Fernando rarely dreamed. Yet here in his grandmother’s jungle shanty, he dreamed without ceasing. Strange muddled half-dreams that felt to him like a delirium, a bizarre paroxysm in which he was paralyzed but still surreally aware. Visions came to him, elusive and chimerical and obscure. Visions of shifting shadows, of half-glimpsed monstrous forms. Voices spoke

The old woman’s voice was harsh and low, as though she didn’t use it much. She hadn’t paused in her chopping up of the fibrous, milky mystery vegetable in the slightest. Fernando wondered when she’d last left this shack, or had last had company here, for that matter. “I’m Carmencita’s son,” he said, “your grandson.

After a few more meandering conversations, Fernando found himself standing before his grandmother’s home, a thatched-roof, dilapidated shack at the edge of the jungle. Little more than a dirt path had led up to it—a goat path, he saw now. In the bare earthen yard, a wiry, slack-teated nanny and her gaggle of skinny kids

The rest of Fernando’s journey proceeded without much incident. Having lived more or less on the streets as a boy, he knew to travel lightly and inconspicuously. He kept as little in the way of money or valuables on him as possible. Physically, he caught the eye. There was nothing he could do about that.

II It took Fernando the better part of a week to reach his mother’s hometown from Bogotá. Part of the reason for this delay was that on his first night away from the hacienda, Juan Francisco caught up with him in the town of Granada. Flush with this small victory against his wife María Luisa—and

It was safe to say that no one was more eagerly anticipating Fernando’s ascent to manhood than Juan Francisco. The summer before Fernando was slated to go abroad to university, the senator was walking on air. For months he’d been planning a grand, bacchanal tour for the two of them and delighting himself with the

Whatever the kindly nun’s reservations about Fernando’s adoption, they were ultimately assuaged. If not by the evidence of him arriving with the family at Mass, well-groomed and well-fed and apparently well-satisfied with the arrangement, then surely by the generous offerings María Luisa made to the church. Fernando was, in fact, reasonably happy with his fortuitous

“That is very generous of you, señora,” the young nun said haltingly. “Beyond generous, even. Pardon my impertinence, but wouldn’t it best for you to discuss this intention with Senator San Martín first, only to ensure that he is of the same mind? I’d be happy to return with Fernando tomorrow or at your earliest—”

Fernando’s golden days with Carmencita were few and far between. Golden or not, his days with her were altogether numbered. He was eight years old when she died. Had she not been the type to leave him to his own devices for long stretches at a time, he might have worried at her being gone