The war didn’t last long. Or, rather, what began as a war and lasted a mere four years on the battlefield became a humiliating loss that would haunt Peruvians’ memory for decades. When Cristóbal — now known as Professor Cristóbal — returned to Lima, he did not want to go back to his position in the notary office. It was, it seems, a question of ethics — no more falsified wills for him, no more perjuries to assist the head notary’s accumulation of wealth — though, in fact, the matter remains somewhat muddled, as at the time the Professor was really too poor to have principles. What he did have, though, was the firm intention never to serve another master again, and so he began working under the arcades in the Plaza de Santo Domingo.
The letter writers have no superiors and no fixed schedules. In pompous moments, they call themselves public secretaries, a solemn way of saying that they don’t even have their own offices, or rather that their offices and the street are one and the same. They occupy a corner under the arches in the square, and there, each morning, they set up their ramshackle desks and wait for customers to come in search of their services. They are sometimes called evangelists because, like the evangelists of the New Testament, their work is to transcribe the words dictated to them by others. And that is all they do from morning to night, at the foot of the columns around the plaza: write letters for the unlettered. They provide a voice to the emigrant who wants to send news home—Mother, you wouldn’t believe how big Juanito’s gotten. They provide eyes to the illiterate young woman who needs to read the note someone slipped under her door. They provide elegant words to the widow or bureaucrat writing to the government to request a pension or a particular post in the provinces.
Professor Cristóbal set up his supplies in an unoccupied corner of the square, and soon that empty space belonged to him so wholly that he even nailed a hook for his hat and jacket into one of the pillars. He has a school desk, its surface marred by scratches and dents, and for twenty years he has arranged the same objects on it, always in the same order: inkwell, pen, penholder, drafting triangles, blotting paper. He also has a case that once contained a Singer sewing machine and now serves as a footstool and occasionally as a storage box where he can keep a few coins. And, finally, there’s a portrait of his dead wife, to whom he probably never wrote a single letter or poem.
He accepts only commissions for sentimental correspondence. A cardboard sign on the table states it quite clearly: PROFESSOR CRISTÓBAL: LOVE LETTERS WRITTEN ON REQUEST. But the category of love is broad enough to include the old woman who has visited him every Monday for twelve years to have him write a new petition for pardon for her imprisoned son, letters that, Cristóbal would argue, are charged with as much emotion as the most passionate romance. Dozens of customers line up in front of his desk every day, wringing their hands as they wait, or rolling their eyes, or fulfilling some other cliché of their condition, because the lovers of Lima are as unoriginal as those anywhere else in the world. It is not only the illiterate who come to him. He also helps young people who need gallant phrases with which to woo the objects of their affection. In those instances, Cristóbal is not merely an evangelist but also a poet who must imagine what the recipient of the letter is like and then compose verses to which the aspirants contribute only the wordless fever of love.
When he finishes, he places all his drafts and abortive attempts in a wicker basket, to be used later to feed the wood stove in his kitchen. He jokes about it frequently, saying that all winter long he is warmed by the love of strangers. Romance provides only an ephemeral light, one that burns quickly but leaves behind neither heat nor embers.
~ ~ ~
◊
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?”