Finally I pulled him behind the workshop, out of everyone’s sight.

“How long,” I said, “have you known something was going on?”

“I don’t know anything for certain, Daniel.” He would not look at me.

“Don’t lie to me, Uncle Ernesto.”

He went silent, which was its own kind of answer.

A few yards away, through the gap between buildings, I could see my father holding court among the relatives, telling some story with his arms spread wide, entirely at ease, a man whose world was exactly as intact as he had decided it would appear to be.