you’d fall in love with her. Oh, Don Joaquín, he says. But I persist: if you saw her you’d drop at her feet like a wounded bird, José Manuel, and you’d suddenly understand all kinds of things that you don’t understand right now. Like what, for example? he says, trying to sound as if he’s not paying attention, as if he’s politely indifferent, but I know deep down he’s very interested. Like what, for example? Then I opt for silence. Sometimes silence is best. Descending into the catacombs of Mexico City again to pray in silence. The courtyards of this jail are perfect for silence.
