come on, little fool, I say to myself as I sit in my wicker rocker—think. There is a man who is all science, from a culture that points him in. There is a woman who is all music, from a culture that drives her out. There’s a jungle, a war, a marriage passing through time. And then … there is me. Is that it, Antonio? Am I the point of this historia? The pivot, the midway crossing?

I, a Latina, who—to this day—burns incense, prays on her knees to the Virgin, feels auras, listens for spirits of the dead.

I, an Anglo, who snaps her out of it, snuffs candles, faces reality, sweeps ash into the ash can, works at a newspaper every day.

I, a north–south collision, a New World fusion. An American chica. A bridge.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

THIS BOOK IS the product of a communal memory. I have been fortunate to have had the participation of many family members who helped me recall scenes and exchanges from my early life. None should be blamed for inaccuracies, for if there are errors on these pages, they are entirely mine. Nevertheless, I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to my relatives for their willingness to revisit the past with me—even the difficult parts—and add texture and color to my memories. They are: Jorge Arana Cisneros, Marie Clapp Arana, Rosa Victoria (Vicki) Arana, George Winston Arana, Maria Isabel (Chaba) Arana Cisneros, Eloísa Arana Cisneros, Víctor Arana Cisneros, Robert Hugh (Huey) Loseman, Erma Jean Grise, and Joyce Loseman-Wheeler.

An author who is steered toward truth is fortunate, and I was indeed fortunate to be steered there by historians Roger Rumrill Garcia of Lima, Umberto Morey of Iquitos, and Juan M. Cravero Tirado, former senator from Ayacucho, all of whom assisted me in reconstructing the connection between my great-grandfather Pedro Pablo Arana and the cauchero Julio César Arana.

Leonard Downie, Robert Kaiser, and Nina King granted me time away from my job at The Washington Post to write. The Hoover Institution on War, Revolution and Peace at Stanford University gave me a month’s fellowship, an office next to the Stanford Library, and then left me alone to think.

When I pecked out five vaguely worded pages of a proposal and faxed them with humble apologies to Amanda Urban, it was she who convinced me that I might have a book there. I thank Binky not only for the many years of friendship she has given me, but for her laser-true antennae, rock-hard faith, and great good humor. She is the engine that made this possible.

I’ve been in the book business for a long time, first on the publishing side and now in the reviewer’s corner, but I have never encountered anyone like Susan Kamil. For all those skeptics who say good editors exited this world with Maxwell Perkins, I would ask them to consider mine: the hardest nose, biggest heart, keenest mind in the industry. Susan saw the forest for the trees as I struggled to distinguish what was and was not important about endless recollections. She drew me a road map, then nudged me along. I couldn’t have done it without her.

I owe considerable gratitude, too, to my daughter, Hilary (Lalo) Walsh, who read the first draft and gave me the benefit of her nimble brain and wicked wit. Thanks to my son, the inimitable Adam Williamson Ward, who has always been generous, not only with his love, but with his computer skills. Thanks also to my children’s father, Wendell (Nick) B. Ward, Jr., for support and encouragement.

There are others who helped me: Mary Hadar, by telling me I was as much a writer as an editor. Kathy Lord, whose careful line-editing is rare and much to be valued. Jamie Alcabes, who corrected numerous typographical errors in the original. Jane and John Amos, who offered a quiet house in West Virginia when there was rewriting to do. Steve Coll, managing editor of The Washington Post, and my colleagues at Book World, who give me continuing support.

But all said and done, this book simply would not be if it weren’t for my husband, Jonathan Yardley. He told me I had a