This is his last novel, says the 88-year-old Peruvian Nobel Prize winner for literature Mario Vargas Llosa. And in it he explains what binds an immigrant society together: music.
Lima’s old colonial center can be a seedy place in the evenings, where it is better to go out without a camera or jewelry and only with a few bills in your pocket. You are happy when you finally find your way to one of the few traditional music venues that have survived Corona, rising crime and the relocation of the capital’s entertainment industry to the air-conditioned entertainment temples of Miraflores. And if you are lucky, late at night, after a few bottles of Cusqueña, a duo or trio of older men with guitar, maybe harmonica, and cajón will drop in. You can invite them to the table and for a handful of Soles they sing classics like “El Plebeyo” or “Flor de la canela” (the cinnamon blossom), old-fashioned, artfully turned little songs that every Peruvian used to be able to whistle along to. Those familiar with tango may be reminded of Carlos Gardel – if it weren’t for the stubborn three-quarter time and the tricky rhythm played by the cajón.