I agree and wonder what he means. He holds up a manila envelope, pulls out a thin sheaf of paper, slaps it down on top of the flyers.

- Alexis never misreads.

It is a single document, twelve pages long: a photocopy of a handwritten transcription of the notarial protocol of the will of Juan de Segovia.

- He only just now had time, says Armando. Several passages in the protocol were rather hard to make out. Others, as you will see, were very easy. They are also quite important to people like you and me.

I nod, scan quickly through. A wife, Magdalena Clara Coya, and the twins, Martín and Inés. The entirety of a vast fortune, or very nearly so. If the protocol is genuine, Armando’s assessment of its worth is correct, and there is no reason for it not to be genuine aside from the fact that it is wholly and laughably implausible.

- Do you hear that sound, John? It is the sound of the paradigm shifting like tectonic plates, of your career rising like some new volcano.

- What I hear is some bastard scratching at the door and scaring me all but to death.

- What was the will doing in Jauja instead of Seville or Lima or at the very least Huancayo?

- That is what I tried to ask you the first time you mentioned it.

- Precisely. And why wasn’t it found sooner? And in whose interest was it to prevent its execution?

I nod, take out my staple gun, make sure that it is loaded. For a moment Armando stares at me, and at the gun.

- I forgot, he says. These questions no longer interest you.

- That is not the case.

- Shall I take the will back? I know plenty of people who can make proper use of it.

He picks up the document, and sees the flyers beneath. He looks at Pilar’s picture, reads the text. He sets the document back down, and puts the envelope beside it.

- We haven’t talked since I got back from Cajamarca, I say. Lots of good work there. I meant to tell you.

- When did you go?

- The weekend before last.

He nods. Straightens. Leans across my desk to clap me on the shoulder, says that he is late and walks out into the lamplight. I call to him, ask what he is late for. He does not answer, is gone.

If it is possible for the body to expel a brain tumor and for a vast lake to appear in a desert then perhaps it is possible also for this will to read as it seems to. I put the copy of the protocol in one compartment of my briefcase, and load the flyers into another. I lock my office, turn out the lights.

- We do not believe you, says Jhon.

- And yet is true, I say. I haven’t been to Machu Picchu.

- It is impossible, says Jhon. You who love history and live in Peru. It is staying at a beach house but never going to the beach.

I stand by my lie and the class will not have it, their voices rising against me. At last the bell rings. With luck they will not now forget the present perfect simple in its negative form.

To my office, the walk to the gate, out and across the Panamericana. One license plate after another and nothing close. Along and along and a siren to the north, distant but closing. The smells of sweat and plumeria. Another siren, this time from the south. A third and now a fourth, all screaming toward me.

I check the low sky, see no smoke, walk more quickly all the same. At the corner I turn, and traffic is stopped all along the narrow street. I jog up the line of cars toward the park, the four sirens louder and ever louder and now I see them: dozens of blood-spattered bodies laid out on the grass.

There are perhaps fifteen people giving first aid, half of them doctors or nurses and half civilians, blood on their faces too as they move from victim to victim. I run, and an ambulance appears on the far side of the park, and behind it another. A third comes from the direction of Virgin and the fourth is caught behind me, cannot get past the stopped cars and as I reach the edge of the grass I hear someone laughing.

Closer. It is one of the victims: laughter spilling up through the layer of gauze stretched tightly across her face. I stop, and her nurse too is laughing, and I am close enough to see that the blood is too bright, is not real blood, and the injuries also are feigned.

I walk to the laughing nurse, ask what is happening, and this makes her laugh still harder. I ask the victim, who crosses her arms to show me that she is dead, then points to the next victim over, a young boy.

- Earthquake Simulation Day, he says.

And of course: Yungay, its consequences.

- But you are late, I say.

- What?

- The anniversary of Yungay was two days ago.

The boy knows nothing about that. I look at the nurse, and she shrugs. The cadaver is still laughing and I leave them there, the happy dead and happy living, the three successful ambulance crews and beyond them the crew that has failed.

At home Socorro is waiting at the door. Mariángel runs out past her, wishes for me to smell a raw potato. I take her up, smell it carefully and declare it approved, ask Socorro what is wrong.

- He came an hour ago, she says.

- Who?

- Mister Reynaldo.

- Reynaldo is in Lima.

- I do not know where he is now, but three hours ago he was here. He asked if you were home, and when I said that you were not he asked if he could go into your room. I thought that perhaps it would be a problem, but he is such a good friend of yours, and he asked again and again, and in the end I let him.

Socorro kneads the front of her apron, will not look at me.

- He said that you would understand.

- Would understand what?

- I don’t know. He was looking though your desk. And he left you a note, I believe.

To my room and desk, and the top drawer is open. Socorro goes to my bed and brings me the note. It is written in English, and my classes with Reynaldo appear not to have been useless:

They rejected me again and so I would lose the only thing I have won in my life. You offered to help me and this is what I ask you for: I hope you can give two weeks to me. That will be sufficient to see the universities. Please look in on my aunt if possible for you. I will see you in two weeks.

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3/div>

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AGAIN THE BUS BUT ALONE, again the river but now continuing east, only half an hour away if the reports were correct and the World Cup begins in three days. Many of my students wish to discuss nothing else. I am expected to have strong opinions about the United States’ team and its chances, sometimes pretend to have them, and for class we watch films picked at random from the video library.

The Andes, clearer and clearer as we near. Not a hawk but litter. All license plates seen since the fall of the bridge have been wrong, but insofar as the story is true, Sarita Colonia will help. She must. It is her job to help, or would be, and I returned to the market, bought a new galvanized tub, keep it locked for now in my closet.

A dead cat on the side of the road and crows tearing at its abdomen. I wish I had kept the corpse of the hairless dog, as perhaps it truly is some sort of cure. Prayers, prayers. Certainty, yes, in all its many forms, but I do not know how this is to be accomplished.

Socorro no longer works on Sundays and my house still stinks of paint so Mariángel is at Karina’s. I dropped her off with something that appears to be a lavender toolbox but is in fact filled with materials for decorating one’s hair. The twins were delighted. Karina shrugged, said they would all be fine and a hundred yards ahead there is a police car on the side of the road.