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    and leave him the child. Uribe was a coward. He had only to stay quiet, and no court would have succeeded in con-victing him. But he was afraid, and he fled. He left the child to the Count and fled. He died ten years later, in some godforsaken village on the other side of the border.
    He left a note saying that he had done nothing and that God would follow his enemies to the gates of Hell.”
    The woman turned to look at a girl who was laughing loudly, leaning on the bar of the café. Then she picked up the shawl that she had hung on the back of the chair and put it over her shoulders.
    “Go on,” she said.
    The man went on.
    “Everyone expected that the Count would have her killed. But he didn’t. He kept her with him, at home.
    They made him understand that he was supposed to kill her. But he did nothing, and kept her hidden in his house.
    Finally he said: Don’t worry about the girl. And he married her. For months people spoke of nothing else, around there. But then people stopped thinking about it. The girl 62

    grew up and bore the Count three sons. No one ever saw her around. They called her Doña Sol, because it was the name the Count had given her. One strange thing was said about her. That she didn’t speak. From the time of Uribe, no one had ever heard her say a word. Perhaps it was an illness. Without knowing why, people were afraid of her.”
    The woman smiled. She pushed back her hair with a girlish gesture.
    Since it had grown late, the waiter came and asked if they wanted to eat. In one corner of the café three men had set themselves up and begun to play music. It was dance music. The man said he wasn’t hungry.
    “I invite you,” the woman said, smiling.
    To the man it all seemed absurd. But the woman insisted. She said they could have a dessert.
    “Would you like a dessert?”
    The man nodded yes.
    “All right, then, a dessert. We’ll have a dessert.”
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    The waiter said it was a good idea. Then he added that they could stay as long as they wanted. They shouldn’t worry about it. He was a young man, and spoke with a strange accent. They saw him turn to the bar and shout the order to someone invisible.
    “Do you come here often?” the woman asked.
    “No.”
    “It’s a nice place.”
    The man looked around. He said that it was.
    “Did your friends tell you all those stories?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you believe them?”
    “Yes.”
    The woman said something in a low voice. Then she asked the man to tell her the rest.
    “What’s the point?”
    “Do it, please.”
    “It’s not my story, it’s yours. You know it better than I do.”
    “Not necessarily.”
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    The man shook his head.
    He looked again at his hands.
    “One day I took the train and went to Belsito. Many years had passed. I was able to sleep at night and around me were people who didn’t call me Tito. I thought I had done it, that the war was really over and there was only one thing left to do. I took the train and went to Belsito, to tell the Count the story of the trapdoor, and the child, and everything. He knew who I was. He was very kind, he took me into the library, offered me something to drink, and asked me what I wanted. I said:
    “ ‘Do you remember that night, at the farmhouse of Manuel Roca?’
    “And he said: ‘No.’
    “ ‘The night when Manuel Roca—’
    “ ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
    “He said it with great tranquillity, even sweetness. He was sure of himself. He had no doubts.
    “I understood. We spoke a little about work and even politics, then I got up and left. He had a young boy take 65

    me to the station. I remember because the boy couldn’t have been more than fourteen, yet they let him drive the car.”
    “Carlos,” said the woman.
    “I don’t remember his name.”
    “My oldest son. Carlos.”
    The man was about to say something, but the waiter had come with the dessert. He brought another bottle of wine, too. He said that if they wanted a taste it was a