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It takes almost an hour for the scrivener to read all the letters, and in the meantime José and Carlos wait in silence. They study his reactions, the indifferent or alert expression with which he turns the pages. They fear that at any moment he might look up and offer some crisp commentary. Perhaps:

These are the best letters I’ve ever read in my life.

Or maybe:

These are the worst letters I’ve ever read in my life.

But nothing of the sort happens. After folding up the last letter, Cristóbal only takes off his glasses, methodically lights a cigar, and asks them if they’ve ever seen one of Lima’s covered ladies.

“Covered ladies?”

“Of course not,” José interjects. “It’s been half a century since that was the fashion in this country.”

The Professor nods in agreement.

“That’s true. But you’ve no doubt seen that style of dress on postcards or in photographs. Maybe even in the old armoire of a coquettish grandmother . . . am I right?”

“Yes,” says Carlos, still uncertain what the covered ladies have to do with his Georgina. Or, rather, with his cousin.

But Cristóbal keeps talking.

“You could still see the last of them when I was a boy. Many years ago. The French styles with their petticoats and corsets had become quite popular, and very few women still wore the old colonial dress. It was something to see: a long skirt that came down to the ankles, so narrow and restrictive that there was barely room to put one foot in front of the other to walk. And a pleated mantle, reminiscent of an Arab veil, that covered the bust and the entire head, leaving only the smallest bit of the face exposed. A little silken cleft through which you could see just a single eye . . . And do you know why the covered ladies left that eye uncovered?”

“So they could see where they were going?” asks José, chuckling.

“To flirt,” says Carlos, refusing to join in on the joke.

“Exactly. But don’t you think men would find it more tantalizing if they left more of the face or body uncovered?”

“No,” Carlos swiftly replies.

“Why not?”

“Because something that shows half is always more suggestive than something that shows everything, Professor.”

“And do you think they’d have been more seductive if they’d covered themselves entirely, wrapped from head to foot like the mummies of ancient Egypt?”

“No,” he answers cautiously. “Because showing nothing at all has as little allure as showing too much.”

Professor Cristóbal claps his hands together so hard that he almost drops his cigar.

“Correct! Even you, who are still novices in this area, who are, shall we say, babes in the woods when it comes to love, understand this basic law, do you not? Love is a door left ajar. A secret that survives only as long as it is half kept. And that roguish eye was the lure that Lima’s women tied on their lines when they went out on their promenades. The bait upon which men hooked themselves like fools. Have you heard of the language of the fan and handkerchief? How a woman could speak the language of love without opening her mouth? Well, the same thing can be achieved with batted eyelashes beneath a shawl. A long blink means ‘I belong to you.’ Two short blinks, ‘I desire you, but I am not free.’ A long one and then a short one—”

“You know an awful lot about covered ladies,” says José in a voice that contains not a hint of admiration. “But as to our cousin—”

“Your cousin,” Cristóbal interrupts him with imperious calm, “has forgotten the fundamental rule of love that your friend recalls so well. Perhaps she never knew it. Read the letters yourselves, if you haven’t already. Oh, I can see by your faces that you have. Several times, even. So tell me, what is this cousin like?”

José and Carlos exchange glances.

“She’s twenty years old . . .”

“She’s beautiful . . .”

Cristóbal waves a hand in the air.

“Yes, yes, fine! Regular features, winsome eyes, velvety skin, slender waist . . . I know all that already. I knew it before you opened your mouths. But what is she like? What does she tell us about herself in the letters? Nothing! She hardly talks about anything except literature and poems and . . . whatever else. I wasn’t paying much attention by the end, to be honest. It may be that the distinguished gentleman with whom she is exchanging letters thinks her a sophisticated correspondent, but I doubt he could say much more than that. Some women sin in their letters by revealing too much. They approach love naked, so to speak. Your cousin is making the opposite error. This covered lady’s so timid that she’s cloaked herself head to foot and forgotten to leave an eye showing. And as you said yourself, such prudishness does not work well in the game of seduction. Do you understand?”

For a few moments neither speaks. They stare at the floor like chastened schoolboys. “So . . . Juan Ramón isn’t . . .”

“In love? How could he be? He doesn’t have anybody to fall in love with! A man can’t desire something he knows nothing about. If things were to change . . . who knows? Of course he talks like a bachelor. If you pushed me, I might even say he talks like someone ripe for infatuation. But as things stand now . . .”

Carlos’s voice trembles.

“So . . . what do you recommend, Professor?”

“To you two? Nothing. I might recommend something to your cousin. And my recommendation is that she talk about herself a little more. Show a tiny bit of her face so that this Juan Ramón fellow has something to remember when he thinks of her. Something that sets her apart from other women. In short, she should be a covered lady, not a mummy. Are we all set, then?”

But he doesn’t let them answer. With a deft movement, he digs in his pocket and flips open the cover of his watch.

“And with your permission, gentlemen, it is time for my midmorning glass of pisco. If it’s not too much trouble, I would ask that you pay me the two-sol fee we agreed on so that I may, in turn, pay the barkeep his.”

José and Carlos hesitate a moment. Never before has a humble man—a secondary character—so insolently reminded them of a debt. Normally the servants, errand boys, and even bureaucrats dare do no more than gently clear their throats. So gently that they might well be asking for forgiveness or permission. With their hats—their caps—clutched tight to their chests. Their eyes lowered. Only when you ask them outright do they name a price, almost always conveniently softened. “Just a sol, sir, if you would be so kind.” Just a sol, or a centavo, or a coin, because the name of the currency on its own seems to sear their tongues.

“Your fee—of course,” says José icily.

And he pays up, or rather he nudges Carlos with his elbow and Carlos pays up. Then they leave.

But they don’t leave. As they are moving off, Carlos suddenly turns around as if he’s remembered something important.

“Dr. Professor.”

“Just call me Professor. What’s our little cousin done now?”

The Professor is busy covering the desk with newspapers; sometimes the midmorning pisco leads into the lunchtime one, and then the pigeons flock to preen themselves and coo on his worktable.

“Well, this doesn’t have to do with my cousin, Professor. It’s just . . .”

“Oh! So it’s you! It seems Cupid has been taking potshots at your whole family!”

“It’s not that, it’s . . . I’m just curious, Professor. That’s all. I was just wondering if you’ve had to write a lot of letters for people you’ve never met.”

“What an odd question! Are you trying to learn all my secrets so you can steal my work out from under me?” He smiles. “Quite a few, actually. Sometimes the customers are wealthy young men reluctant to reveal themselves, and they send me messages through servants or friends . . . like your ingenuous cousin, for example. Then I have to improvise. Drawing from experience, I call it. I ask for a few basic instructions and then imagine what the lovers are like and let the pen do the rest. Once, even, a disgruntled father wanted me to write a letter pretending to be one of his daughter’s beaus. He wanted me to say that I was unworthy of her and all sorts of things . . . I didn’t accept, obviously. It’s a matter of principle, you see.”

“But when you invent these romances—”

“I don’t invent a thing! A person can write only about himself, even when he thinks he’s writing in someone else’s name. And so, it seems to me, my letters are always true. At the very most, the only untrue thing is the name signed to each one, don’t you think?”

The Professor looks at his watch. Carlos looks at the Professor. José looks at Carlos out of the corner of his eye with an imploring expression. When the hell are we going to get out of here, Carlota? it seems to say. But Carlota doesn’t seem ready to leave yet.

“And isn’t it quite difficult?”

“What?”

“Pretending to be somebody else.”

“Difficult? Not in the least! It’s as easy as being yourself.”

“Even when you’re pretending to be a woman?”

“That’s even easier! You have to add a few I don’t knows, I believes, and it seems to mes, because women are rather unsure of themselves. And ellipses, too, as many as possible. And then there’s the matter of handwriting, which is more complicated than you’d think. But beyond that . . . do you know what the secret is? Imagine that the woman you’re pretending to be is one you once loved. And since men are all alike, you can expect that the fellow you’re writing to shares your worldview . . .”

“And does it work?”

The Professor laughs.

“Does it work? Well, not always. I’m not going to lie. It’s the same as when you fall in love for real. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t.”