Now a bolero by Alberto Beltrán was drifting up from the colmado. That overblown, nasal sentimentalism was both heroic and virile, and Argenis knew he’d think of it every time he used that gift. The old man asked him to help him lie down, clutching his pupil’s arm and emitting small grunts until they reached the bed with the wicker headboard. Argenis removed his shoes, helped him get his legs up, and took his shirt off with difficulty. As he was doing this, Céspedes asked, sleepily, “Did you ever find the woman with the sweet cunt?” Argenis didn’t answer, just covered him with a Mexican blanket that had once been orange. The old man snored into his pillow immediately, and his snores attracted a wrinkled gecko to the nightstand from where it would translucently watch over its twin brother’s repose.

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Real light. Not the light projected by pointless human moons. Not the light that attracts moths. Sunlight, severe, impossible to look at directly with open, unprotected eyes. It descended anciently onto everything, without the mercy of clouds. It warmed the earth, attracted the hunger of plants, sliced into the corners of buildings with shadows, turned material into silhouettes, like a scalpel. That morning was made of light, the hot air coming through the window of his Aunt Niurka’s car was made of light. Argenis put his hand out to feel the heat and the breeze, relaxed his wrist so the air would push against his hand, deform it, dance with it.

In the background, in an emerald-colored sea, tiny fishermen were tossing out their nets, surrounded by the golden sparks that a mysterious spirit was showering over the water, their bodies reflecting the blessing. That excess was grounds for complaint, for curses, for fatigue. Harvester of blisters, heart attacks, rot. It dried up rivers, burned down forests, that indomitable angel of destruction. In some places the light was so great that the asphalt turned white, like in Céspedes’ paintings. The light softened the grays, turned the cars in the distance into liquid vibrations. He wanted to paint that light, to make it obey him.

Beside him, Niurka was looking for something on the radio, but the reception was bad and you could only make out bits of words. The car speakers were groaning like a UFO about to land in an episode of The X-Files. His aunt put her hand between her seat and the emergency break, took out a manila envelope, and passed it to him. The envelope had his name on it and was sealed. Argenis used his teeth to open it and inside he found a negative. It was a 6x6 negative from a Rolleiflex. “Tony Catrain left it for you. Charlie told him you were back in the country,” said Niurka. “That’s José Alfredo at a demonstration at the Autonomous University in 1969.”