On the way there they talked about the political situation, to relax; they had met through politics, and Luis had avoided talking about his family situation in their first meetings. He was still bitter that Menem had won the primary. Alfonsín is going to hold the elections early, Julieta said, and Menem will be president. You’re going to have to accept it. She had supported the Riojan governor in the primary. What we’re all going to have to accept is what a disaster the next few months will be. Luckily, I have dollars, and Gaspar gets an allowance, in dollars too.

The house in Villa Elisa, with its red tiled roof and white walls, looked pretty ruined, and it was. The restoration was going to take a long time if the economy didn’t improve, but Luis had managed to fix up the kitchen. Gaspar’s room was in good shape, though the parquet floor needed replacing or months of waxing and polishing. The most difficult problem was the seeping damp, but for now he couldn’t pay for repairs and he’d have to live with it. After a very good contract that had allowed him to buy the house, he hadn’t found any more work. He still had some savings and had finally managed to finish the cumbersome process of separating his money from his ex-wife’s in Brazil. Hoping for a job in March of 1987 seemed crazy. Hoping to find a good psychologist did too. Everyone was scared, impoverished, worried about only themselves.

Gaspar and Negro Sánchez were in the kitchen, kneading pizza dough. Luis was visibly relieved—his shoulders slackened, he relaxed the fingers of his left hand that he always unconsciously squeezed into a fist—when he saw Gaspar look up from sprinkling flour. It was just a flash of normalcy, he well knew; but it was those flashes, so clear and fresh, that made him hopeful he would eventually see Gaspar healthy, or at least suffering a little less.

Negro Sánchez greeted Julieta and looked at the two of them curiously; Luis made a movement with his head that could either mean be patient or shut up. He took Julieta out to the garden to show her the progress he’d made. He was a dedicated gardener, and a good one.

You’re all good-looking in this family, she said. That kid’s straight out of a fairy tale.

She grabbed Luis’s face between her hands and kissed him, but said nothing more. He knew then, though, that she wasn’t angry, that now she understood why he couldn’t see her for all that time, and that his predicament had overwhelmed him.

They ate the pizza in the kitchen: it was still March, but already a little cold. Gaspar managed to choke down a slice and a half—Luis kept track obsessively—and asked a lot of questions in that direct, slightly brutal manner he sometimes adopted, and that alternated with periods of muteness.

“Are you my uncle’s girlfriend?”

“We haven’t seen each other in a while.”