“Hey, what do you say we go to town and visit our friends tonight?” He winked at me.

Oh, not the prostitutes again!

I placed my hand on my stomach. “No, Don Martin, I can’t. I felt terrible doing that to my wife so soon after her passing.”

He stared at me with a mystified expression. Was I the only man ever to decline such an offer? The experience of going to the brothel had saddened me more than anything. Even though Carmela had seemed enthusiastic to offer her services to me, there had been a void in her eyes I couldn’t ignore. A painful resignation, if you will, that had broken my heart.

“I understand,” he said.

He did?

“Let’s go to town anyway.” He patted my arm. “There’s a place I think you might like.”

* * *

Thirty minutes later, we were in downtown Vinces driving toward the Malecón. From this angle, the turquoise walls of the Palacio Municipal stood out, like an overdecorated cake. We turned toward a park surrounded by a metal fence, palm trees, and various shrubs attempting to escape their metal captors. We drove slowly—we happened to be the only car in the area—and stopped for a group to cross the street. What struck me the most were the women’s short, stylized haircuts, so similar to Angélica’s, and their fancy stoles. Among the crowd was Alberto in a starched, white linen suit and a toquilla straw hat. This was the first time I’d seen him wearing something other than a cassock.

Martin rolled down his window. “Alberto!”

My brother kept shambling, pale, with his gaze straight ahead, as if sleepwalking. In the middle of the afternoon?

Martin called him again. He must have heard him—we weren’t far at all. But Alberto didn’t turn. Instead, he reached the steps of San Lorenzo church and went inside.

“What the hell’s wrong with that idiot?” Martin said.

We continued down the street and I recognized Soledad’s house. Her teal door opened and a young woman stepped outside. I’d seen her before, but where? I leaned toward the window to get a better look at her face. She removed a handkerchief from her purse and blew her nose. She seemed to be crying.

Martin was facing the road. I was going to ask him if he knew her, but we drove too fast and I lost my chance.

We parked next to a cafeteria across from the miniature Eiffel Tower. It was bizarre to see such a precise replica in this small South American town. To think that I’d always dreamt of seeing the real one. Strange that after having a French father, I would be exposed to this monument first.