Aunt Julia And the Scriptwriter
“One of my fellow students, a boy from Camaná whose name was Guillermo Velando, was my salvation. He lived in a boardinghouse downtown, just off the Plaza Dos de Mayo, and was a model student who never cut class, took exhaustive lecture notes that even indicated where and how long the professors paused for breath, and learned the articles of the Code by heart, the way I learned poems. He was always talking about his home town, where he’d left a fiancée, and he could hardly wait to get his law de...gree so as to be able to leave Lima, a city he detested, and set himself up in practice in Camaná, where he would do battle to bring progress to the region where he’d been born. He lent me his notes, whispered answers to me when we had tests, and whenever exams were coming up, I would go to his boardinghouse in the hope that he could give me some miraculous synthesis of what had gone on in class.
I was on my way home from there that Sunday, after spending three hours in Guillermo’s room, with my brain reeling with legal terms, terrified by the thought of how much jargon in Latin I had to memorize, when, arriving at the Plaza San Martín, I spied in the distance the little window of Pedro Camacho’s lair, standing open in the dull gray façade of Radio Central.MoreLess
I was on my way home from there that Sunday, after spending three hours in Guillermo’s room, with my brain reeling with legal terms, terrified by the thought of how much jargon in Latin I had to memorize, when, arriving at the Plaza San Martín, I spied in the distance the little window of Pedro Camacho’s lair, standing open in the dull gray façade of Radio Central.MoreLess
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