We ended up at a café named La Llama Borracha: smoky interior, low ceiling, straw artifacts on the walls as decorations. Leon said the place was known for jazz—he was quite an aficionado. As we entered, a trio of musicians wielding cajón, charango and pan-pipes began somehow to swing out a recognizable version of “It’s Only a Paper Moon.” Welcoming the North-American jazzbos. The guests and waitresses were a polyglot gamut of European ex-pats, local Indians, black sailors, and mixtures thereof. Some dressed in tatters, others in fancy suits, still others in bright native garb with oddly shaded bowler hats. Laughter, arguments, life in its raw essence.
The four of us—Baxter placidly camping out at our feet—commandeered a round table, which was soon decked with raw fish ceviche, grilled oct
