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them, just ripe for the taking. Tell me, are you happy, young man?”
    I had to remind myself he was addressing that version of me that lived in California, that worked with Hassan, the one who was going to be unspeakably wealthy as a result. Not the me who’d never left the country, who wanted to be an actor but was actually a part-time employee in a copy shop run by a depressive.
    “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I’m very happy.”
    Juan smiled broadly, and I knew my part in the conversation was over. He and my father got down to business. The paperwork was prepared, a long stack of forms and obtusely worded declarations, all signed in triplicate, and in a matter of minutes, my great-uncle’s house was officially no longer our problem. I stood when my father did. Juan took my hand and shook it vigorously.
    “California!” he said again, as if he didn’t quite believe it.
    Once we were free of Juan and the municipal offices, outside again and breathing the briny, life-giving sea air, I congratulated my old man. I said: “Now we don’t have to burn the house down.”
    He gave me a weary look. “Now we can’t, you mean.”
    We walked toward the plaza. It was late afternoon, still hours of light remaining, but where else could one go in this town? The regulars would be in their habitual spots, waiting for the sunset with steadfast, unflagging patience. It had been barely a day, but already I could understand why my father had fled this place the moment he had the chance. He’d gone first to the provincial capital, a nice enough place that he began to outgrow the moment he arrived. He was young; he wanted more. He moved to the capital itself, where he finished his education, won more prizes, married, and went abroad, fulfilling, if only partially, the expectations of those he’d left behind. They’d wanted him to be a judge, or a diplomat, or an engineer. To build bridges or make law. His actual job—head librarian of the antiquarian books and rare manuscripts section of the National Library—was a wholly inconceivable occupation. It sounded less like work one did for a wage, and more like an inherited title of nobility. But then it was precisely the rarefied nature of his position that gave my father such prestige in these parts.
    We hadn’t gone far when he said, “Quite the act in there.”
    I was feeling good and opted not to listen for any trace of sarcasm. Instead I thanked him.
    “An Arab?” he said. “A store? How precise!”
    “Everything’s an act, right? I was improvising. You have to say the lines like you mean them.”
    “I see your studies at the conservatory have really paid dividends. It was very convincing.”
    “Your best friend thought so.”
    “Best friend, indeed,” my old man said. “I suppose it’s obvious, but I have no memory of him.”
    I nodded. “I don’t think he noticed, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
    We still hadn’t returned to the discussion of the previous night, and now there seemed no point. Instead we’d come to the plaza, with its view of the sea and its benches filling up one by one. We ducked into a tiny restaurant, hoping to have a quiet meal alone, but everyone recognized my father, and so the basic ritual of our stay in town began anew. We entered the dining room, waving, accepting greetings. A few men called my father’s name excitedly—Manuel! Manolito!—and by the way his face shifted, the way his eyes darkened, I could see this prominence beginning to weigh on him. I saw him draw a deep breath, as if preparing for a steep climb. He was bored with it all, though every instinct told him he must bury this cynicism, ignore it. There are no cynics in this town—that is something you learn when you travel. When you live in the capital and become corrupt. One cannot be rude to these people, one cannot make fun of them. They know almost nothing about you anymore, but they love you. And this was the bind my old man was in. The night demanded