"No, I'd better keep calling you García Madero," he said. "That's what everybody calls you."

Then he walked partway through the yard with me (he had taken my arm). Before he let me go, he said that María had told him what happened yesterday.

"I appreciate it, García Madero," he said. "There aren't many young men like you. This country is going to hell, and I don't know how we're going to fix it."

"I just did what anyone would have done," I said, a little tentatively.

"Even the young people, who in theory are our hope for change, are turning into potheads and sluts. There's no way to solve the problem; revolution is the only answer."

"I agree completely, Quim," I said.

"According to my daughter, you behaved like a gentleman."

I shrugged my shoulders.

"A few of her friends-but there's no point getting into it, you'll meet them," he said. "In some ways, it doesn't bother me. A person has to get to know people from all walks of life. At a certain point you need to steep yourself in reality, no? I think it was Alfonso Reyes who said that. Maybe not. It doesn't matter. But sometimes María goes overboard, wouldn't you say? And I'm not criticizing her for that, for steeping herself in reality, but she should steep herself, not expose herself, don't you think? Because if one steeps oneself too thoroughly, one is at risk of becoming a victim. I don't know whether you follow me."

"I follow you," I said.

"A victim of reality, especially if one has friends who are-how to put it-magnetic, wouldn't you say? People who innocently attract trouble or who attract bullies. You're following me, aren't you, García Madero?"

"Of course."

"For example, that Lupe, the girl the two of you saw yesterday. I know her too, believe me, she's been here, at my house, eating here and spending a night or two with us. I don't mean to exaggerate, it was just one or two nights, but that girl has problems, doesn't she? She attracts problems. That's what I meant when I was talking about magnetic people."

"I understand," I said. "Like a magnet."

"Exactly. And in this case, what the magnet is attracting is something bad, very bad, but since María is so young she doesn't realize and she doesn't see the danger, does she, and what she wants is to help. Help those in need. She never thinks about the risks involved. In short, my poor daughter wants her friend, or her acquaintance, to give up the life she's been leading."

"I see what you're getting at, sir-I mean Quim."

"You see what I'm getting at? What am I getting at?"

"You're talking about Lupe's pimp."

"Very good, García Madero. You've put your finger on it: Lupe's pimp. Because what is Lupe to him? His means of support, his occupation, his office; in a word, his job. And what does a worker do when he loses his job? Tell me, what does he do."

"He gets angry?"

"He gets really angry. And who does he get angry at? The person who did him out of a job, of course. No question about it. He doesn't get angry at his neighbor, though then again maybe he does, but the first person he goes after is the person who lost him his job, naturally. And who's sawing away at the floor under him so that he loses his job? My daughter, of course. So who will he get angry at? My daughter. And meanwhile at her family too, because you know what these people are like. Their revenge is horrific and indiscriminate. There are nights, I swear, when I have terrible dreams"-he laughed a little, looking at the grass, as if remembering his dreams-"that would make the strongest man's hair stand on end. Sometimes I dream that I'm in a city that's Mexico City but at the same time it isn't Mexico City, I mean, it's a strange city, but I recognize it from other dreams-I'm not boring you, am I?"

"Hardly!"

"As I was saying, it's a vaguely strange and vaguely familiar city. And I'm wandering endless streets trying to find a hotel or a boardinghouse where they'll take me in. But I can't find anything. All I find is a man pretending to be a deaf-mute. And worst of all is that it's getting late, and I know that when night comes my life won't be worth a thing, will it? I'll be at nature's mercy, as they say. It's a bitch of a dream," he added reflectively.

"Well, Quim, I'm going to see whether the girls are here."

"Of course," he said, not letting go of my arm.

"I'll stop in later on to say goodbye," I said, just to say something.

"I liked what you did last night, García Madero. I liked that you took care of María and you didn't get horny around those prostitutes."

"Jesus, Quim, it was just Lupe… And any friends of María's are friends of mine," I said, flushing to the tips of my ears.

"Well, go see the girls, I think they have another guest. That room is busier than…" He couldn't find the right word and laughed.

I hurried away from him as fast as I could.

When I was about to go into the courtyard, I turned around and Quim Font was still there, laughing quietly to himself and looking at the magnolias.

NOVEMBER 18

Today I went back to the Fonts' house. Quim came to the gate to let me in and gave me a hug. In the little house I found María, Angélica, and Ernesto San Epifanio. The three of them were sitting on Angélica's bed. When I came in they instinctively drew closer together, as if to prevent me from seeing what they were sharing. I think they were expecting Pancho. When they realized it was me, their faces didn't relax.

"You should get in the habit of locking the door," said Angélica. "He almost gave me a heart attack."

Unlike María, Angélica has a very white face, though the underlying skin tone is olive or pink, I'm not sure which, olive, I think, and she's got high cheekbones, a broad forehead, and plumper lips than her sister's. When I saw her, or rather when I saw that she was looking at me (the other times I'd been there she'd never actually looked at me), I felt as if a hand, its fingers long and delicate but very strong, was squeezing my heart. I know Lima and Belano wouldn't approve of that image, but it fits my feelings like a glove.

"I wasn't the last to come in," said María.

"Yes you were." Angélica's voice was assured, almost autocratic, and for a minute I thought that she seemed like the older sister, not the younger one. "Bolt the door and sit down somewhere," she ordered me.

I did as she said. The curtains of the little house were drawn and the light that came in was green, shot through with yellow. I sat in a wooden chair, beside one of the bookcases, and asked them what they were looking at. Ernesto San Epifanio raised his head and scrutinized me for a few seconds.

"Weren't you the one taking notes on the books I was carrying the other day?"

"Yes. Brian Patten, Adrian Henri, and another one I can't remember now."

"The Lost Fire Brigade, by Spike Hawkins."

"Exactly."

"And have you bought them yet?" His tone was mildly sarcastic.

"Not yet, but I plan to."

"You have to go to a bookstore that specializes in English literature. You won't find them in the regular bookstores."

"I know that. Ulises told me about a bookstore where you all go."

"Oh, Ulises Lima," said San Epifanio, stressing the i's. "He'll probably send you to the Librería Baudelaire, where there's lots of French poetry, but not much English poetry… And who exactly are 'you all'?"

" 'You all'?" I said, surprised. The Font sisters kept looking at objects I couldn't see and passing them back and forth. Sometimes they laughed. Angélica's laugh was like a bubbling brook.

"The people who go to bookstores."

"Oh, the visceral realists, of course."

"The visceral realists? Please. The only ones who read are Ulises and his little Chilean friend. The rest are a bunch of functional illiterates. As far as I can tell, the only thing they do in bookstores is steal books."