Mamá kisses my forehead and Tía Constanza my cheeks, and both express their hope that my birthday be a happy one, that’s how they put it and they’re sincere.

My brother is trailing behind them and seems to be suffering from the heat, he’s taking off his jacket and tie, and while that’s understandable given the sun and all the rest, I sense he’s also waiting to talk to me.

Mamá heads for the stairs and I go to Mauricio and ask about his health and he says “Bien, bien,” though I can see he’s preoccupied. Soon enough, when we’re alone in the living room, he tells me successively, and far too heatedly, that I forgot that it’s been twenty-five years today, and that for me, feelings don’t matter, Mamá is suffering, I’ve lost all notion of honor and respect and . . .

I want to defend myself and raise a hand to contain him, make him stop talking, but he misinterprets the move and slaps my hand away. Then immediately he aims his left hand at my face, and I push it away which further inflames him.

He throws himself at me, he’s the heavier one, I could move aside, dodge him, but I don’t because he’s Mauricio.

He punches me in the head, one-two, then again in the solar plexus, and I fall and he stands above me, waiting. It hurts terribly and I’m in a daze, though I’ve managed to grasp that my older brother is punishing me for something.

And Mamá is clamoring that we’re both her sons, but that doesn’t have much effect, and the light is very bright and up above the children are watching all of it.

•

I need to be alone, and I go off and lose myself among the crowded sidewalks of the city center.

But the noise of walking feet and the reflection of the sun on the pavement drive me further: pain, stupor, bewilderment, and exhaustion require that I rest. I think of a café, a plaza, a park; instead I go into the City Bank and settle down on a leather bench along a wall, no one pays the slightest attention to me as they cash checks, make payments, exchange dollars, send wires, transfer funds.

After a time I grow distracted and begin observing the ladies who are acquiring booklets of traveler’s checks. I select one of them, she’s young and delicate, and accompany her from Stockholm to Rome, two days on a train with no other passengers on board because every journey is its own mythology.

I manage to gain access to a telephone and dial the agency’s number.

The switchboard operator recognizes my voice and says, “I’ll put you through to the boss, he’s been looking for you,” but I say “No, no” to stop her in her tracks.