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to have an authentic work by the great Monvoisin did not present itself twice in the same lifetime, as his clients were wont to say.
    â€œIf expense is no problem, I want him to paint me with three hands. It will be his most famous painting, and someday will end up in a museum rather than over our fireplace,” was Miss Rose’s comment.
    That was the year of the floods, which were immortalized in schoolchildren’s textbooks and in their grandparents’ memories. The deluge swept away hundreds of dwellings, and when finally the storm abated and the waters began to recede, a series of minor temblors, which came like God’s wrath, finished destroying everything that had been softened by the pouring rain. Ruffians scrabbled through the rubble, taking advantage of the confusion to pillage ruined houses, and soldiers were issued orders to summarily execute anyone they surprised in such barbaric acts. Overly zealous in their duties, however, these same protectors began swinging away for the pleasure of hearing their victims yell and the order was revoked before they began slaughtering innocents. Jacob Todd, tucked in his hotel nursing a cold and still weak from his illness, spent hours despairing of the incessant tolling of church bells calling for repentance, reading old newspapers, and looking for a partner at cards. He made one trip to a pharmacy, looking for a tonic to settle his stomach, but the shop was a jumble of dusty blue and green glass bottles where a Teutonic clerk tried to sell him scorpion oil and pinworm liqueur. For the first time, Todd lamented being so far from London.
    At night he was scarcely able to sleep because of drunken parties and quarrels, and because of the daily burials, which took place between twelve midnight and three in the morning. The new cemetery was high on a hill overlooking the city. The storm washed open graves and coffins rolled down the slopes in a muddle of bones that equalized all the dead in the same indignity. Many commented that the dead were better off ten years ago, when decent people were buried in the churchyard, the poor in the ravines, and foreigners on the beach. This is a truly eccentric country, concluded Todd, who kept a handkerchief tied around his face because of the sickening wind-borne stench of misfortune, which the authorities fought with great bonfires of eucalyptus branches. As soon as he felt a little better, he went out to watch the processions. Ordinarily they did not draw a crowd, since they were repeated every year during the seven days of Holy Week and on other religious holidays, but on this occasion they had become massive rallies imploring heaven to bring an end to the storms. Long lines of the faithful poured out of the churches, led by the associations of black-clad caballeros, each group carrying a platform bearing the statue of a saint in magnificent robes embroidered with gold thread and precious stones. One column bore a crucified Christ whose crown of thorns lay around his neck. Someone explained to Todd that this was the Cristo de Mayo, the May Christ, which had been brought from Santiago especially for the procession because it was the most miraculous image in the world, the only one capable of changing the weather. Two hundred years before, a devastating earthquake had leveled the capital, completely destroying the church of San Agustín except for the altar that held this Christ. His crown had slipped from his head to around his neck, where it stayed, because every time they tried to put it back where it belonged the earth began to tremble. The festivities brought together hundreds of monks and nuns, pious women faint from fasting, humble people praying and singing at the top of their lungs, penitents in coarse robes, and flagellants flaying their naked backs with scourges of leather strips tipped with sharp metal rosettes. Some swooned and were attended by women who cleaned their open wounds and gave them cooling drinks, but