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washed while he was at school so they would be ready for him the same night. He loved drinking chocolate, but it had to be made using a brand of milk called Las Tres Niñas and a brown powder called Nesquik, and it had to be mixed according to a precise formula: pouring the milk from a specific height, stirring four times – no more, no less – and obviously it had to be made in
that
cup.
    In spite of this combustible combination of elements, the chemistry of our relationship had always been stable. For example, before we got our own record player, I used to phone Ana, my mother’s cousin, and ask her to put on a Beatles record for us. She would crank up her Rasner and put on a single with two songs on each side (‘I Saw Her Standing There’, ‘Chains’, ‘Anna’ and ‘Misery’) and the Midget and I would sit in silence, sharing the phone as the music came through the receiver all the way from the Avenida Santa Fé.
    When the record ended, the Midget was always the first to shout ‘Again, again!’

14
BLIND IN THE FACE OF DANGER
    Mamá lit another cigarette and twisted the gearstick of the Citroën. We were between potholes, our heads bobbing like the little tigers taxi drivers always have in their rear windscreens.
    Everything was fine until I mentioned Bertuccio’s mother’s
milanesas
.
    My mother’s failings as a housewife were an essential weapon in our regular battles, and I often used Bertuccio’s mother’s
milanesas
as a battering ram. As a cook, mamá had never moved beyond the grill – grilled steak, grilled sausages, grilled hamburgers. Her rare attempts to fry meat turned out
milanesas
so tough it felt like chewing a Pompeii dog charred in lava.
    I had planned to steal one of Bertuccio’s mother’s
milanesas
that night, hide it in my school bag and smuggle it into our house where I could subject it to a battery of experiments destined to reverse-engineer the phenomenon: degree of cooking, composition of oil, chemical composition of the butter. Blabbermouth that I was, I informed mamá of my intentions in advance.

    â€˜You’re not going to Bertuccio’s tonight,’ she said.
    â€˜But it’s Thursday today!’ I pointed out.
    Going to Bertuccio’s house was an ineluctable weekly ritual. On Thursdays I went to English lessons at the Institute and Bertuccio lived only one block away. When I got out of English class, I would ring his doorbell, we’d have our afternoon milk, watch
The Invaders
and then act out scenes from a play. (Bertuccio played Polonius – hilariously – in the voice of the pompous radio presenter Jorge Cacho Fontana.) I’d have my dinner there, and then they would drop me home. When Bertuccio’s mother made
milanesas
, I’d arrive home in a state of rapture much like Pepé Le Pew’s when he gets a whiff of a
petite femme skunk.
    â€˜I know today is Thursday, but you’re not going to Bertuccio’s,’ said mamá.
    His curiosity aroused by the unfamiliar landscape, the Midget asked where we were going.
    â€˜To a friend’s house,’ mamá said, smoking furiously.
    I asked why I couldn’t go to Bertuccio’s.
    â€˜Because we’re going to visit a friend and then we’re going on a trip,’ mamá said.
    â€˜On a trip? In the middle of term? How long for?’
    â€˜Your papá can tell you that,’ said mamá, kicking the ball wide for a corner.
    â€˜Are we leaving as soon as we get to your friend’s house or are we staying there for a while?’
    â€˜We’re staying until papá gets there.’
    â€˜Then why can’t you just drop me off at Bertuccio’s and pick me up later?’
    â€˜Because I say so.’
    â€˜That’s not fair!’
    I only said this to cause trouble. Nothing annoyed mamá more than when I resorted to this pet phrase, especially if she knew