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with numbers. In his extensive study of Mayan numerology, he had discovered that writing the number five wasn’t the same as writing the number four. And not just because they represented a different accumulation of elements, but because each number had its own distinct way of resonating, just like a musical note. So, just as he could clearly recognize the difference between do and re, Júbilo could also determine with great precision the number of a playing card lying facedown on a table. This made him an exceptional card player, but, curiously, he rarely played, and never with his friends, because it seemed dishonest to him to take advantage of his ability to connect with numbers. The only time he made an exception was in Huichapan, a tiny, peaceful pueblo in the Sierra de Puebla, when he was standing in for the local telegraph operator who was on vacation.
    A persistent rain had fallen all day. The houses hadwide eaves so people could walk along the narrow streets without getting wet. The climate induced a sort of melancholy that clung to the bones of the pueblo’s inhabitants and was much worse than the constant dampness. In the two weeks that Júbilo and Lucha had been in the town, Júbilo hadn’t felt the slightest urge to explore this popular tourist destination. He preferred spending his free time frolicking in bed with his wife. But one afternoon, one of his most frequent telegraph clients, a young local named Jesús, had come to send his regular telegraph to Lupita, his girlfriend, who lived in the city of Puebla. Lupita and Jesús were getting married in two weeks. The preparations for the wedding were already well along and Júbilo had been sending a flurry of telegrams to the bride-to-be informing her of the details of the religious ceremony, how many flowers and candles would adorn the church, the number of chickens that would be sacrificed for the banquet, in short, Júbilo even knew how many kisses Jesús was planning to give her and, most important, where. Of course, this last bit of information had not been divulged by the groom-to-be. But it had been present in his mind and Júbilo, without wanting to, had simply received the confidential message while he was watching Jesús write his telegrams, which made him an unwitting accomplice to Jesús’s love affair.
    But that morning, as soon as he saw Jesús walk in the door of the telegraph office, Júbilo knew something serious had happened. Jesús entered with his head hanging, sad and distressed. Because his sombrero was tilted, rainwaterran off it, soaking the papers on the desk without Jesús even noticing. It seemed that he had even forgotten his good manners, because he didn’t bother to remove the sombrero from his head. Timidly, Júbilo rescued a few forms from disaster and moved them out of harm’s way while Jesús made several attempts to write a telegram that invariably ended up in the trash can. It was clear to Júbilo that whatever Jesús had to tell Lupita, it was certainly not pleasant. Wanting to help him, Júbilo spoke to the lovesick youth, little by little winning his confidence, until he finally got Jesús to confess his problem.
    It turned out that Jesús was a hardened poker player and usually played at the cantina on Friday nights. But the previous week he had made a fatal decision. He had changed the day of his game from Friday to Saturday, to make the most of his last days as a bachelor, with disastrous results. He had lost everything. Everything! The
rancho
where he planned to live with Lupita, the money for the church, the banquet, the bride’s dress, even the honeymoon trip that he had dreamed about for so long! It was obvious that the man was completely destroyed. Worst of all, he had lost his fortune at the hands of don Pedro, the local cacique, a landowning tyrant, a man who besides being rude, coarse, and evil-looking was abusive, exploitative, and a thief, among other charming traits.
    Júbilo couldn’t understand how it