It was perhaps eleven in the morning on one of those days without distinction or glory—mornings when the sun hangs at half-mast but the cold cuts straight through the soul—when my father summoned me into his presence and entrusted me with the delicate task of buying razor blades at the city’s black market.

My father used only Gillette blades. He insisted that they were the only blades with a thickness of 0.05 millimeters and a cutting edge of just 0.0006 millimeters. The steel, he explained, was tempered by heating it to more than 1,000 degrees Celsius and then cooling it rapidly to between twelve and eighteen percent.

That process, he claimed, gave the blade a unique hardness.

Whenever he shaved in front of the mirror, he repeated the same proverb:

“The day I fail to shave, someone I never expected will come to my house.”

That morning, as usual, he had somewhere to go and needed to look presentable. His black hair had to be glossy, previously coated with Glostora hair cream, and his face had to be smooth and clean, like a baby’s backside.

He handed me a loro—the popular name for a green ten-peso bill—and, before sending me on my way, warned me to be careful.

“After you buy the blades, make sure you get the change,” he said. “And come straight home. We don’t have much time.”

Ten pesos in those days was a considerable fortune for a couple of ten-year-old rascals.

It was enough to take a whole crowd to the movies several times—naturally, to the gallo gallery of the now-defunct Omiste Cinema and to the double morning shows with their “hooked” tickets.

It was also enough to buy several kilos of cherimoya ice cream from Doña Brígida’s shop, located in May 25 Square near our house, or simply to rent the battered bicycles belonging to our neighbors, the Campos family.

As usual, being a little troublemaker and bandit, I took my cousin Charles and my brother Oscar along to share in the adventure.

With the loro in my hand, we left the house like hurricanes in the middle of a storm, stumbling over the flowerpots and yowling like alley cats in heat.

We raced like the wind, turned right, and ran and shouted all the way to May 25 Square. We were afraid my father might change his mind, so we ran as though the devil himself were chasing us.

We passed near my friend Chafallo’s shoe shop and the corner stationery store, where my grandmother bought waxed paper for making garlands.

We stopped briefly to catch our breath, then became momentarily confused at the fork in the little square.

There were two ways to continue. We could head toward the Pichincha fountain or go downhill along Chuquisaca Street.

Faced with that choice, we selected the easier slope. We passed the Esquimo ice-cream shop, continued another twenty steps along the short street crossing the boulevard, and nearly scraped against the long-established Copacabana Pharmacy.

We turned exactly forty-five degrees and practically rolled down to the cathedral steps.

We decided to take another breath. We crossed the street and sat on the edge of the miniature Statue of Liberty in the center of the main square.

In those days, the square seemed to give birth to streams of icy water. It was surrounded by tall pines—the kind that never die—and patches of grass were scattered around its perimeter.

Its motionless paving stones were decorated with red and yellow flowers that had fallen from the only floripondios in the Andes.

This singular highland vegetation was protected by walls of barbed wire, which prevented unauthorized entry. Or perhaps the wire had been installed to frighten away the rats or to keep at a safe distance the mob of unruly children who played war games in the square’s central grounds.

The square was also a refuge for lovers without beds or money. They kissed secretly in the open air at dusk, muffling the echoes of their lustful sighs with the flapping of pigeons, the perfect ding-ding of the bells, and, naturally, the voices of politicians and vendors of empty promises.

Every Sunday morning, this historic square filled with people from every corner of the town. It became an open-air opera house where the crowd gathered to enjoy the dissonant concerts of the morning performances offered by the rough-looking policemen and soldiers stationed at the barracks.

“Keep moving!” I shouted, urging my troops forward.

And so we reached the imposing House of the Mint.

We stopped directly in front of the old building and peered through the eye of its iron knocker. We gazed open-mouthed at the endless cobblestoned passageways beneath its vaulted arches, admired the undulating red-tiled roofs, and felt slightly frightened by the grin of its grotesque gargoyle.

We continued our journey, turning left onto Bolívar Street until we reached the corner of the central market.

We went downhill for about fifty meters and came upon San Lorenzo Church. We stopped for a moment, and I noticed Oscar and Charles crossing themselves.

From the astonished expressions on their faces, and from the solemnity of two frightened children, I could already sense how our adventure was going to end.

“Forward! Keep moving! We can’t stop now!” I shouted.

Our destination was close—just a few steps farther, halfway between the Passage of the Heroes of the Chaco and the black market.

I have no idea why anyone gave the place the name “Passage of the Heroes of the Chaco.” I am certain that the combatants in that war were neither merchants nor sellers of illusions.

But what can one expect from the bureaucratic stupidity of the people at City Hall who name streets and alleyways?

The Black Market

The black market in Potosí was like an Arab bazaar, overflowing with goods of every kind.

There were acupuncture needles, boa oil for chills, fox noses to cure infatuation, orthopedic sandals made from Isuzu truck tires, guanaco-wool sweaters, stale deodorant sticks, porcelain chamber pots, and countless other objects.

And, of course, there were Gillette razor blades.

We went down the little concrete steps leading to an old passageway. Lined up along it were tiny shops with nylon and aluminum roofs, makeshift beauty boutiques worthy of the Third World.

They were miserable little stalls from which hung Colgate toothpaste, plastic combs, razor blades, motacú shampoo bars, and hundreds of other trinkets devoted to the preservation of beauty.

But destiny is unpredictable and mysterious.

Just before we bought the sharp blades, I looked around and spotted, among the fortune-tellers and counters where people calculated their winnings, a dark-skinned pajpaku dressed in cloth trousers, a checked shirt, and pointed leather shoes.

He stood like a lamppost beside his gang of hired crooks and gamblers, scrutinizing passersby with eagle eyes.

I watched him smiling and rubbing his hands together, clapping to attract the attention of his malnourished monkey, which was perched on his right shoulder.

The poor animal, probably kidnapped from the Yungas, wore overalls made from aguayo cloth and a miniature Mexican sombrero.

It handed out little pink fortune slips, ate bananas, and scratched its tiny armpits.

This entrepreneur of the local gambling industry had three bottle caps and a little wax ball arranged on a frail table covered with a scrap of blue cloth.

The heartless, merciless young man entertained and dazzled the crowd with astonishing hand movements. In a voice as rapid as a typewriter, he invited passersby to play and place bets.

The famous bottle-cap trick is like the Bermuda Triangle. The little ball disappears without a trace.

Apparently, it slips beneath one of the caps, but in the blink of an eye it vanishes as if by magic. Then, without even the angels noticing, it appears beneath the final cap.

We stood watching the apprentice sorcerer, scientifically contemplating the possibility of doubling or tripling our money.

With the imaginary profits, we were already savoring the pleasures of the cinema, ice cream, and bicycles.

Smelling fresh meat and easy money, the street magician—probably a Peruvian from Callao or a sharp-eyed cholo from La Paz—said:

“Come on, kids. Either play the little-ball game or move along.”

I stepped forward and said:

“I’ll bet five pesos.”

That was half the loro my father had given me.

Without blinking or looking away for even a fraction of a second, I followed the movements of his hands. In my mind, I calculated the coordinates and position of the little ball during every maneuver performed by the scoundrel.

I was one hundred percent certain.

With extraordinary confidence—and my hands trembling—I lifted the center cap, certain that the demonic little ball was beneath it.

Naturally, the ball was under the neighboring cap.

My stomach rose into my chest. I lost the five pesos and nearly shit myself with fear.

I admit that, at the beginning, the blame was entirely mine. I had been the one who initiated such a reckless adventure.

But the ultimate blame belonged to Charles, because he was the one who said:

“We have to win the money back.”

The ten pesos had been intended to buy the Gillette blades. But with the remaining five pesos, we could have bought Astra blades instead and tricked my father.

But no—not a chance.

My cousin wanted revenge.

He turned to the child robber and said:

“I’ll bet the remaining five pesos.”

The heartless cholo, with his sinister grin stretching from January to December, replied:

“Of course, little one. Why not? Watch carefully and see where the ball is.”

A couple of seconds later—seconds that felt like an eternity—the ball disappeared again.

And my father’s loro vanished with it.

It was then, and at that age, that my career as a gambler began—and tragically ended.

Today, even though I live near the great casinos of Atlantic City and Las Vegas, I neither gamble nor place bets.

How we got home, and what happened as a result of that adventure, is the subject of another article.

And with that, the story is over.