Ecuador, 1962

Papá had been many things: forgetful, cryptic, melancholic. But never duplicitous. Malena had always overlooked his flaws—they seemed so minor then—but this was not something you could just ignore. She sat on the bed, light-headed. Her hands had turned clammy and cold. She couldn’t believe that her father, the mathematical genius respected by all who knew him, had lied to her all her life.

The letter was curled around the edges and faded to a vanilla white. The professional letterhead made it seem like a business correspondence and so did the fact that it was typed, but its content made it personal. Judging by the stains on the sides, someone with dirty hands had once held it. Who knew how many people had read it before her or how many times, but this was the first time she’d laid eyes on it.

Platas Jewelers

Alameda Street #345

San Isidro, Ecuador

November 20, 1947

Dear Doña Eva,

Please forgive me for writing. I know I promised I would never contact you or Malena, but I’ve now realized the huge mistake I’ve made. Giving my daughter away was a deplorable, unforgivable thing, but it was my only option at the time. Please don’t think I want to take the girl from you. You are the only mother she’s ever known and pulling her from your side would be cruel. Besides, I could never give her what she needs. All I ask is that you let me see her one more time. She doesn’t have to know anything. I won’t even speak to her. I just need to see her one last time to keep my sanity, to know that she exists. We could meet anywhere you’d like. Please let me know if this is possible and if so, set a place and a time, and I’ll be there.

With warm regards and utmost respect,

A.

What in the name of everything holy was this? Her mother had died in childbirth! At least that was what both her father and her grandmother had said. And as far as she knew, dead people didn’t go around writing letters! Could she still be alive now, fifteen years after this letter had been written to La Abuela Eva? Had her grandmother agreed to the request? Malena had no memory of her mother whatsoever, but she must have been five years old when this encounter took place, if it ever did. Would it have been too much to ask to include a photograph with the letter? Then again, her father had buried this correspondence in the depths of his trunk. Clearly, he hadn’t meant for Malena to find it.

A metallic taste filled her mouth. First his suicide, now this.

She sifted through mountains of paper in the trunk in search of her birth certificate. Her mother might still be alive and only a few hours away. Her mother, alive? Malena couldn’t grasp this concept, no matter how many times she repeated it.

Years of arduous studies were compiled in her father’s trunk: diplomas, student lists, graph paper covered with numbers and never-ending equations. Photographs of herself as a child kept popping up—most of them with those stiff braids her grandmother had weaved to tame her curls. Underneath this mix was an unmarked manila envelope. It was filled with canceled checks made out to someone called Cesar Villamizar and signed by her own father. The amount was always the same: half of his teaching salary! And it seemed like he’d been paying this man every month for the last year. No wonder they’d been so tight on money! But who the hell was Cesar Villamizar?

She tossed the envelope on the floor and let out a groan.

Her father’s bedroom was so silent now, so void. A musky scent of cedar and mothballs had taken over the room after a week of being closed off. If only Papá’s things would give away the answers she needed. There was the calculus book he’d written and would never open again, the guayaberas gathering dust in the armoire, and his precious Gardel record collection, which would forever sit silently under his phonograph. She ran her hand by his indigo bedspread. To think that Papá now lay inside a frigid, hard casket instead of this bed. The thought didn’t let her sleep the night of the funeral.

On top of his desk was the note he’d left for her—a series of rushed words that didn’t explain a thing. This paper was supposed to be her consolation, the answers that would keep her satisfied for the rest of her life. But, honestly, what was she supposed to do now that he was gone? For as long as she could remember she’d been the Daughter of Hugo Sevilla, acclaimed mathematician.

Ha! If only the dean of mathematics and her father’s other devoted followers would know about this double life of his, about his lies. And what about this mother she’d never heard of, the woman who “could never give Malena what she needed”?

She picked up the letter again. They said her mother had been a nurse and that her name was Malena, like hers—obviously another lie. But perhaps she had some answers, if not about her father’s suicide then about why Malena had been raised by her grandmother and father, or why they had moved from one city to another her entire life until they landed in Guayaquil.

She ought to just take the first bus to San Isidro and demand an explanation.

But who knew if her mother still lived in this town. What if she had died, too? It was now 1962. So many things could have changed since this letter was written. Going on a wild chase across the country with such little information would be crazy, and she still had so many things to take care of here: this apartment, her studies, her father’s things. She wasn’t reckless, like her father. She was an anchor, like her grandmother—not that any good had come out of that.

Abuela, if you’re up there pestering the angels to sit up straight and tune their harps, send me a sign and tell me what to do.