I encountered Beatriz Bradford again that night, in the hotel hallway. Her room was at the end that led to the breakfast area. She was drunk. So drunk that I felt pity or solidarity and I brought her into my room. I locked the door and she collapsed on to the bed, faceup. I was afraid she would choke on her own vomit. I hadn’t seen her eat, and I don’t think she ever ate much. She was drunk, yes, but still fairly lucid. She wanted to talk. I recorded her again.

“No one remembers my daughter. You do.”

She used the formal usted with me. I told her to call me by my name, Olga.

“Olga. What an ugly name, like Beatriz. Rosario, on the other hand, now she had a lovely name. Poor Rosario. She was a mean one, but she wanted to save us, and herself. She was mean, but she had love, you know, Olga? She had love.”

“Who is Rosario?”

“My cousin, Mercedes’ daughter. She let me in that night and she said to me Betty, don’t come out, not tonight, people are coming, they’re holding the ceremony, you know you can’t participate in the ceremony, you’re not authorized. Stay in here, Betty. But I went out. What an idiot.”

She started to scratch her arms, to run her nails over her neck—that was how she got the scars. Her despair was awful to see. I took her hands from her body and offered her water, but she wanted a cigarette. I made her smoke it sitting up, so she didn’t burn the sheets.

“I went out even though she told me: no, Betty. And then that thing cut off my daughter’s arm. Don’t ask me to explain what it is, it doesn’t have a name. It used Juan to do it, but he wasn’t Juan anymore, and the black light touched my daughter. Why did I take my daughter when I left the room, Olga? Why didn’t I listen to Rosario? She was always sensible. Juan was dark, but she loved him, and without Rosario’s love I don’t know what would have happened to him. What am I saying! I do know. He gave up my daughter. He tricked me. He told me he was going to save her, he was going to save his son and my daughter, that was the pact and he didn’t fulfill it. I should have realized—he didn’t even talk to me! Now I can’t get near his son. Gaspar, his name is Gaspar. He’s like Juan, but he doesn’t know it, someone should tell him. You want to tell him, Olga? My aunt wants him to know. I haven’t seen my aunt in a long time. You can run away from them for a while, they’ll wait, they know you’ll come back. Oh, I don’t know if you’ll be able to get close to Gaspar. Juan marked him, and the mark keeps him away from us forever. They can’t find him, and neither can I. Because of the mark. The mark keeps us away. He’s protected. They hate him, you know, Olga, they hate Juan because he beat them, sort of. It’s the only thing I’m glad about. I’m alive because they hate him and because I want to bury Eduardo and tell his bones that I took care of our daughter but I couldn’t get her away from my family. You are not your last name, he told me. You are not doomed to be an exploiter. Maybe not to be that, but I was certainly doomed. He didn’t know. He had love, too.”