Mario Vargas Llosa; Translatted by Helen Lane
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
My mama took me by the arm and led me out into the street by the service entrance of the prefecture. We walked along toward the Eguiguren embankment. It was the final days of 1946 or the first days of 1947, but exams at the Salesian school were already over, I had finished the fifth grade, and summer in Piura, with its white light and asphyxiating heat, had already come.
“You already know it, of course,” my mama said, without her voice trembling. “Isn’t that so?”