“Then I don’t need to explain.”

“No, you don’t need to explain a thing.”

“Aren’t we going to the water?”

“We’re going right now.”

Juan kissed Gaspar’s forehead and grabbed Tali’s hand to lead her out of the bathroom, but she said, you all go, you two are crazy. I want to change and wash up a little. Don’t make a scene, murmured Juan, and she shook her head. She needed a few minutes to herself, to look in the mirror, get the sunscreen and towels, wet her face, clean the blood from the tub, wait until her hands stopped trembling.

Let’s take my car, said Tali, I’ll drive. The lake was close and it was better for swimming than the river, which was treacherous along that stretch with its whirlpools and quicksand. The heat was stifling but the sky was clear, not a single raincloud. It still might rain later, but hopefully not, thought Tali; the January humidity could be torturous. She patted Juan’s leg before starting off. He had put on a pair of khakis and seemed very uncomfortable in the Renault’s seat, which was too small for him. Gaspar was silent in the back and Tali tried to draw him out by asking about the cartoons, but gave up when she received no reply. The boy was in mourning and so was she, and she well knew how sad that hot air was, the open oven of noon hitting them right in the face. His mother was dead. There was no consoling him.

She stopped the car at the roadside and got out. “Come here, Gaspar, I want to show you something,” she told the boy from outside.

In front of a wooden sky-blue house that looked on the verge of collapse, there was a tall ceiba tree in flower. Gaspar got out grumpily, but he listened.

“This is the tree your dad was telling you about. It’s Anahí’s, the little native girl’s.”

Gaspar walked to the trunk and stared up at the red flowers.

“There’s a cat on that branch.”

“Where?”

Tali approached and looked up; a yellow cat was sleeping sprawled in the leafy shade. Gaspar still looked serious, and she knelt down to look straight into his eyes. Your mom still loves you, she told him. She can’t be with you anymore, but she loves you like crazy. Gaspar covered his face and started to cry and sway, and Tali let him be. She didn’t look toward the car, didn’t want to know if Juan was watching, if he was coming over to intervene, if he was going to be furious that she was making his son cry. She’s never coming back, is she? Gaspar asked, and Tali didn’t want to answer that question, but replied the way she had to: that no, his mother wasn’t going to come back. Did you know she was hit by a bus? Yes, don’t you remember I was at the funeral? Maybe not, when you’re very sad it’s easy to forget things.