They both fell silent for a while, Toño because he was afraid if he spoke, his voice would crack and he would make a scene in front of her. That urge to cry wouldn’t leave him—and over a person he’d never spoken a word to in his life! In that moment, he made a decision. Come hell or high water, he would write a book about Lalo Molfino. He would comb through the newspapers and magazines, would talk with all the people who had known him. This book would be an homage to his talent, but also much more: he would at last put to paper those ideas about the Peruvian vals he had entertained so often as he’d observed the effect the music had on its public, epitomized in Lalo’s concert in Abajo el Puente. He would write the book even if he couldn’t find a publisher, make it known that the greatest guitarist in the world had been born here in Peru. His heart was beating faster than usual—that was Cecilia’s presence—and it gave him courage. Her scent was delicate like fresh water, but fragrant. She was smiling, beautiful, graceful, as always. He imagined the guitarist’s body lying in a potter’s field, and it infuriated him to his depths. Not even the death of Hermógenes A. Morones had affected him so. At the latter’s wake, the crowd was teeming, and even the president of the republic had sent a wreath. But now, Lalo was forgotten. It wasn’t fair. Toño would write his book about Peruvian music, even if he had to pay from his own pocket to publish it, and he was sure he would make it a fitting homage to Lalo and a contribution toward solving the great problems that plagued the nation.
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