Free The Sky Over Lima by Juan Gómez Bárcena Page B

how things stand,” José adds.
    â€œIt’s hard to tell,” Carlos confirms.
    Cristóbal stares at them in silence for a moment, as if attempting to tease out something else behind their words. Then he unties the bundle and gently unfolds the first letter. Almost immediately he looks up from the writing paper.
    â€œWhat exquisite handwriting your cousin has! I’ve never seen anything like it. It looks like a doll’s handwriting!”
    José laughs again.
    â€œThat’s exactly what I’m always telling her.”

◊
    Â 
    Â 
    It takes almost an hour for the scrivener to read all the letters, and in the meantime José and Carlos wait in silence. They study his reactions, the indifferent or alert expression with which he turns the pages. They fear that at any moment he might look up and offer some crisp commentary. Perhaps:
    These are the best letters I’ve ever read in my life.
    Or maybe:
    These are the worst letters I’ve ever read in my life.
    But nothing of the sort happens. After folding up the last letter, Cristóbal only takes off his glasses, methodically lights a cigar, and asks them if they’ve ever seen one of Lima’s covered ladies.
    â€œCovered ladies?”
    â€œOf course not,” José interjects. “It’s been half a century since that was the fashion in this country.”
    The Professor nods in agreement.
    â€œThat’s true. But you’ve no doubt seen that style of dress on postcards or in photographs. Maybe even in the old armoire of a coquettish grandmother . . . am I right?”
    â€œYes,” says Carlos, still uncertain what the covered ladies have to do with his Georgina. Or, rather, with his cousin.
    But Cristóbal keeps talking.
    â€œYou could still see the last of them when I was a boy. Many years ago. The French styles with their petticoats and corsets had become quite popular, and very few women still wore the old colonial dress. It was something to see: a long skirt that came down to the ankles, so narrow and restrictive that there was barely room to put one foot in front of the other to walk. And a pleated mantle, reminiscent of an Arab veil, that covered the bust and the entire head, leaving only the smallest bit of the face exposed. A little silken cleft through which you could see just a single eye . . . And do you know why the covered ladies left that eye uncovered?”
    â€œSo they could see where they were going?” asks José, chuckling.
    â€œTo flirt,” says Carlos, refusing to join in on the joke.
    â€œExactly. But don’t you think men would find it more tantalizing if they left more of the face or body uncovered?”
    â€œNo,” Carlos swiftly replies.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause something that shows half is always more suggestive than something that shows everything, Professor.”
    â€œAnd do you think they’d have been more seductive if they’d covered themselves entirely, wrapped from head to foot like the mummies of ancient Egypt?”
    â€œNo,” he answers cautiously. “Because showing nothing at all has as little allure as showing too much.”
    Professor Cristóbal claps his hands together so hard that he almost drops his cigar.
    â€œCorrect! Even you, who are still novices in this area, who are, shall we say, babes in the woods when it comes to love, understand this basic law, do you not? Love is a door left ajar. A secret that survives only as long as it is half kept. And that roguish eye was the lure that Lima’s women tied on their lines when they went out on their promenades. The bait upon which men hooked themselves like fools. Have you heard of the language of the fan and handkerchief? How a woman could speak the language of love without opening her mouth? Well, the same thing can be achieved with batted eyelashes beneath a shawl. A long blink means ‘I belong to you.’ Two short blinks,