course, the poet was not a man concerned with practical details; he cared a great deal about poetic details, but these were another matter altogether. Cayetano supposed that the reporter had no intention of helping him. In Mexico, Mónica had warned him, a yes often meant no, and a no often meant “depends.” Unlike the Medical Association secretary, the unobliging Cervantes seemed bothered by Cayetano’s presence.
“To be perfectly frank,” the journalist continued, “I’ve never really liked Cubans, since one of them stole my girlfriend in college.”
“Then we’re even. A Mexican took the love of my life in Miami. That is, the woman I thought would be the love of my life,” Cayetano Brulé said, thinking fast, like Roy Rogers in the comic books of his childhood. “But I don’t resent Mexico for it. Who knows, he may even have done me a favor.”
The journalist gazed thoughtfully at the street, as though watching his old girlfriend pass by the window. Cayetano wondered whether the man was right, and Ángel Bracamonte was no doctor, but rather someone who proclaimed his art to be a science, closer to the herbalists who hawked near the cathedral than to surgeons. Perhaps the illness was damaging the poet’s memory. But it could also be a defense mechanism. If modern medicine could no longer save him, as the oncologists of Paris and Moscow had already made clear, then it was perfectly understandable that the poet would seek out a shaman in the hope of eluding death for a little while longer.
“Isn’t there any way to find this guy?” he asked, picking up thethread of conversation. “I’ve been assigned to write about him for a Chilean newspaper.”
“And those poor Chileans, with everything they’re going through, have time to worry about some charlatan?”
“I ask you to consider one thing: Bracamonte’s plants could save dying people in Chile.”
“I’m sorry. Everything is possible, you never know,” Cervantes acknowledged thoughtfully, as though Cayetano’s words had moved him deeply. “I have an assistant who’s quite bright and who may be able to help you. If we find anything, I’ll let you know.”
“I’d greatly appreciate your contacting me at my hotel, or through Mónica Salvat, of the Medical Association. Can I trust you?”
“Completely.”
“Are you sure? Here people often say yes just to keep people calm.”
“Where does that happen?”
“Here in Mexico, or so I’ve heard.”
“Really. Well, that all depends, sir. In any case, you can count on me.”
“I truly thank you. Many readers will feel their spirits lift when they find out Ángel Bracamonte is still alive.”
“Don’t worry, I’m on the case. But first, tell me this: How exactly did that compatriot of mine steal the love of your life?”
MARÍA
ANTONIETA
16
W hat do you think about this?” asked Mónica Salvat.
In the din of Taquería El Encanto, in the Zona Rosa, they had just ordered Yucatecan
penachos
and three beverages each: tequila, sangria, and lemonade. A trio was playing a bolero for a table of outrageous, drunk North Americans in Hawaiian shirts who were roaring with laughter. Cayetano glanced at the newspaper clipping Mónica held. It was a typical photograph of diplomatic receptions, the kind that usually appeared in the social pages. In it, four men and three women smiled at the camera.
“Relatives of yours?” asked Cayetano. On the walk to the restaurant, Mónica had told him about her Russian immigrant mother, her Mexican father, and her upbringing in Coyoacán, near the house where Ramón Mercader had murdered Leon Trotsky with an ice pick.
“You see the man in the suit and bow tie?” she asked.
“Is that your father?”
“That’s Ángel Bracamonte. At the home of the Cuban ambassador, October tenth, 1941.”
Cayetano took a closer look at the clipping. He studied the features of the man at the center of the group, which dissolved intoinfinite dots as he raised the
“To be perfectly frank,” the journalist continued, “I’ve never really liked Cubans, since one of them stole my girlfriend in college.”
“Then we’re even. A Mexican took the love of my life in Miami. That is, the woman I thought would be the love of my life,” Cayetano Brulé said, thinking fast, like Roy Rogers in the comic books of his childhood. “But I don’t resent Mexico for it. Who knows, he may even have done me a favor.”
The journalist gazed thoughtfully at the street, as though watching his old girlfriend pass by the window. Cayetano wondered whether the man was right, and Ángel Bracamonte was no doctor, but rather someone who proclaimed his art to be a science, closer to the herbalists who hawked near the cathedral than to surgeons. Perhaps the illness was damaging the poet’s memory. But it could also be a defense mechanism. If modern medicine could no longer save him, as the oncologists of Paris and Moscow had already made clear, then it was perfectly understandable that the poet would seek out a shaman in the hope of eluding death for a little while longer.
“Isn’t there any way to find this guy?” he asked, picking up thethread of conversation. “I’ve been assigned to write about him for a Chilean newspaper.”
“And those poor Chileans, with everything they’re going through, have time to worry about some charlatan?”
“I ask you to consider one thing: Bracamonte’s plants could save dying people in Chile.”
“I’m sorry. Everything is possible, you never know,” Cervantes acknowledged thoughtfully, as though Cayetano’s words had moved him deeply. “I have an assistant who’s quite bright and who may be able to help you. If we find anything, I’ll let you know.”
“I’d greatly appreciate your contacting me at my hotel, or through Mónica Salvat, of the Medical Association. Can I trust you?”
“Completely.”
“Are you sure? Here people often say yes just to keep people calm.”
“Where does that happen?”
“Here in Mexico, or so I’ve heard.”
“Really. Well, that all depends, sir. In any case, you can count on me.”
“I truly thank you. Many readers will feel their spirits lift when they find out Ángel Bracamonte is still alive.”
“Don’t worry, I’m on the case. But first, tell me this: How exactly did that compatriot of mine steal the love of your life?”
MARÍA
ANTONIETA
16
W hat do you think about this?” asked Mónica Salvat.
In the din of Taquería El Encanto, in the Zona Rosa, they had just ordered Yucatecan
penachos
and three beverages each: tequila, sangria, and lemonade. A trio was playing a bolero for a table of outrageous, drunk North Americans in Hawaiian shirts who were roaring with laughter. Cayetano glanced at the newspaper clipping Mónica held. It was a typical photograph of diplomatic receptions, the kind that usually appeared in the social pages. In it, four men and three women smiled at the camera.
“Relatives of yours?” asked Cayetano. On the walk to the restaurant, Mónica had told him about her Russian immigrant mother, her Mexican father, and her upbringing in Coyoacán, near the house where Ramón Mercader had murdered Leon Trotsky with an ice pick.
“You see the man in the suit and bow tie?” she asked.
“Is that your father?”
“That’s Ángel Bracamonte. At the home of the Cuban ambassador, October tenth, 1941.”
Cayetano took a closer look at the clipping. He studied the features of the man at the center of the group, which dissolved intoinfinite dots as he raised the
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