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Around that time, not long after the accident, they began to call him P.P. The nickname was coined in the classroom, was it smart aleck Gumucio who made it up? sure, who else would it have been and at first Cuéllar, Brother, he was crying, they’re calling me a bad name, like a queer, who? calling you what? a nasty thing, Brother, he was embarrassed to repeat it to him, stammering and the tears were pouring out, and later during the recesses the students in the other classes P.P. what happened? and the snot was dribbling out, how ya doin’, and the brother, look, he ran to Leoncio, Luke, Augustine or Professor Cañon Paredes: it was him. He complained and he also became furious, what did you say, P.P. I said, white with anger, fag, his hands and voice trembling, let’s see if you dare say it again, P.P., I already dared and what happened and he shut his eyes then and, just as his dad had advised him, don’t let them son, he flung himself, sock ’em in the kisser, and he challenged them, stick out your foot for him, and thud, and he punched, an undercut, a header, a kick, anywhere, in the line-up or on the field, knock him down on the ground and it’s over, in the classroom, at chapel, they won’t bother you anymore. But he got more annoyed and they pestered him more and once, it’s getting out of hand, Brother, his father came spitting nails at the rector, they were torturing his son and he wasn’t going to stand for it. Let him wear the pants, let him punish those snot-faced kids or he’d do it himself, he’d put everybody in their place, what insolence, pounding the table, it was the last straw, it was the limit. But they had stuck the nickname to him like a postage stamp and, despite the brothers’ punishments, despite the rector’s be more humane, the rector’s take a little pity on him, and despite Cuéllar’s sobbing and kicking and threats and punches, the nickname got out onto the street and little by little it was making its way around the sections of Miraflores and he could never get it off his back, poor guy. P.P. pass the ball, don’t be greedy, how’d you do in algebra, P.P.? P.P., I’ll swap a Life Saver for a gumdrop, make sure you come tomorrow on the trip to Chosica, P.P., they’d go swimming in the river, the brothers would bring gloves and you’ll be able to box with Gumucio and get back at him, P.P., got boots? because we’d have to climb the hill, P.P., and when we get back we still might make the early show, P.P., like the plan?

They too, Cuéllar, we who were careful at first, started letting it slip out, old man, against our will, brother, pal, all of a sudden P.P. and he, blushing, what? or pale, you too, Chingolo? opening his eyes wide, man, sorry, it wasn’t with bad intentions, him too, his friend too? man, Cuéllar, don’t be that way, if everybody called you that it was catching, you too, Choto? and it rolled off his tongue without his wanting to, he too, Manny? so that’s what we were calling him behind his back? the minute he turned his back and they P.P., right? No, what an idea, we bear-hugged him, promise never again and anyway why are you getting mad, brother, it was a nickname like any other and finally don’t you call lame Pérez Gimpy and cross-eyed Rodríguez Pock Face or Evil Eye and the deaf-mute Rivera Golden Tongue? And didn’t they call him Choto and him Chingolo and him Manny and him Lalo? Don’t get mad, brother, keep on playing, c’mon, it’s your turn.

Bit by bit he was growing resigned to his nickname and by the sixth grade he did not cry or get tough anymore, he pretended not to notice and sometimes he even joked, not P.P., Big P.P. ha ha! and in the first year of junior high school he had become so accustomed to it that, instead, when they called him Cuéllar, he became serious and looked distrustfully, as if uncertain, was it a joke? He even put out his hand to new friends saying how do you do, P.P. Cuéllar, glad to meet you.

Not to girls, of course, just to men. Because at that time, besides sports, they were already interested in girls. We had started making jokes, in class, hey, yesterday I saw Martínez with his girl, during recess, they were walking hand in hand on the embankment and all of a sudden, pow, a hit! and at the end of periods, on the mouth? yes and they’d stayed a hell of a long time kissing. Soon, that was the main thing they talked about. Kiki Rojas had a girlfriend, older than him, blond, with blue eyes and on Sunday Manny saw them going into the afternoon show at the Ricardo Palma together and after the show let out her hair was all messed up, sure they’d made out, and the next day at night Choto caught the Venezuelan in the fifth year, the one they call Jaws ’cause of his big mouth, man, in a car, with a really painted-up doll and, sure enough, they were making out, and you, Lalo, made out yet? and you, P.P., ha ha, and Manny liked Chickie Saenz’s sister, and Choto was starting to pay for an ice cream and he dropped his wallet and he had a photo of some Little Red Riding Hood at a kids’ party, ha ha, don’t make faces, Lalo, we already know you’re dying over that skinny Rojas, and you, P.P., dying for anybody? and he no, blushing, not yet, or pale, he wasn’t dying over anybody, and you and you, ha ha.

If we got out at five on the button and raced down Pardo Avenue as if the devil were on our heels, we made it just as the girls were coming out of school. We would stand on the corner and look at that, there were the buses, they were the ones in third year and the one in the second window is Canepa’s sister, hello, hello, and that one, look, shout hello to her, she laughed and laughed, and the girl answered us, hello, hello, but it wasn’t for you, snot-nose, and that one and that one. Sometimes we brought little notes we skimmed through the air at them, you’re really good-looking, I like your braids, your uniform fits you better than anybody else’s, your friend Lalo, watch out, man, the nun already saw you, she’s going to punish them, what’s your name, I’m Manny, want to go to the movies Sunday? she should answer him tomorrow with the same kind of note or let me know shaking her head yes as the bus went by. And you Cuéllar, didn’t he like any of them? yes, that one in the back, four-eyes? no, the one right next to her, then why didn’t he write her? and he what would I say to her, let’s see, want to be my girl? no, how dumb, he wanted to be her boyfriend and sent her a kiss, yes, that was better, but it was short, something sneakier, I want to be your friend and he was sending you a kiss and I adore you, she’d be the cow and I’ll be the bull, ha ha. And now sign your first name and your last name and do a little drawing for her, what for instance? anything, a little bull, a little flower, a little peepee, and so we spent our afternoons, running after the buses of the Academy of the Indemnity and, sometimes, we went as far as Arequipa Avenue to watch the girls from Villa Maria in their white uniforms, just made your first communion? we’d shout at them, and we even took the express and got off at St. Isidor to take a look at the girls from St. Ursula and from Sacred Heart. We didn’t play as much soccer as before.

When birthdays turned into mixed parties, the boys stayed out in the garden, pretending to play tag, you’re it! who’s got the button or ring-a-lievo, caught you! while we were all eyes, all ears, what was going on in the living room? what were the girls doing with those big guys, what envy, who already knew how to dance? Until one day they decided to learn too and then we spent Saturdays, whole Sundays, men dancing with each other, at Lalo’s house, no, at mine it’s bigger, it was better, but Choto had more records, and Manny but I’ve got my sister who can teach us and Cuéllar, no, at his house, his parents already knew and one day, here, his mother, sweetheart, they gave him that hi-fi, just for him? sure, didn’t he want to learn to dance? He’d put it in his room and call his friends and would lock himself up with them as long as he wanted and also buy records, sweetheart, go to the Record Center, and they went and we picked out huarachas, mambos, boleros and waltzes and they sent the bill to his old man, that’s all, Mr. Cuéllar, 285 Mariscal Castilla. The waltz and bolero were easy, you had to remember and count, one here, one there, the music didn’t matter too much. The hard ones were the huaracha, we have to learn the steps, said Cuéllar, the mambo, and to twirl and move apart and show off. We learned to dance and smoke almost at the same time, tripping over ourselves, choking on the smoke from Luckies and Viceroys, prancing until suddenly, now brother, you got it, it was coming out, don’t lose it, move a little more, getting sick at our stomachs, coughing and spitting, hey did he let it out? liar, he was holding the smoke under his tongue, and P.P. me, we should count for him, did we see? eight, nine, ten and how he blew it out, did he or didn’t he know how to take a drag? And also to blow it out through his nose and to squat down and twirl around and get up without losing the beat.

Before, what we liked most in the world were sports and the movies, and they would give anything for a soccer match, and now instead it was girls and dancing most and what we would give anything for was a party with Pérez Prado records and permission to smoke from the lady of the house. They had parties almost every Saturday and when we didn’t go as guests we crashed and, before entering, they would go into the corner bar and banging on the bar with a fist, we would ask the bartender for five shots! Bottoms up, P.P. said, like this, glub glub, like men, like me.

When Pérez Prado came to Lima with his orchestra, we went to wait for him at the airport, and Cuéllar, let’s see, who shoved through like me, managed to make his way through the crowd, got up to him, grabbed him by the coat and shouted to him: “The Mambo King!” Pérez Prado smiled at him and also shook my hand, I swear to you, and he signed his autograph album, look. They followed him, lost in the caravan of fans, in Bobby Lozano’s car, to Plaza San Martin and, despite the archbishop’s prohibition and the warnings of the brothers from the Champagnat Academy, we went to the bullfight, to Sol Stadium, to see the national mambo championship. Every night, at Cuéllar’s we’d put on El Sol Radio and listen in a frenzy, what a trumpet, man, what a beat, the Pérez Prado broadcast, what a piano.

They were already wearing long pants by then, we slicked our hair with tonic and they had grown, especially Cuéllar, who from being the smallest and the puniest of us five turned into the tallest and strongest. You’ve gotten to be a Tarzan, P.P., we told him, what a build you’re growing muscles every day.

3.

The first to have a girlfriend was Lalo, when we were in our freshman year. One night he came into the Tasty Cream, real dreamy, they what’s up with you and he, beaming, puffed up like a peacock: I’ve asked Chabuca Molina to go steady, she said yes to me. We went to celebrate at the Indian Messenger and with the second glass of beer, Lalo, how did you put it to her, Cuéllar started getting a little nervous, had he held her hand? a little annoying, what had Chabuca done, Lalo, and full of questions, c’mon, did you kiss her? Pleased, he told us, and now it was their turn, cheers, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, let’s see if we’ll hurry up and get a girlfriend and Cuéllar, banging the table with his glass, what did she say, what did you say to her, what did you do. You sound like some priest, P.P., Lalo said, you’re giving me confession and Cuéllar, tell us, tell us, what else. They had three beers and, at midnight, P.P. got sick. Leaning against a lamppost, right on Larco Avenue, in front of the public clinic, he vomited: chicken, we said to him, and also what a waste, throwing away that beer after what it cost, what squandering. But he, you double-crossed us, he wasn’t in the mood for joking, double-crosser Lalo, spitting up, you went ahead, puking all over his shirt, falling for a girl, his trousers, and not even telling us he was chasing her, P.P., bend over a little, you’re making a mess of yourself, but he nothing, that just wasn’t done, what’s it to you if I make a mess of myself, you lousy friend, double-crosser. Later, while we were cleaning him up, he cooled down, and got sentimental: we’d never see you anymore, Lalo. He would spend Sundays with Chabuca and you won’t look for us anymore, you fairy. And Lalo what an idea, man, my girlfriend and my friends were two different things but they don’t compete with each other, there’s no reason to be jealous, P.P., calm down, and they shake hands but Cuéllar didn’t want to, Chabuca should shake his hand, I’m not going to shake it. We went with him to his house and all along the way he was muttering shut up man and swearing, we’re there already, go in real slow, real slow, tiptoe like a thief, careful, if you make a racket your parents will wake up and catch you. But he began to shout, let’s have a look, to kick his front door, let them wake up and catch him and what was going to happen, chicken, we shouldn’t go, he wasn’t scared of his parents, we should stay and we’d see. Something’s gotten into him, said Manny, as we raced toward the crosstown street, you said I asked Chabuca to go steady and friend his face and mood changed, and Choto he was jealous, that’s why he got drunk and Chingolo his parents are going to wring his neck. But they didn’t do anything to him. Who opened the door for you? my mother and what happened? we asked him, she hit you? No, she started crying, sweetheart, how could you, how could he drink at his age, and my old man came in too and he bawled him out, nothing else, you’ll never do this again? no Papa, wasn’t he ashamed of what he’d done? yes. They gave him a bath, they put him to bed and the next morning he told them he was sorry. And Lalo too, man, I’m sorry, the beer went right to my head, see? I insulted you, I was bugging you, wasn’t I? No, what garbage, a question of a few drinks, give me five and friends, P.P., like before, nothing’s happened.

But something had happened: Cuéllar began to do nutty things to get attention. They gave in to him and we went along with him, how about I steal my old man’s car and we drag-race along the ocean drive, guys, why not man, and he took out his dad’s Chevrolet and they went to the ocean drive; how about me breaking Bobby Lozano’s record? why not man, and he whoosh along the embankment from Benavides to Quebrada whoosh in two minutes fifty, did I break it, yes and Manny crossed himself, you broke it, and you, you pansy, how scared you were; how about my treating us at Tastes So Good and we play possum when the bill comes? why not man, and they went to the Tastes So Good, we stuffed ourselves with hamburgers and milk shakes, they left one by one and from St. Mary’s Church we saw Cuéllar dodge the waiter and get out what’d I tell you? how about my blowing out all the windows of the house with my father’s shotgun? why not P.P. and he blew them out. He played the nut in order to get attention, but also in order to did you see, did you see? to make fun of Lalo, you wouldn’t dare and me sure I dared. He won’t forgive him for Chabuca, we said, how he hates him.