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would presume me to be the innocent accomplice, but the person who was of legal age, who would logically be considered the real perpetrator. After this legal explanation, proffered in an icy tone of voice, he went on talking for a long time, little by little allowing his emotion to show through. I thought that he hated me, when the truth was that he had always acted only for my own good; if he had sometimes been severe with me, his one aim had been to correct my faults and prepare me for the future. My rebellion and my defiance would be the ruin of me. By getting married, I had put the noose around my own neck. He had been opposed to it because he was thinking of my own good and not, as I believed, because he wished to do me harm, for what sort of a father was it who didn’t love his son? Furthermore, he realized that I’d fallen in love, there was nothing wrong with that; after all, it proved I was a man. It would have been far worse, for example, if I’d turned out to be a fairy. But getting married at the age of eighteen, when I was still a kid, a student, to a mature woman and a divorcée to boot, was utter madness, the real consequences of which I would realize only later on in my life, when, because of this marriage, I’d become a wretched, embittered man who’d gotten nowhere in life. That wasn’t what he wanted for me at all, his one wish for me was the best and most illustrious life possible. In a word, I should try at the very least not to give up my studies, because I’d always regret it. He stood up and I too rose to my feet. An uncomfortable silence ensued, punctuated by the clattering of the typewriters in the other room. Stammering, I promised to get my university degree, and he nodded approvingly. As we said goodbye, after a second’s hesitation we put our arms around each other.

I went from his office to the central post office and sent a telegram: “Amnesty granted you by Papa. Will send return ticket soonest. Love.” I spent that afternoon at the historian’s, at the rooftop shack at Panamericana, at the cemetery, racking my brains as to how I could rake up enough money for the ticket. That night I made a list of people I could ask for a loan, and how much I could ask each of them for. But the next day a telegraphed reply was delivered to me at my grandparents’: “Arriving tomorrow LAN flight. Love.” I learned later that Aunt Julia had gotten the money to pay for her ticket by selling her rings, her brooches, her bracelets, her earrings, and nearly all of her clothes. So when I went to meet her at Limatambo airport on Thursday night, she was a woman without a cent to her name.

I took her directly to the little apartment, which had been personally waxed and polished by Cousin Nancy, who had also decorated it with a red rose, accompanied by a note that said “Welcome.” Aunt Julia looked the entire apartment over as though it were a new toy. She was amused to see the index cards for the cemetery all neatly filed, my notes for the Cultura Peruana article, the list of writers to be interviewed for El Comercio, and the work schedule and the budget I’d drawn up, theoretically proving that we would have enough money to live on. I told her that after making love to her I’d read her a story entitled “The Blessed One and Father Nicolás” so she could help me decide on the right ending.

“Well, Varguitas,” she said, laughing, as she hastily undressed. “You’re growing up. And now, so that everything will be perfect and you’ll get rid of that baby face of yours, promise me you’ll let your mustache grow.”

Twenty.

The marriage to Aunt Julia was really a success and it lasted a good bit longer than all the parents and even she herself had feared, wished, or predicted: eight years. In that time, thanks to my persistence and her help and enthusiasm, plus a fair amount of good luck, other predictions (dreams, desires) had come true. We had managed to go to Paris and live in the famous garret, and for better or for worse I had become a writer and published several books. I never completed my law studies, but in order to make