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resemblance to the one in the Spanish magazine. He gave me the same haircut all the half-breeds usually get, with a tacky part down the middle. It was actually more of a path than a part. The sides of my poor head resembled coca crops planted on a hillside.
    â€œAfter the shave, you’ll look like that Argentine singer Carlos Gardel,” Don Ambrosio said.
    The shave felt like Turkish torture, not so much for my godfather’s trembling hand, as for how dull the blade was. With each stroke, I felt my skin peel. All the scraping had left my chin the color of a carrot.
    Even so, the face I saw in the mirror after that hazardous haircut looked ten years younger.
    â€œHow do you like it, godson? The visa’s in the bag. Scent!” he shouted. “The kind we spray on the tourists.”
    The short, fat helper shot me with a squirt of German cologne made between the first and second World Wars. I smelled like a cheap whore from a half-block away.
    â€œHow much do I owe you?”
    â€œNot a cent. It was a pleasure. I did it in memory of your holy father.”
    â€œSensational!” declared the pot-bellied man, “When the boss puts his mind to it, no hand in the neighborhood is better.”
    â€œYou’re missing something,” Don Ambrosio said. “Something . . . something . . . The gringos don’t like handsome Latin men, they think they’re going to screw all the blond women. They want them drowsy-looking. I’ve got the solution.”
    He pushed open the front door again and spat without looking for the second time.
    â€œThe eyeglasses,” he said. “With these, it’s a done deal, godson.”
    He opened the drawer of one of the sideboards and proudly displayed a pair of round lenses with metal rims that exuded somnolence. He turned the armchair around and put them on me. I looked like a mountain-sick James Joyce.
    â€œThese glasses, my dear godson, have quite a history. I got them from a German man who used to come to me for his haircuts in the ’50s. Back then, I rented a place on Comercio Street. The owner, a real bitch, kicked me out so she could open up a shoe store. This German guy was a wreck when he escaped from his country. Being a Nazi and all, the authorities wanted to jail him. He came over here with a few pieces of jewelry that he’d undoubtedly robbed from some Jews and set up a cake shop. He told me that in Berlin he’d worked in theater and he’d sometimes worn these glasses for fun. They’re not prescription, just plain old glass. They go with your hair; they give you a serious look. What profession did you put down in your passport?”
    â€œBusinessman.”
    â€œNot bad. If you had put down teacher, they would send you home right away. The gringos know what our poor educators earn.”
    â€œI’ve got everything I need.”
    â€œThey pay attention to everything, and it’s even worse now, what with the cocaine and all. They imagine that every one of us is carrying at least a hundred grams.” He looked at me, grinning. “Talk to them in English,” he advised. “That flatters them.”
    â€œI know the bit I’m going to tell them by heart.”
    â€œBefore you leave, stop by if you need anything else; I’m not talking about money, because I’m broke. Cutting hair doesn’t pay what it used to. Those damned peasants have moved here from their villages and set up hundreds of barber shops.”
    He walked me over to a special mirror that looked like something straight out of a royal court. It was an almost magical mirror, one that retouched images. I looked more like a pharmaceutical salesman than I did Carlos Gardel.
    â€œGood luck,” he said. “You want a beer?”
    â€œBetter not. If I start with one, I won’t stop until two dozen.”
    â€œWhat do you plan to do in North America?”
    â€œAnything.”
    â€œMy little boy, Raúl, is