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she whispered, her mouth against the pillow, “scabrous thoughts. Ha-ha!” She felt in fine spirits, and a delicious warmth was coursing through her veins, as though her blood had been transubstantiated into mulled wine. No, Fonchito couldn’t have any intimation that he was playing with fire; those effusions were doubtless prompted by a vague instinct, an unconscious tropism. They were dangerous games, nonetheless, weren’t they, Lucrecia? Because when she saw him, just a little boy still, kneeling on the floor, contemplating her as though his stepmother had just descended from Paradise, or when his little arms and his frail body clung to her, and his lips, so thin as to be nearly invisible, glued themselves to her cheeks and slid down to graze hers—she had never permitted them to linger there for more than a second—Doña Lucrecia could not help feeling at times a sudden sharp stab of excitement, a steamy breath of desire. “You’re the one who has dirty, scabrous thoughts, Lucrecia,” she murmured, hugging the mattress with her eyes closed. Would she one day become a hot-to-trot older woman, like some of her bridge cronies? Was that what was meant by the devil at midday, the passion of women of a certain age? Calm yourself, remember that you’ve been a grass widow for two days—Rigoberto, off on a business trip, some sort of deal having to do with insurance, wouldn’t be back till Sunday—and no more of this lolling about in bed. On your feet, you lazy creature! Struggling to shake off her pleasant drowsiness, she picked up the intercom and ordered Justiniana to bring her breakfast upstairs.
    The girl entered the room five minutes later, with Doña Lucrecia’s breakfast on a tray, and her mail and the morning newspapers. She opened the curtains, and the humid, dreary gray light of September in Lima invaded the room. How grim winter is, Doña Lucrecia thought. And she dreamed of the summer sun, the burning sands of the beaches of Paracas, and the salty caress of the sea on her skin. So far off still! Justiniana placed the tray on her lap and plumped up the pillows to make a backrest. She was a slender woman, dark-skinned and kinky-haired, with bright sparkling eyes and a melodious voice.
    “There’s something I don’t know how to tell you, señora,” she murmured, a tragicomic expression on her face, as she handed Doña Lucrecia her dressing gown and placed her mules at the foot of the bed.
    “Well, you must tell me now, because you’ve whetted my appetite,” Doña Lucrecia said as she bit into a slice of toast and took a sip of tea without sugar or cream. “What’s happened?”
    “I’m ashamed to say, señora.”
    Doña Lucrecia, amused, looked at her closely. She was a young woman, and beneath the blue apron of her uniform was the merest hint of the supple curves of her slender, resilient body. What did she look like when her husband made love to her? She was married to a doorman at a restaurant, a tall black as well built as an athlete, who brought her to the house every morning. Doña Lucrecia had advised her not to complicate her life by having children while she was still so young, and had personally taken her to her own doctor to get her a prescription for the pill.
    “Another fight between the cook and Saturnino?”
    “No, it has to do with little Alfonso.” Justiniana lowered her voice as though the boy could hear her from his far-off school, and pretended to be more embarrassed than she really was. “The thing is, last night I caught him… But please don’t tell him, señora. If Fonchito finds out I told you, he’ll kill me.”
    These affectations of modesty and exaggerated fears with which Justiniana always embroidered whatever she was saying amused Doña Lucrecia.
    “Where did you catch him? Doing what?”
    “Spying on you, señora.”
    Some instinct warned Doña Lucrecia of what she was about to hear and put her on her guard. Justiniana was pointing to the bathroom ceiling and