THE RAINY SEASON had begun a month before. It usually rained at night, sometimes all night. I lived in a large empty house above a bus station, one of two terminals in Jerez, a quiet Mexican town of sixty thousand. The evenings were peaceful but a bit too long. From my dim, unfurnished living room, I would watch the rain slide in a slanted sheet from the rooftop. It was like living behind a waterfall.
One night, feeling restless after two or three drinks, I decided to visit my friend Ismael the woodcarver, who lived three blocks away. It was about nine o’clock. The rain had just stopped. As I closed my front door and began to walk up the street, someone called to me. I turned and saw a young girl approach out of the darkness. She appeared neat and studentlike, slightly stooped by the weight of a backpack, a brand-new notebook under her arm. Her long, shiny hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She spoke to me in rapid Spanish, in a pipsqueak voice.
