For my part, I must die in the preceding century. I am Nero, my enemies have come to sacrifice me, and my friends surround me as I demand, “Kill yourself someone, now, in my presence, to give me courage.” No, they don’t help me. I’ll have to do it on my own. “What a death for so great an artist!” I drive the dagger into my throat. Epaphroditus joins his strength to mine and we drive it in.

Dead—according to the note by Suetonius that Bibi has passed me—with my eyes exaggeratedly wide open, I inspire fear and horror in the others. I remember the photographs of Juan Tiflis and the Pizarro woman, and refrain from interpreting this part.

In any case, Bibi, who’s helped me out with the maneuver of slashing the dagger through my throat, is satisfied and is applauding.

In short, we manage to endure the night.

•

I’ve completed another day and am sharing the night’s rest with Marcela.

Marcela asks if I’ve had other experiences of love or only the one, and I wonder out loud whether she’s joking.

She demonstrates very seriously that she isn’t joking, and I talk to her about the girl on the tram, I don’t know why I tell her about that, I’ve never told anyone before, not even my brother, these stories have always stayed inside me.

It was a while ago, of course, there are no trams now. I was coming back from somewhere with a photographer. I noticed a young woman looking over at us and we were drawn to each other, what caught her attention may have been my companion’s camera.

I spoke to her, she was on her own and had a white lace collar on over her dress.

I think we liked each other quite a bit. We agreed to meet again the next evening at a certain time and place: a street corner. I didn’t give her my name, she didn’t give me hers: Why bother with that when we would be together, perhaps forever, starting the next day.

I got off the tram with the photographer, we had work to do, and the girl rode on.

The afternoon I was supposed to see her, it rained. A little rain wasn’t going to stop us, but then the flooding started and it was impossible to go anywhere.

Marcela asks whether I didn’t go back to that same corner on another day, and I say no, because we hadn’t agreed to meet at any other time.

These interludes of conversation during our nights together are very pleasant; Marcela listens to me and isn’t jealous.

•

I think about Mamá.

She has Mauricio, she has the kids.

Maybe I gave Mauricio back to her. I said, when he was sick, “My life for his.” He’s come back to life, and now I have to pay up. It would strengthen my resolve to persuade myself that that’s the case.