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.

I never stop pondering this bargain. Who would accept it? Who could require payment from me? Might Marcela be that individual’s agent, his emissary?

My answer is a smile.

I think about Mamá.

Grief doesn’t kill anyone. Who knows.

I have to choose between Mamá, poor woman, and myself.

Or someone has to choose for me. Not Marcela. I can’t ask her to do that.