half-brother’s general, Atahualpa’s captor and torturer but then the escape, the civil war, Atoc falling and later beheaded, the skin dried tight to the skull, a golden bowl mounted and filled, the chicha de jora draining out through a silver spout clenched in his teeth. The guards laugh from their posts at the door of the cell. Atahualpa will never be freed and now knows it. He drinks deeply, offers the chalice to me and someone steps on my hand. Apologizes. I stand, and the man apologizes more thoroughly. I wave it away, should know better than to try to be alone in such places and Pilar, I look, she is gone and I go to the door, out to the sidewalk, and she is nowhere.
I walk quickly down Amalia Puga, a block, two, still nowhere. More quickly still, back up and past the Ransom Chamber and on toward the Plaza de Armas. Dense blue sunlight, thin dry air and I am wheezing, light-headed. I slow, cross the street, and in the shade it is twenty degrees cooler, cold.
Pilar sits on a bench and stares at the Cathedral. I join her. She does not look at me. I wait, lean forward, say that there is time for one more site before lunch, a convent archive on Jirón Ancash, closed the last several times I came and she can help me, or can do something else, whichever she prefers. She still does not look at me. I wait. I say that there is also the Departmental archive in the Belén complex. The earliest files in their Causa Ordinaria subset are from the 1590s and I have worked through most of them already but was hurried and perhaps missed something of importance. The complex is splendid, I say, a seventeenth-century hospital and church, stone carvings, and she holds up her hand. I have been to the Belén complex, she says. You sent me there last time, she says.
There are many small groups of people walking slowly through the plaza, circling the fine fountain in the center. A few palms, and stretches of grass edged with shrubs I recognize but cannot name. A very long and very steep staircase rises up the front of Santa Apolonia to the south. Halfway up the hill is an old blue and white chapel. On the summit is the stone throne from which the Inca observed his massed troops and the view is superb and I will never climb those stairs again.
I look at Pilar, wonder if that is what she wants, to climb. Wonder if I should tell her that she is sitting on or near the spot where Atahualpa was strangled. Wonder who Amalia Puga was, and what she accomplished, and Pilar says that she wants to go to Mass. I think about this. I say that we can exchange our current suite for separate rooms, if she prefers. She looks at me. I ask who Amalia Puga was. A writer, says Pilar. I wait for more. Nothing comes. So, I say. Not everyone has to know everything, she says. It’s okay to just come and look. There’s nothing wrong with just coming and looking. I say that I am sorry and she says that she knows but that I need to stop.
She is right and I love her for this. A light breeze rises, stirs her hair, and we begin to arrive. I wipe my face, put on my knapsack, lift Mariángel to my shoulder. I do not remember ever asking Pilar about Amalia Puga, and Friar Valverde repents his role, protects the natives as best he can, flees Peru after the second Almagrist coup, is eaten by cannibals on Puná. I get to my feet and wince. I limp forward, and the barrette girl reaches out to touch Mariángel’s shoes as we pass.
We come to stand beside the driver. He is not one I have seen before. Mariángel points at the burn scars on his arms and I lower her hand, ask him to stop at the stand of algarrobos ahead. The man looks at the trees, asks if I am sure. I say that I am. The man says that there is nothing in any direction for some distance. I tell him that he is wrong. The man says that getting back to Piura won’t be easy. I lower my face to his. I tell him that we will do what we have always done, flag down the first car or truck or bus that passes by. The driver
I walk quickly down Amalia Puga, a block, two, still nowhere. More quickly still, back up and past the Ransom Chamber and on toward the Plaza de Armas. Dense blue sunlight, thin dry air and I am wheezing, light-headed. I slow, cross the street, and in the shade it is twenty degrees cooler, cold.
Pilar sits on a bench and stares at the Cathedral. I join her. She does not look at me. I wait, lean forward, say that there is time for one more site before lunch, a convent archive on Jirón Ancash, closed the last several times I came and she can help me, or can do something else, whichever she prefers. She still does not look at me. I wait. I say that there is also the Departmental archive in the Belén complex. The earliest files in their Causa Ordinaria subset are from the 1590s and I have worked through most of them already but was hurried and perhaps missed something of importance. The complex is splendid, I say, a seventeenth-century hospital and church, stone carvings, and she holds up her hand. I have been to the Belén complex, she says. You sent me there last time, she says.
There are many small groups of people walking slowly through the plaza, circling the fine fountain in the center. A few palms, and stretches of grass edged with shrubs I recognize but cannot name. A very long and very steep staircase rises up the front of Santa Apolonia to the south. Halfway up the hill is an old blue and white chapel. On the summit is the stone throne from which the Inca observed his massed troops and the view is superb and I will never climb those stairs again.
I look at Pilar, wonder if that is what she wants, to climb. Wonder if I should tell her that she is sitting on or near the spot where Atahualpa was strangled. Wonder who Amalia Puga was, and what she accomplished, and Pilar says that she wants to go to Mass. I think about this. I say that we can exchange our current suite for separate rooms, if she prefers. She looks at me. I ask who Amalia Puga was. A writer, says Pilar. I wait for more. Nothing comes. So, I say. Not everyone has to know everything, she says. It’s okay to just come and look. There’s nothing wrong with just coming and looking. I say that I am sorry and she says that she knows but that I need to stop.
She is right and I love her for this. A light breeze rises, stirs her hair, and we begin to arrive. I wipe my face, put on my knapsack, lift Mariángel to my shoulder. I do not remember ever asking Pilar about Amalia Puga, and Friar Valverde repents his role, protects the natives as best he can, flees Peru after the second Almagrist coup, is eaten by cannibals on Puná. I get to my feet and wince. I limp forward, and the barrette girl reaches out to touch Mariángel’s shoes as we pass.
We come to stand beside the driver. He is not one I have seen before. Mariángel points at the burn scars on his arms and I lower her hand, ask him to stop at the stand of algarrobos ahead. The man looks at the trees, asks if I am sure. I say that I am. The man says that there is nothing in any direction for some distance. I tell him that he is wrong. The man says that getting back to Piura won’t be easy. I lower my face to his. I tell him that we will do what we have always done, flag down the first car or truck or bus that passes by. The driver
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