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than the others. At first, people thought it was just happenstance. If Buenaventura’s lucky star made it possible for him to marry an heiress a month after his arrival on the island, his ships could very well wiggle out of the range of German guns and cross the blockade unscathed.
    Bit by bit, however, people began to suspect foul play. Rumors flew that Buenaventura’s Spanish friends, who traveled everywhere as tourists on his ships, were not ordinary passengers. The minute his ships landed, they would go wandering around the island, making detailed maps of the major roads and bridges and taking note of the radio-transmission towers. Once the ships unloaded their merchandise, they would board them immediately and sail home with the documents.
    One day, something very odd happened after one of Buenaventura’s ships docked. He always drove out to the wharf to wait for the ships to come in after they’d been sighted from El Morro’s lighthouse. On that day, the minute the gangplank was lowered and before anyone got off, a huge Doberman pinscher trod gingerly down the incline, sniffed his way to where Buenaventura’s black Packard had driven up, and jumped in as he opened the door. Buenaventura was curiously nonchalant about the whole thing. He never asked who had sent him the dog or where and when it had gotten on board. He named it Fausto, and from then on, it slept at the foot of his bed.
    Quintín, of course, would deny these stories about his father if he ever read them. I admit they’re no better than hearsay. But everyone who knew Buenaventura at the time suspected that he was a German sympathizer, although people later forgot all about this. The mysterious immunity of Buenaventura’s ships lasted only a year, the war being over by 1918. But it brought him a great deal of prosperity. He relocated his merchandise from the small wooden depot he had built next to his bungalow on the lagoon to a large brick-and-mortar warehouse on La Puntilla, close to where the rest of the city’s commercial entrepreneurs had their storehouses and business offices.
    He liked to eat and drink in style, and five years after his marriage to Rebecca he had forfeited his slender silhouette for a considerable girth. His hair had thinned out on his head, so he let sideburns, black as tongs, grow on each side of his face. He was fiercely loyal to his products, and business for him was a point of honor. He would have challenged his detractors to a duel had he thought it necessary.
    Quintín once told me the story—passed on by Rebecca, since he hadn’t been born yet—of how one day his father invited four American businessmen to dinner at his house. They were investors in a large new hotel to be built on the strip of beach near the lagoon, and the residents of Alamares were thrilled at the prospect, because it would provide a casino, a swimming pool, and tennis courts they could use. Rebecca and Buenaventura were sitting with their guests at the table when the maid drew near and whispered something in Buenaventura’s ear.
    “The cook is up in arms,” the maid was saying, “because the can is rusted and swollen, and he doesn’t think it wise to add Mendizabal asparagus to the salad. They might poison the guests.”
    Buenaventura looked at her in disbelief. “Poison our guests just because of a little rust on a can?” he cried, his cheeks trembling. “How can anyone say such a thing? Tell the cook to be careful what he says, because slander can be much worse than rust, and if he criticizes Mendizabal products, he may end up without a job.” And when the maid brought in the salad bowl, he put four large asparagus spears on his plate and proceeded to eat them boldly, making fun of the whole episode and pretending not to notice the green slime covering them.
    “Asparagus are good to ward off impotence and other disorders of the infirm,” he told his guests jovially as he ate. “They work wonders in bed, and a few hours later you