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the city sad; it was only in the printing shop at the Orphan Asylum that we could rest, drink our foamless hot chocolate, and go on doing what held us together: talk.
    Dorrego, the rationalist, had asked Baltasar why the black nurse herself hadn’t exchanged the babies in the cradle, since she had direct access to them. It was right after committing the act, when Baltasar had told us, his two intimates, not to make us accomplices—that was not Baltasar’s intention—but because we were his confidants in everything he did.
    The black baby was the nurse’s nephew, that’s why—our friend explained—the child of a flogged prostitute impertinent enough to give birth. He was afraid that at the last moment the nurse’s hand would tremble and she’d be overcome by emotion. I said I thought that when Baltasar found out about the flogging he’d decided to take justice into his own hands. But my friend said it wasn’t that at all, that if things went wrong he didn’t want the black wet nurse to be punished, to add injustice to injustice. He wanted to be solely responsible.
    â€œNot anymore, since you’ve made us party to your crime,” said Dorrego, to provoke our friend.
    I intervened to calm things down. Baltasar thought the philosophic basis of his acts demanded that he himself commit them. I gave Dorrego a severe look and added seriously that the responsibility of a free man excluded complicity with those who deny freedom.
    Dorrego smiled. “Why are you afraid that things will go wrong, Baltasar? Well, just think: they did. Your black baby is dead, burned to death. And your white baby, even if he’s to live in misery, is alive and kicking.”
    Baltasar did not deign to answer. He knew that Dorrego liked to have the last word and that it didn’t matter to us; it didn’t mean Dorrego was right. Baltasar and I understood each other better than ever in silence. We were very young, and life was going to be an endless series of moral decisions, one after the other.
    â€œOne child is dead, the other alive. Long live justice,” exclaimed Dorrego, adding rapidly: “The chocolate’s cold.”
    â€œI’m going home” was all Baltasar Bustos said.

2
    The Pampa
    [1]
    â€œIf you find me dead with a candle in my hand, it means I’ve finally admitted you were right. If you find my hands crossed over my chest, entwined in a scapulary, it means I held fast to my ideas and died condemning yours. Try to win me over.”
    In Baltasar’s mind, these words were sufficient to characterize his father, José Antonio Bustos. He remembered him standing in the midst of corrals, stables, coachhouses, warehouses, workshops, flour mills, and gauchos bidding him farewell. Or solitary in a nightfall that was in itself an imitation of death, sitting on a chair made of hides, four stakes, and a cow’s skull. Greeting him.
    And this time, would he be there to say, How are you, son, welcome home, you’re always welcome here, Baltasar?
    Or would he say, instead, Goodbye, Baltasar, I’ve gone, I’m not here anymore, don’t forget me, son?
    It was twenty-four leagues from Buenos Aires to the pampa, and twenty more to Pergamino, where he would leave the stagecoach. News and travelers alike arrived late. From Pergamino to his father’s land, on the other side of One-Eyed Deer, he’d have a good way to go by mule. But now Baltasar Bustos watched the passing of the carts laden with blankets, ostrich plumes, salt, bridles, and fabric on the deeply rutted road that would take him back to his father.
    Would he find him dead or alive? Both forebodings took hold of his mind and heart little by little as he made his way to the paternal home. An abrupt, somber, mysterious, abysmal world seemed to close in around him, suggesting either alternative—life, death—news of which a slow or nonexistent mail service (word of mouth often