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I didn't dare ask my mother where we were going. I followed her up and down the hills, enduring the blisters on my feet. At that time, Molly Walsh was a young woman with an angelic face, that is to say, with the beatific expression of church martyrs, and the crystal clear voice of a mockingbird, which she still retains. That voice is deceptive, however, because my mother is actually quite forceful and bossy. On the rare occasion that she has cause to mention my father, her voice changes and her singsong tone becomes halting as she spits out her words. She hadn't said it, but I guessed that this torturous walk to the wealthy area of town was somehow related to him.

Finally, we reached the top of Nob Hill, panting from the effort, and took in the panoramic view of the city and San Francisco Bay. We came to a stop in front of the most imposing mansion on the street, with a marvelous garden hemmed in by a monumental iron fence. Through the bars, I glimpsed a statue of a fish shooting water from its mouth into a stone fountain. At the end of the garden an enormous butter-colored house rose up with a columned porch and a heavy wooden door flanked by two stone lions. My mother said it was a nouveau riche eyesore, but my mouth hung agape; this must be what a fairy-tale palace looked like. We stood before the iron gate for a few minutes catching our breath, as my mother dabbed sweat from her brow and straightened her hat. Before she could pull the cord to ring the bell, a man stepped out from a side door, dressed in a black suit with a starched collar. He crossed the vast expanse of garden and stopped before us. He did not open the gate. A mere glance was all it took for him to accurately size us up despite the care my mother had taken with our appearance.

"How may I help you, madam?" he asked in a haughty British accent, his lips so tight we could hardly understand him.

"I am here to speak with Mr. Gonzalo Andrés del Valle," my mother declared, trying to imitate the man's petulant tone.

"Do you have an appointment with Mr. del Valle?"

"No, but he'll see me."

"I am afraid he is traveling at the moment, madam."

"When will he return?" my mother asked, somewhat deflated.

"I couldn't say, madam."

The man stared at us for a moment and finally opened the gate, but he did not invite us in. I suppose he had reached the conclusion that we did not pose any real threat or major nuisance, because he took on a slightly more friendly tone.

"Mr. del Valle visits San Francisco from time to time, but he resides in Chile," the Englishman explained before adding that the family did not accept visitors without previous appointments.

"Could you provide an address where I can send him a letter? It's a very important matter," my mother said.

"You can leave it with me, Mrs...."

"Molly Walsh," she replied, without mentioning her married name, Claro.

"I will personally see that it reaches him, Mrs. Walsh," he assured her.

She then handed the man an envelope containing my photograph and a note introducing Gonzalo Andrés del Valle to his daughter, Emilia. This was not the last letter she would write to him, nor was it the first.

*  *  *

I grew up being told that my father was a very wealthy Chilean and that I had a claim to a certain inheritance. Destiny had stolen my birthright from me but God, in His infinite mercy, would place it in my path in due time. Our present economic hardship was merely a test handed down from heaven to teach me humility; the future would hold great rewards as long as I remained obedient and virtuous, something measured in virginity and modesty, because nothing offends God more than a brazen woman. At mass and in my nightly prayers kneeling before my bed, my mother had me ask God to soften the hearts of those indebted to us and to pardon them to the extent that they repaid their debts. It would be several years before I understood that this Byzantine prayer was a reference to my father.