A Star is Born (1945) - "Vladimiro Montesinos. President of Peru" Novel by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

From today onward, little one, I will be your intellectual father, your guide. I will shield you from the foolishness of my brother, who, unfortunately, is your real father, said Alfonso, holding his nephew in his arms in one of the wards at the Goyeneche Hospital in Arequipa. It was Sunday, May 20, 1945. Outside, the sun was beginning to set, and the cold was stealthily setting in.

Your father couldn't have done more to ruin your life. Standing by a window, the baby staring fixedly at him as if understanding every word, Alfonso established a connection far above the prosaic uncle-nephew bond. Even though I set him straight in time, your father still managed to get another poor woman pregnant—this time, a destitute girl from a village. Just imagine: a Montesinos tied to someone who grew up in a shack.

The child’s mother was recovering in another room. She was asleep. Unaware that her newborn was receiving a brief but damning summary of his life story from the very mouth of his influential uncle.

Will you ever amount to anything in this life, having that good-for-nothing father of yours as your role model? I doubt it. That idiot couldn’t even become a lawyer, even though we gave him all our support. With just one year left to finish his degree, he had the brilliant idea that there was no point in going to classes anymore. He said he earned enough doing the odd jobs I got him at notary offices. And that’s what he became—a shoddy notary. The first Montesinos scribbler. A fraud, nothing more and nothing less. Will you turn out like him? If you follow my advice, I’ll spare you that fate.

A knock at the door interrupted his musings.

The lady just woke up and wants to see her baby, announced the nurse, her gaunt figure appearing as he opened the door.

I’ll take my nephew to her, said Alfonso, swallowing a protest at the discourteous treatment he had received. These cholas don’t even say hello anymore, he told the baby after closing the door. Give them some insignificant little position, and suddenly they think they’re above everyone. And it’s these ignorant cholos and serranos who now feel entitled to get involved in politics. And do you know which movement welcomes them? The only one their brains can grasp: communism. Take from the rich and give to you, the poor. Easy. Simple to understand, but capable of making the losers who follow that way of thinking even poorer. Get this straight: in communism, the only ones who achieve equality in wealth are the leaders who herd those sheep; and those sheep are the only ones who achieve equality in poverty.

The newborn’s body pressed against the cigar in the lawyer’s chest pocket, annoying him. He took it out and lit it. After exhaling a calm puff of smoke, he continued the conversation. The baby, eyes wide open, followed the oscillating movements of the cigar in his uncle’s mouth.

I will make sure you loathe that ideology, that you know money is earned through hard work, not by taking it from those who have more. Those are childish nonsense, you hear?

As he spoke, Alfonso didn’t bother keeping some of the smoke escaping his mouth from drifting into the baby’s face.

You must already know that your foolish father is going to name you Vladimiro—a clear and ridiculous tribute to that communist Lenin, a madman who had the audacity to put Marx’s ravings into practice, managing to murder a large part of Russia with hunger and tyranny.

The door sounded again, this time louder. Alfonso fell silent and whispered to the baby: Even if you’re named after that nefarious man, you will be a democratic, capitalist leader, the owner and driver of markets. Trust me.

The knocks continued, insistent. Alfonso managed to recognize the voice of the person calling. Still whispering, he continued speaking to his nephew: The one knocking gave you that name just to spite me, even though I’ve been his main benefactor and guide.

Have you been smoking?, said Francisco after Alfonso finally opened the door.

Yes, said Alfonso, without the slightest remorse. Just as Francisco intended to screw the family by naming his offspring the hideous name Vladimiro, why couldn’t he screw the future communist’s lungs a little? I’ve been smoking and I’ve been talking with my nephew. I’ve been telling him a bit about life—the good, the bad—and looking at his brother with some contempt—and the nefarious.

Leave, Alfonso. I’m going to take Vladimiro to see his mother. I want to be with my family—the family I truly care about.

As you wish, Francisco. You’ve chosen your path, and that’s fine, but I want to make sure Vladimiro doesn’t follow in your footsteps.

 

That will depend on me and on him, Francisco concluded. Above all, on him. So I’m asking you not to meddle too much in his life or ours.

Fine, Alfonso feigned resignation. Then his eyes turned marble-serious: Remember, you have work at the office tomorrow. I need you to stamp the paperwork for the four pending cases. Don’t think that just because you’re my brother and just had a child, I’m going to give you days off. Family is one thing, work is another.

Francisco, holding the baby in his arms, stood staring resentfully at the doorframe through which his brother—whom he bitterly nicknamed "Black Soul"—had just left.

Nace una estrella (1945) - "Vladimiro Montesinos. Presidente del Perú" Novela de Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

Desde hoy te digo, pequeñín, que yo seré tu padre intelectual, tu guía; te cuidaré de las estupideces de mi hermano, quien, lamentablemente, es tu verdadero padre, dijo Alfonso, sosteniendo en brazos a su sobrino en una de las salas del hospital arequipeño Goyeneche. Era un domingo veinte de mayo de 1945. El sol, afuera, empezaba a ocultarse y el frío arreciaba sigilosamente.

Tu padre no pudo haber hecho más para arruinarte la vida. De pie, enfrente de una ventana, el bebé mirándolo fijamente como si comprendiera cada una de sus palabras, Alfonso establecía una conexión superior a la prosaica de tío-sobrino. A pesar de que le enderecé el camino a tiempo, tu padre se las arregló para embarazar a otra pobre mujer; esta vez, a una pobretona de caserío. Imagínate, un Montesinos enlazado con alguien que creció en una chabola.   

La madre del niño se recuperaba en otra sala. Dormía. Desconocía que su recién nacido estaba recibiendo una sumaria, pero contundente exposición de sus antecedentes vitales de la mismísima boca de su influyente tío.

¿Podrás ser algo en esta vida teniendo como ejemplo al bueno para nada de tu padre? No lo creo. El idiota ese no logró ser abogado, a pesar de que le dimos todo nuestro apoyo. A un año de terminar la carrera, se le ocurrió la brillante idea de que no tenía sentido continuar asistiendo a clases. Decía que ganaba lo suficiente haciendo el tipo de trabajitos menores que yo le conseguía en las escribanías. Y en eso se convirtió, en un escribano de pacotilla. El primer Montesinos tinterillo. Un embaucador, ni más ni menos. ¿Serás tú igual a él? Si sigues mis consejos, te evitaré ese destino.

Unos golpes en la puerta interrumpieron sus reflexiones.

La señora acaba de despertarse y quiere ver a su bebé, le anunció la enfermera cuya figura escuálida descubrió tras abrir la puerta.

Ya le llevo a mi sobrino, dijo Alfonso, ahogando una protesta por el trato descortés que había recibido. Estas cholas ya ni saludan, le dijo al bebé luego de cerrar la puerta. Apenas les dan un carguito insignificante y ya se creen por encima de cualquiera. Y son estos cholos y serranos ignorantes los que ahora se sienten con las ínfulas de participar en política. ¿Y sabes qué movimiento los acoge? El único que sus cerebros son capaces de entender: el comunismo. Le quito a los ricos para darles a ustedes, los pobres. Fácil. Simple de entender, pero capaz de empobrecer aún más a los perdedores que siguen como corderos ese modo de pensar. Entiende bien esto: en el comunismo, los únicos que alcanzan la igualdad en la riqueza son los jefes que arrean a esos borregos; y esos borregos son los únicos que alcanzan la igualdad en la pobreza.

El cuerpo del recién nacido presionaba el puro que llevaba el abogado en el bolsillo pechero de su saco, incomodándolo. Lo extrajo y lo encendió. Tras expulsar una sosegada bocanada de humo, continuó la conversación. El bebé seguía, con los ojos muy abiertos, los movimientos oscilantes del puro en la boca de su tío.

Yo me voy a encargar de que detestes esa ideología, de que sepas que el dinero se consigue con esfuerzo y no quitándole a los que tienen más. Esas son pendejadas, ¿oíste?

Mientras hablaba, Alfonso no evitaba que parte del humo que huía de su boca fuese a dar a la cara del bebé.

Ya te debes de haber enterado de que el necio de tu padre te va a llamar Vladimiro, en claro y ridículo homenaje al comunista ese de Lenin, un loco que tuvo la temeridad de llevar a la práctica las locuras de Marx, logrando asesinar a gran parte de Rusia con el hambre y la tiranía.  

La puerta volvió a sonar; esta vez más fuerte. Alfonso guardó silencio y le susurró al bebé: Aunque te llames como ese nefasto, serás un líder democrático, capitalista, dueño e impulsor de mercados. Confía en mí.

Los golpes en la puerta continuaron, insistentes. Alfonso logró percibir el tono de la voz de la persona que llamaba. Siempre susurrando, continuó hablándole a su sobrino: Ese que está tocando, te ha puesto ese nombre solo por fregarme, pese a que he sido su principal benefactor y guía.

¿Has estado fumando?, dijo Francisco luego de que Alfonso por fin abrió la puerta.

Sí, dijo Alfonso, sin el menor escrúpulo. Así como Francisco pretendía joder a la familia poniéndole a su engendro el horroroso nombre de Vladimiro, ¿por qué él no podía joderle un poquito los pulmones al futuro comunista? He estado fumando y he estado conversando con mi sobrino. Le he estado hablando un poco de la vida, de lo bueno, de lo malo -y mirando a su hermano con cierto desprecio-, y de lo nefasto.

Vete, Alfonso. Voy a llevarme a Vladimiro a ver a su madre. Quiero estar con mi familia, con la familia que quiero de verdad.

Como gustes, Francisco. Ya elegiste tu camino y está bien, pero quiero asegurarme de que Vladimiro no siga tus pasos.

Eso va a depender de mí y de él, zanjó Francisco. Sobre todo, de él. Así que te voy a pedir que no te metas mucho en su vida o en las nuestras.

Está bien, fingió resignación Alfonso. Luego, sus ojos adoptaron una seriedad marmórea: Recuerda que mañana tienes trabajo en la oficina. Necesito que me selles el papeleo de los cuatro casos pendientes. No creas que por ser mi hermano y porque acabas de tener un hijo te voy a dar días libres. La familia es una cosa y el trabajo, otra.

Francisco, con el bebé en brazos, quedó mirando con resentimiento el marco de la puerta por donde se acababa de retirar su hermano, a quien apodaba con rencor Almanegra.  

Journey to Mars - Story 11 - "AUSSIE FLASH STORIES" - Short Story Book by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

He was only hours away from touching the surface of Earth’s sea, after three years of having remained suspended around the planet Mars. And although the longing to reunite with his loved ones was immense and impossible to postpone, he knew that the time his descent would take would coincide with the final hours of his life.

Television cameras, eager and unblinking, traced the trajectory of the capsule, awaiting the decisive instant: to find out whether the astronaut’s body would disintegrate or not as soon as it exited the capsule.

Despite the insistence of science that current technology still could not guarantee the survival of any astronaut subjected to the environmental conditions of Mars, the president of the country leading the mission had ordered that the journey to the red planet be carried out under his administration. I don’t want everything my administration has invested in technology to be capitalized on by another president—much less if he’s a socialist, as my intelligence service warns me my successor might be.

The order was given, and panic spread among the members of the mission, who, fully aware of the mortal risk of orbiting Mars for three years—that is, the progressive and irreversible loss of bone mass—chose to resign from the mission and take shelter in academic teaching at whatever universities were willing to take them in.

As long as that loudmouth remains president, we will not set foot on that space station again, the former crew members told their closest relatives, since a public declaration of that magnitude would have earned them the president’s unchecked wrath.

But there was one who accepted the challenge. Only one. He was the sole Australian in the group. His name was Larry Nolan, from Kalgoorlie, the same town that saw the birth of the physician Barry Marshall, whom Larry had admired since his youth. A devoted reader, he had been fascinated to discover that in 1984 Marshall infected himself with Helicobacter pylori in order to prove, in his own body, that stomach ulcers had a bacterial origin and not a psychological one, as was believed at the time.

That radical act of scientific commitment caused him severe gastritis, which he later managed to cure with antibiotics. But the most important consequence was another: medical doctrine was transformed forever. Thanks to that reckless and profoundly human gesture, ulcers ceased to be a surgical sentence and became treatable worldwide, saving millions from chronic pain.

 

Humanity, through the Swedish Academy, recognized that brave and almost romantic act by awarding him the Nobel Prize in Medicine in 2005.

Larry decided to become the Barry Marshall of astronautics. He would be the living—or dying—proof that exploration cannot be improvised, that even in the face of glory-hungry leaders it is necessary to respect the timing, the processes, and the limits of science.

And so he volunteered as the sole crew member of that mission to Mars which, after three years and several months, was returning to Earth. And there was the capsule, detached from the spacecraft, held aloft by several parachutes that made it sway and descend with the delicacy of a feather, carving its way down to the sea.

A boat sped at full speed toward the exact point of splashdown. The timing was millimetric. Everything was calculated—just as calculated as what scientists had anticipated would happen the moment the capsule opened and Larry re-entered Earth’s atmosphere.

For a barely perceptible instant, a gloved hand emerged, like a salute directed at millions of invisible eyes, or perhaps like a mute signal that the mission had been accomplished. The next second, that same hand deflated and fell, vanishing from sight.

The occupants of the boat could not hide their surprise or their terror before the cameras. Though they looked like tiny ants in the vastness of the shot, the emotion was transmitted intact to the entire world.

That hand, suspended in the air for less than a second, was enough to show that human resilience can be unpredictable when it sets its mind to it—that even if life expectancy upon re-entering the atmosphere was technically zero seconds, those milliseconds aloft were enough.

But the authoritarian president, deaf to any technical warning, remained in power and in public favor when, shortly thereafter, he announced that he had just appropriated the oil of a country invaded under cover of night.

Larry’s gesture was relegated to the footnotes of the newspapers. The next day, it was nothing more than a forgettable anecdote.

One year later, someone resurrected the episode as a meme: at children’s parties and bachelor parties alike, a hand-shaped balloon was released, which had to be popped in less than a second.

Neither the winners nor the losers of the challenge ever knew who Larry Nolan had been.

Viaje a Marte - Cuento 11 - "AUSSIE FLASH STORIES" - Cuentos de Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

Estaba a pocas horas de tocar la superficie del mar terrestre, después de tres años de haber estado suspendido alrededor del planeta Marte. Y, aunque el anhelo de reencontrarse con los suyos era inmenso e impostergable, sabía que el tiempo que tomase su descenso coincidiría con sus últimas horas de vida.

Las cámaras de televisión, ansiosas, seguían la trayectoria de la nave, esperando el instante decisivo: saber si el cuerpo del astronauta se desintegraría o no ni bien saliese de la cápsula.

A pesar de la insistencia de la ciencia en que la tecnología actual aún no podía garantizar la supervivencia de ningún astronauta sometido a las condiciones ambientales de Marte, el presidente del país que lideraba la misión había ordenado que el viaje al planeta rojo se hiciese en su gobierno.  No quiero que todo lo que mi gestión ha invertido en tecnología sea capitalizado por otro presidente, mucho menos si es un socialista, como me advierte mi servicio de inteligencia que podría ser mi sucesor.

La orden estaba dada y cundió entre los miembros de la misión, quienes, conocedores del riesgo mortal de orbitar alrededor de Marte durante tres años, es decir, la pérdida progresiva e irrefrenable de masa ósea, prefirieron renunciar a la misión y refugiarse en la enseñanza académica en las universidades que estuvieran dispuestas a acogerlos.

Mientras ese bocazas siga siendo presidente, no volveremos a pisar esa estación espacial, les habían dicho los exmiembros de la misión a sus más cercanos familiares, ya que una declaración pública de ese calibre les hubiera granjeado la impune ira del presidente.

Pero hubo uno solo que aceptó el reto. Era el único australiano del grupo. Se llamaba Larry Nolan, oriundo de Kalgoorlie, el mismo pueblo que vio nacer al médico Barry Marshall, a quien Larry admiraba desde joven. Gran lector por vocación había descubierto con fascinación que en 1984 Marshall se infectó a sí mismo con Helicobacter pylori para demostrar, en su propio cuerpo, que las úlceras estomacales tenían un origen bacteriano y no psicológico, como se creía entonces.

Aquel acto radical de compromiso científico le provocó una gastritis severa que logró curar después con antibióticos. Pero la consecuencia más importante fue otra: la doctrina médica se transformó para siempre. Gracias a ese gesto temerario y profundamente humano, las úlceras dejaron de ser una condena quirúrgica y se volvieron tratables en todo el mundo, salvando a millones del dolor crónico.

La humanidad, a través de la Academia Sueca, reconoció ese acto valiente y casi romántico otorgándole en 2005 el Premio Nobel de Medicina.

Larry decidió convertirse en el Barry Marshall de la astronáutica. Sería la prueba viviente, o moribunda, de que la exploración no se improvisa, de que incluso frente a mandatarios sedientos de gloria es necesario respetar los tiempos, los procesos y los límites de la ciencia. 

Entonces, se ofreció como único tripulante de aquella misión a Marte que, tras tres años y algunos meses, regresaba a la Tierra. Y allí estaba la cápsula, desprendida de la nave, sostenida por varios paracaídas que la hacían balancearse y descender con la delicadeza de una pluma, abriéndose paso hasta el mar.

Un bote avanzaba a toda velocidad hacia el punto exacto del amerizaje. La coincidencia fue milimétrica. Todo estaba calculado, tan calculado como lo que los científicos habían anticipado que sucedería en el momento en que la cápsula se abriera y Larry volviera a entrar en contacto con la atmósfera terrestre.

Durante un instante apenas perceptible, una mano enguantada emergió, como un saludo dirigido a millones de ojos invisibles, o quizá como una señal muda de que la misión estaba cumplida. Al segundo siguiente, esa misma mano se desinfló y cayó; perdiéndose de vista.

Los ocupantes del bote no pudieron ocultar su sorpresa ni el terror frente a las cámaras. Aunque parecían diminutas hormigas en la inmensidad del plano, la emoción se transmitió intacta al mundo entero.

Esa mano, suspendida en el aire durante menos de un segundo, fue suficiente para demostrar que la fortaleza humana puede ser impredecible cuando se lo propone, que aun si el tiempo de vida al entrar en la atmósfera era técnicamente cero segundos, esas milésimas en alto bastaban.

Pero el presidente autoritario, sordo a cualquier advertencia técnica, siguió en el poder y en la aprobación popular cuando anunció, poco después, que acababa de apropiarse del petróleo de un país invadido entre gallos y medianoche.

El gesto de Larry quedó arrinconado en los pies de página de los diarios. Al día siguiente, fue solo una anécdota olvidable.

Un año después, alguien resucitó el episodio como un meme: en las fiestas infantiles y despedidas de soltero se soltaba un globo con forma de mano el cual debía ser reventado en menos de un segundo.

Ni los ganadores o los perdedores del reto supieron jamás quién había sido Larry Nolan.

The brother who vanished into smoke - "VLADIMIRO MONTESINOS PRESIDENT OF PERU" - A novel by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

Francisco!, detonated Alfonso, my uncle, a young and successful lawyer graduated from the University of San Agustin, which had been founded by his great-grandfather, Andres Martinez de Orihuela, prestigious Minister of Finance in the tumultuous times of President Gamarra. At his early twenty-two years of age, and barely twenty-four months after having concluded his university studies with honors, Alfonso was already a professor at his alma mater, where he taught Roman Law in classrooms full of students eager to see him and listen to him lecture.

The one being called out like that, at the top of the lungs, was Francisco Montesinos, the good-for-nothing who in a few years would become my father; a guy who, within the mediocrity of his life, managed to do something —of course, involuntarily— that the rest of the Montesinos did not: to beget me, the future redeemer president of Peru.

The coward Francisco intuited instantly the reason for the harsh fraternal summons and, for that reason, he headed for the street door. He lacked the spirit to suffer once more the reproaches for his university desertion and for having married a well-known fornicator; a woman who had cohabited with a man outside of any ecclesiastical sacrament.

It hadn't been such a good idea to visit his mother's house in search of the delicious food that the Negra Dolores —Lola, to the family— prepared. The stews she made on Tuesdays, like that day, were not to be missed. Elena, on the other hand, was incapable of making even a simple rice with egg and, when she tried, it was preferable to fast.

Don't make me call you twice, Francisco. It will be worse. Alfonso's voice was thunderous. When he set his mind to it, he inspired fear. Not in vain was he considered a forceful and versatile orator, possessor and cultivator of the necessary registers to move, frighten, raise awareness, and stir up multitudes; tools that over time would make the seats of the national parliament vibrate.

My father, dragging his feet as was his bad habit, made his way toward the majestic wooden staircase that described a curve at the back of the living room. His footsteps echoed in that hollow space where long ago my grandfather Guillermo had offered his tertulias and recitals. When he reached the second floor, Francisco headed, always dragging his reluctance, toward the room that served as the office of the young lawyer and prodigy of the family.

His soul jumped when, in addition to Alfonso, he saw in the office his mother, my grandmother Maria Montesinos Martinez. Things looked bad. It would not be one of the usual admonitions that Alfonso, as the older brother and pater familias, used to dish out to him.

Maria maintained a severe, almost impenetrable expression, standing, beside and one step behind my uncle.

Close the door, ordered Alfonso.

With evident reluctance, Francisco obeyed.

Enough! You have gone too far. Do you want to kill our mother with your antics?, thundered Alfonso once the door was closed.

My father looked at them with a calmness almost insolent. He saw coming the same reproach from his brother, only now reinforced by the melodramatic tears of his mother. He suppressed a smile and maintained a neutral posture, although he found it hard to hide a certain enjoyment seeing Alfonso, the unbeatable, the exemplary, the pure intellect, the natural heir of the deceased Guillermo, red with rage and frustration. In the end, you couldn't have a perfect life, because either you messed it up yourself or someone in your family messed it up for you. Francisco was the cancer of Alfonso's happiness.

Answer!, demanded Alfonso from his desk. He hadn't bothered to stand up or greet his brother. Neither had Francisco. My grandmother Maria used to say that the newcomer should initiate the obligatory greetings, but what was happening there was far from any example of good protocol. My father had entered a boiling pot without having any idea of its temperature.

What happened?, said Francisco, dismissively. The same thing again? Are you going to talk to me about Elena? I've told you until I'm exhausted that I married her for love, out of conviction. You can say mass, but I'm going to stay with her.

Yes, sure, replied Alfonso. And did you think we wouldn't find out that you've gotten her pregnant?

My father turned pale instantly. How had they found out? Elena hardly went out, and they had planned to leave Arequipa before her belly betrayed them. Francisco wasn't very happy with the idea of becoming a father, but he harbored the illusion that, with the baby, changes would come that would push him out of the mediocrity in which he moved. He had been dragging the stigma of having abandoned the university, an unforgivable affront to his father's widow and to the more high-ranking Montesinos, obsessive guardians of the family's intellectual prestige.

I don't know who else might be aware of this unhappy news, declared Alfonso, but I assure you that I will do everything possible to prevent you from continuing to tarnish the prestige and decency of our surname.

What an ill-fated hour you got involved with that woman, Francisco, lamented Doña Maria, clutching a rosary of thick beads, intertwined in her fingers as if she wanted to strangle the disgrace. She has all the possible defects that can be attributed to a woman.

What defects? I've always seen her as very fine, replied Francisco, with a hint of sarcasm that was a sign he was recovering from the first blow they had dealt him. And even more so in intimacy.

Fool! Pig!, burst out Doña Maria. You know perfectly well what I'm referring to, insolent brat. That woman is an adulteress, a corrupter of minors, and on top of that, poor; she doesn't have a penny to her name, she finished with fury. The corrupter of minors thing was not a lie: Francisco was seventeen years old when he married Elena Bouroncle, a woman abandoned by the man she never ended up marrying, thus sustaining sexual relations without the consent of a priest. Peruvian law then, as now, considered Francisco a minor. But the society of that time, unlike today, judged terribly the women who fornicated without the acquiescence of the Divine.

She's a Bouroncle, mother, defended Francisco his wife.

That surname was never of high lineage, and the little fortune they had went to hell when Leguia fell. The Bouroncles are as ruined as…, Doña Maria searched for the exact word that could inflict the deepest humiliation on her son.

As we are, completed Francisco. Since our father died, we have nothing left. Look at them: all your grandchildren begging for a roof, and soon they will flood this mansion, because it can easily fit the dozens of families of the dozens of your children.

I'm not going to allow you to speak to our mother like that. Better shut up, ordered Alfonso.

Now you want me to shut up?, mocked Francisco. Where do we stand? Do I talk or not?

Tomorrow Bishop Holguin is going to divorce you, sentenced Doña Maria. Her words fell like a machete blow on Francisco's back, his mocking expression withering.

Alfonso opened a drawer of his desk and took out a stack of papers that he planted with haughtiness in front of him. And here are the copies of the file that has already been entered into the ecclesiastical court. Everything is within the law and the divorce is almost a done deal. As our mother said, our friend, Bishop Holguin, will stamp his seal on the petition tomorrow.

You can't do that, protested Francisco.

Of course not, admitted Alfonso, without hiding the sarcasm. That's why the bishop of Arequipa himself will do it, who is a friend of the house and who, as you well know, was president of this troubled country. Feel fortunate that such a high figure divorces you, not like the piddly little priest who married you behind our backs.

Bishop Mariano Holguin had been, barely four years earlier, one of the four fleeting presidents that Peru had in the dizzying span of eleven days that followed the resignation of Sanchez Cerro from the military junta that he himself had established after overthrowing President Leguia. The bishop governed for a few hours before handing over command to the president of the Supreme Court, one Ricardo Elias.

And I also have ready this other file, continued Alfonso, extracting from the right drawer of his desk another voluminous bundle of papers. With this we were going to hit your nefarious wife with a good lawsuit for having married a minor. Fortunately, she knew how to choose well.

Alfonso's verbal calculation took effect. The anguished uncertainty on his brother's face was a painting.

What did she choose?, dared to murmur Francisco. Why do you say you 'were going to' hit her with the lawsuit? Aren't you going to do it anymore?

Our selfless mother, continued Alfonso, has had to sell one of the last properties of our deceased father to give all the money from that sale to your little woman in exchange for her getting out of our lives. It was that or agree to spend the rest of her days in prison. Honoring her reputation, she took the money without thinking twice.

Francisco's eyes tried to find meaning in what his ears were hearing by scrutinizing the complex design printed on the thick carpet of that room.

In the future you will appreciate all this that we are doing for you, Francisco, said Alfonso. Now perhaps you don't realize it, but we are fixing your life. In about five years, when you are a prestigious lawyer and form a real family, you will thank us. For the moment, I don't care about your long face. The thing is, you don't leave this house until you become a great magistrate, and you forget about that woman.

And my son?, Francisco raised his gaze.

You don't have a son, settled my grandmother, erasing, just like that, my father's firstborn from the history of the Montesinos.

What do you mean I don't have a son?, said Francisco, thinking of Elena, his wife, who was waiting for him at home, awaiting the delicacies of Negra Dolores.

Your Elena took the money that was offered to her and right now, according to the agreement, she must have already left the pigsty where you lived, carrying in her womb that son who, I could bet, surely isn't even yours. Do you think she suddenly craved Lola's stew? I gave her the idea to put that story into your head so she could leave without any trouble.

Alfonso left the necessary space so that his words could forcefully strike his brother's morale. Then, he added, coldly: That's how she loved you. That's how people without dignity are: they always end up choosing the comfortable philosophy of money, instead of defending their honor.

You are lying to me. I don't believe you, you pair of liars, shouted Francisco.

Listen to me, burst out Alfonso, standing up with the same vehemence with which years later he would defend his political positions in the Senate, already militating in the Party of Democratic National Youth, the one that in 1956 would mutate into Popular Action, a party that was born hurling bravado against Odria and ended up becoming the refuge of little Lima gentlemen experts in promising sandcastles, always entangled in pacts with everyone except the people, whom they never managed to get close to. You will not speak to our mother like that, do you understand?

Francisco remained silent. He had nothing more to add. Since the death of his father, and even more so since Alfonso graduated as a lawyer, the latter had established himself as the master and lord of the family universe. Each of his words carried the blessing of Doña Maria. He, on the other hand, had left the university, had given himself over to drink, and had ended up sending his life to hell by marrying an adulteress, being a minor and, on top of that, getting her pregnant.

But the great Alfonso Montesinos y Montesinos (he had added the "y" to give himself an air of supplementary nobility) or Almanegra, as he was nicknamed, together with the all-powerful Doña Maria Montesinos, had just fixed his life for him. There would be neither dead nor wounded, because when you know presidents, bishops, and military men, or military presidents and bishop presidents, everything could be resolved, avoiding scandal or reducing it to a minimum.

My future father, Francisco, locked himself in the house's bar, always stocked with the best liquors thanks to Alfonso's money, and uncorked a bottle of wine which he drank in less than an hour. He fell asleep, deeply drunk: a habit that, over time, would only worsen.