Free The Sky Over Lima by Juan Gómez Bárcena

their hands as they wait, or rolling their eyes, or fulfilling some other cliché of their condition, because the lovers of Lima are as unoriginal as those anywhere else in the world. It is not only the illiterate who come to him. He also helps young people who need gallant phrases with which to woo the objects of their affection. In those instances, Cristóbal is not merely an evangelist but also a poet who must imagine what the recipient of the letter is like and then compose verses to which the aspirants contribute only the wordless fever of love.
    When he finishes, he places all his drafts and abortive attempts in a wicker basket, to be used later to feed the wood stove in his kitchen. He jokes about it frequently, saying that all winter long he is warmed by the love of strangers. Romance provides only an ephemeral light, one that burns quickly but leaves behind neither heat nor embers.

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    At first they don’t see anything remarkable. Just a gray-haired, bespectacled old man who doesn’t even lift his eyes from his papers when their turn comes.
    â€œGood morning, Dr. Professor.”
    â€œJust call me Professor, if you please.”
    â€œWe’ve come to consult with you about a problem, Professor.”
    Still without looking at them, Cristóbal spoke again.
    â€œI’ll bet you have. And I’ll bet your problem wears a skirt and a bodice.”
    José smiles a bit late.
    â€œDon’t forget the petticoats, Professor.”
    At that, Cristóbal looks up. The pause lasts only an instant, but in that instant his gaze seems to take everything in. The imported suits. The silver knob on Carlos’s walking stick. The gold cufflinks.
    â€œExpensive petticoats, from the looks of it.” Then he interlocks his fingers and rests his chin on them. “Let me guess. A little young lady from . . . La Punta or Miraflores, but I’d say it’s more likely she’s from Miraflores. No older than twenty. Quite beautiful. Regular features, shapely, delicate ears, velvety skin, winsome eyes . . .”
    José arches his eyebrows.
    â€œHow do you know all that?”
    â€œWell, Miraflores . . . To be frank, I can’t see men of your sort falling in love with a poor woman from San Lázaro. As for the rest of it, I don’t know if your damsel is actually as I’ve described her, but no doubt the two of you think she is. I’ve never met a man who said his beloved was hunchbacked, that she had ill-formed ears or homely eyes. And with regard to the velvety skin, neither of you could possibly contradict me, as you haven’t fondled even a ruffle of her clothing.”
    â€œAnd how do you know that?”
    â€œWhat’s even rarer than meeting a man who doesn’t think his beloved is beautiful is finding one with a woman who, once she’s consented to his caresses, does not then consent to everything else. To which saint will you be writing these letters, then, since you already have it all?”
    José laughs.
    â€œIrrefutable logic, Professor. I had no idea mathematics and love went so well together.”
    â€œAnd now comes the easy part. Deciding which of you is in love and which is the loyal squire who rides at his side . . . There’s no question you’re the one who’s in love—you, the quiet one.”
    He points at Carlos.
    â€œMe?”
    â€œOh, dear. Your logic has failed you there, Professor,” José tells him. “Let’s say we’re both interested in the young lady, what do you say to that?”
    Cristóbal seems unimpressed.
    â€œThat the two of you have a closer relationship than I’d realized.”
    â€œDon’t pay him any mind,” says Carlos. “She’s not anybody’s beloved, at least not yet. And she’s my cousin.”
    â€œHer name is Carlota.”
    â€œMy friend is joking again. Georgina. Her name is