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At first they don’t see anything remarkable. Just a gray-haired, bespectacled old man who doesn’t even lift his eyes from his papers when their turn comes.

“Good morning, Dr. Professor.”

“Just call me Professor, if you please.”

“We’ve come to consult with you about a problem, Professor.”

Still without looking at them, Cristóbal spoke again.

“I’ll bet you have. And I’ll bet your problem wears a skirt and a bodice.”

José smiles a bit late.

“Don’t forget the petticoats, Professor.”

At that, Cristóbal looks up. The pause lasts only an instant, but in that instant his gaze seems to take everything in. The imported suits. The silver knob on Carlos’s walking stick. The gold cufflinks.

“Expensive petticoats, from the looks of it.” Then he interlocks his fingers and rests his chin on them. “Let me guess. A little young lady from . . . La Punta or Miraflores, but I’d say it’s more likely she’s from Miraflores. No older than twenty. Quite beautiful. Regular features, shapely, delicate ears, velvety skin, winsome eyes . . .”

José arches his eyebrows.

“How do you know all that?”

“Well, Miraflores . . . To be frank, I can’t see men of your sort falling in love with a poor woman from San Lázaro. As for the rest of it, I don’t know if your damsel is actually as I’ve described her, but no doubt the two of you think she is. I’ve never met a man who said his beloved was hunchbacked, that she had ill-formed ears or homely eyes. And with regard to the velvety skin, neither of you could possibly contradict me, as you haven’t fondled even a ruffle of her clothing.”

“And how do you know that?”

“What’s even rarer than meeting a man who doesn’t think his beloved is beautiful is finding one with a woman who, once she’s consented to his caresses, does not then consent to everything else. To which saint will you be writing these letters, then, since you already have it all?”

José laughs.

“Irrefutable logic, Professor. I had no idea mathematics and love went so well together.”

“And now comes the easy part. Deciding which of you is in love and which is the loyal squire who rides at his side . . . There’s no question you’re the one who’s in love—you, the quiet one.”

He points at Carlos.

“Me?”

“Oh, dear. Your logic has failed you there, Professor,” José tells him. “Let’s say we’re both interested in the young lady, what do you say to that?”

Cristóbal seems unimpressed.

“That the two of you have a closer relationship than I’d realized.”

“Don’t pay him any mind,” says Carlos. “She’s not anybody’s beloved, at least not yet. And she’s my cousin.”

“Her name is Carlota.”

“My friend is joking again. Georgina. Her name is Georgina.”

Cristóbal’s expression has grown stern.

“Your cousin, is she? And which one of you is courting her? For the sake of our business, I hope I’m mistaken about you, because it is a rule of mine never to wet my nib for love affairs between blood relatives. Nor do I place my wax seal on romances between two men, much less produce letters for girls who have not yet been presented in society. Even we scriveners have our ethics, you know.”

“There’s no need to worry about that. We’re not the ones courting her.”

“She’s hung up on another man. A Spanish friend she’s been exchanging letters with for some months.”

“A friend, or maybe something more,” Carlos adds.

“The truth is, it’s hard to tell how things stand, Professor.”

“It’s hard to tell, but my cousin, you know—she’s smitten.”

“She can’t think about anything else, poor thing.”

Cristóbal focuses on his papers again.

“I understand. And I suppose you want me to help her with the next letters, is that it? Put a little polish on the correspondence to see if we can reel this Spanish fellow in?”

“No, she takes care of the letters,” Carlos answers, his voice suddenly harsh.

“We are asking a much smaller favor, Professor. The girl insists, you know, on writing the letters herself. She’s a romantic, his cousin is. The one we’re not so sure about is that friend of hers.”

“We’re concerned her affections might be unrequited, you see. That he’s only stringing her along,” says Carlos.

“That even if it seems like he’s ready to pluck the hen, the only thing he really wants to take off her is her inheritance.”

“That’s why we need your advice, Professor.”

“We were told there’s nobody in Lima who knows more than you about love letters and how to interpret them,” says José.

“If you could give us your impression as to the gentleman’s intentions . . .”

“Or tell us if there are signs he is going to make some noble gesture, like perhaps writing her a poem or two. That’s just the sort of thing she longs for, you see.”

Professor Cristóbal twirls his eyeglasses between his fingers as he listens.

“Yes, I see. So let’s just get right down to it: Do we or do we not want the courtship to end well?”

“We do, we do.”

“Of course we do! All we want is for his cousin to be happy.”

The scrivener nods, pleased.

“I’m glad to hear that, because I also refuse to dip my nib to swim against love’s tide. Indeed, you might say that’s my golden rule in this work: love above all else. Even a poor man has ethics. You understand.”

“There’s no need to worry about that.”

“I don’t help seduce married women either. That’s another rule that’s not up for discussion.”

“You can rest assured that everything is quite ethical and wholesome.”

“And very romantic. We’re romantics too, you know.”

The Professor claps his hands together loudly.

“Then say no more. But if you want my opinion, we’re going to need the chap’s letters. So if you could—”

Before he’s finished the sentence, Carlos has already placed a packet on the table.

“Here are his letters, and hers are at the bottom. You can’t say we haven’t been thorough.”

Cristóbal accepts the bundle of letters and warily examines both sides of it.

“And how is it that you have hers too? Does your cousin write them and then just stick them in a drawer?”

“She mails them, but she makes a lot of drafts beforehand, Professor,” says Carlos.

“As we said, she is unable to think about anything else.”

“She’s completely hung up on him.”

“And it’s hard to tell how things stand,” José adds.

“It’s hard to tell,” Carlos confirms.

Cristóbal stares at them in silence for a moment, as if attempting to tease out something else behind their words. Then he unties the bundle and gently unfolds the first letter. Almost immediately he looks up from the writing paper.

“What exquisite handwriting your cousin has! I’ve never seen anything like it. It looks like a doll’s handwriting!”

José laughs again.

“That’s exactly what I’m always telling her.”