"He got sick. They say he was on the verge of death. The doctors didn't know what was wrong with him, just that he was fading fast. I went to see him at the hospital and I was there during the worst of it. But one day he got better and it all ended as mysteriously as it had begun. Then Ulises left the university and started his magazine. You've seen it, right?"

"Lee Harvey Oswald? Yes, I've seen it," I lied. Immediately I wondered why they hadn't let me have an issue, even just to leaf through, when I was in Ulises Lima's rooftop room.

"What a horrible name for a poetry magazine."

"I like it. It doesn't seem so bad to me."

"It's in terrible taste."

"What would you have called it?"

"I don't know. The Mexican Section of Surrealists, maybe."

"Interesting."

"Did you know that it was my father who laid out the whole magazine?"

"Pancho said something like that."

"It's the best part of the magazine, the design. Now everybody hates my father."

"Everybody? All the visceral realists? Why would they hate him? That doesn't make sense."

"No, not the visceral realists, the other architects in his studio. I guess they're jealous of how well he gets along with young people. Anyway, they can't stand him, and now they're making him pay. Because of the magazine."

"Because of Lee Harvey Oswald?"

"Of course. Since my father designed it at the studio, now they're making him responsible for anything that happens."

"But what could happen?"

"All kinds of things. Clearly you don't know Ulises Lima."

"No, I don't," I said, "but I'm getting some idea."

"He's a time bomb," said María.

Just then, I realized that it had gotten dark and that we could only hear, not see, each other.

"Listen, I have to tell you something. I just lied to you. I've never gotten my hands on the magazine, and I'm dying to take a look at it. Could you lend me a copy?"

"Of course. I'll give you one; I have extras."

"And could you lend me a book by Lautréamont too, please?"

"Yes, but that you absolutely have to return. He's one of my favorite poets."

"I promise," I said.

María went into the big house. I was left alone in the courtyard, and for a minute I couldn't believe that Mexico City was really out there. Then I heard voices in the Fonts' little house, and a light went on. I thought that it was Angélica and Pancho, and that in a little while Pancho would come out into the courtyard to find me, but nothing happened. When María returned with two copies of the magazine and the Chants de Maldoror, she too noticed that the lights were on in the little house, and for a few seconds she waited attentively. Suddenly, when I was least expecting it, she asked me whether I was still a virgin.

"No, of course not," I lied, for the second time that evening.

"And was it hard to lose your virginity?"

"A little," I said, after considering my response for a second.

I noticed that her voice had gotten husky again.

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No, of course not," I said.

"Who did you do it with, then? A prostitute?"

"No, with a girl from Sonora who I met last year," I said. "We were only together for three days."

"And you haven't done it with anyone else?"

I was tempted to tell her about my adventure with Brígida, but in the end I decided that it was better not to.

"No, nobody else," I said, and I felt so miserable I could have died.

NOVEMBER 16

I called María Font. I told her I wanted to see her. I begged her to come out. She said that she'd meet me at Café Quito. When she came in, around seven, several pairs of eyes followed her from the doorway all the way to the table where I was waiting.

She looked beautiful. She was wearing a Oaxacan blouse, very tight jeans, and leather sandals. Over her shoulder she was carrying a dark brown knapsack stamped with little cream-colored horses around the edges, full of books and papers.

I asked her to read me a poem.

"Don't be a drag, García Madero," she said.

I don't know why, but her saying that made me sad. I think I had a physical need to hear one of her poems from her own lips. But maybe it wasn't the place; Café Quito was loud with talk, shouts, shrieks of laughter. I gave her back the Lautréamont.

"You read it already?" said María.

"Of course," I said. "I stayed up all night reading. I read Lee Harvey Oswald too. What a great magazine, it's such a shame they had to fold. I loved your things."

"So you haven't been to bed yet?"

"Not yet, but I feel good. I'm wide awake."

María Font looked me in the eyes and smiled. A waitress came over and asked what she wanted to drink. Nothing, said María, we were just leaving. Outside, I asked whether she had somewhere to go, and she said no, she just wasn't in the mood for Café Quito. We went walking along Bucareli toward Reforma, then crossed Reforma and headed up Avenida Guerrero.

"This is where the whores are," said María.

"I didn't realize," I said.

"Give me your arm so nobody gets the wrong idea."

The truth is, at first I didn't see anything to suggest that the street was any different from those we had just been on. The traffic was heavy here too, and the people crowding the sidewalks were no different from the people streaming along Bucareli. But then (maybe because of what María had said) I started to notice some differences. To start with, the lighting. The streetlights on Bucareli are white, but on Avenida Guerrero they had more of an amber tone. The cars: on Bucareli it's unusual to find a car parked on the street; on Guerrero there were plenty. On Bucareli, the bars and coffee shops are open and bright; on Guerrero, although there were lots of bars, they seemed turned in on themselves, secret or discreet, with no big windows looking out. And finally, the music. On Bucareli there wasn't any. All the noise came from people or cars. On Guerrero, the farther in you got, especially on the corners of Violeta and Magnolia, the music took over the street, coming from bars, parked cars, and portable radios, and drifting from the lighted windows of dark buildings.

"I like this street," said María. "Someday I'm going to live here."

A group of teenage hookers was standing around an old Cadillac parked at the curb. María stopped and greeted one of them:

"Hey there, Lupe. Nice to see you."

Lupe was very thin and had short hair. I thought she was as beautiful as María.

"María! Wow, mana, long time no see," she said, and then she hugged her.

The girls with Lupe were still leaning on the hood of the Cadillac and their eyes rested on María, scrutinizing her calmly. They hardly looked at me.

"I thought you died," said María all of a sudden. The callousness of the remark stunned me. María's tact has these gaping holes.

"I'm plenty alive. But I almost died. Didn't I, Carmencita?"

"That's right," said the girl called Carmencita, and she continued to study María.

"It was Gloria who bit it. You met her, didn't you? Mana, what a fucking mess, but no one could stand that cunt."

"I never met her," said María with a smile on her lips.

"The cops are the ones who nailed her," said Carmencita.

"And has anyone done anything about it?" said María.

"Nelson," said Carmencita. "Do what? The bitch knew too much, she was in way over her head, there was nothing anyone could do."

"Well, how sad," said María.

"Say, how's school?" said Lupe.

"So-so," said María.

"You still got that hot stud running after you?"

María laughed and shot me a glance.

"My friend here is a ballerina," Lupe said to the other girls. "We met at Modern Dance, the school on Donceles."