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embrace me. Instead, he hurriedly removed my jacket and, without losing for a moment his tip-seeking smile, asked, “Hair and beard?”
    I nodded. He led me by the arm to a majestic chair reminiscent of the Al Capone era. His cold hands brushed my head with a certain delicacy. He didn’t recognize me.
    â€œIt’s been at least three months since you last went to the barber,” he commented.
    â€œSometimes I cut it myself,” I said.
    â€œNo wonder. I bet they sold you one of those plastic gadgets with a shaving blade.”
    â€œCan you tell?”
    â€œYou look like one of those Amazon Indians the missionaries try to convert by force.”
    My godfather settled me in as if he were about to execute me in an electric chair. He studied my head from every angle and concluded: “We’ll make you look like new.” Before I could open my mouth, he lifted me out of the armchair and dragged me over to a seat beside an enormous tub. They had an electric device that released hot water when the faucet was turned on. I suffered two rounds of shampoo with boiling water. Once back in the armchair, my godfather grabbed an enormous comb and parted my hair in two. As he was about to cover me with a white sheet, I asked him, “Aren’t you Don Ambrosio Aguilera?”
    That beard-shaver seemed to think I was some loan shark in disguise. He didn’t dare answer yes or no. He smiled with the innocence of Saint Francis of Assisi.
    â€œI’m your godson, Mario Alvarez,” I explained. His expression didn’t change; the old man pretended not to hear. “The son of your friend Jacinto Alvarez, from Uyuni.”
    He spun the seat around and I noticed that his breath smelled of beer. He looked at me through a gigantic imaginary microscope. “It can’t be; you look much older.”
    â€œI just turned forty. My father would have been sixty-five. He was born in February and you were born in June.”
    He pressed his palms together and gave me a moist, foaming kiss on my forehead. “I met you when you let out your first cry. Where have you been?”
    â€œOruro.”
    â€œYou don’t look so bad.”
    â€œOver there, it’s so cold your body gets preserved like a mummy. The last time you saw me was back at the Oruro carnival in ’82. You had a heart attack while dancing the kullawada . You couldn’t believe it was happening. You looked around at your friends and laughed incredulously.”
    â€œYou’ve got quite a memory. Even I had forgotten that heart attack. You look a little bit like your father. Your nose is exactly the same. How many years ago did he die?”
    â€œSix—he died in ’87.”
    â€œHmm . . . looking at you, I see him too, the same expression of pent-up anger. Are you married?”
    â€œShe went to Argentina to try to find herself.”
    He opened his mouth like a fish out of water, then arched his eyebrows. “And she found herself?”
    â€œShe found an Argentine guy who fixed the problem for her.”
    The two other barbers found it just as funny as my godfather did.
    â€œShe’s still in Argentina, in Mendoza. The guy opened up a restaurant on the highway to Chile.”
    They all laughed in unison. Don Ambrosio let out a guffaw that ended in a fit of violent coughing. He doubled over as if someone had dealt him a crushing blow to the stomach. He stomped on the floor several times, kicking up clouds of dust. One of his helpers, a fat man with a bloated belly, slapped his back several times. The old man flung the door open and launched a gob of spit onto the street without bothering to check if anybody was passing by.
    â€œWhat do you do?” he asked, still visibly entertained.
    â€œEverything and nothing in particular. I’m a teacher, but what I really did back in Oruro was sell contraband from Chile.”
    â€œWe’ve become Chile’s Persian market.” He