Hypothermia

member of the self-respecting middle class for whose defense and perpetuation—like it or not—I was raised and educated.
    I finished the book on time and submitted it, resplendent in victory, honor untarnished, for publication under a pseudonym. It was disgraceful. We spent my advance on the fee for the birth and a two-month supply of diapers, then used the rest to pay off one of my credit cards.
    It didn’t take long before money was tight again. You’re going to have to nurse him until he’s fifteen, I told my wife, but then we received the first sign of a positive change in my professional life: the public relations woman at my publisher began to call every day asking me if I would give interviews. It sounded like fun so I did a few over the telephone, but to avoid tarnishing my proud career as a readerless critic I never consented to do them for radio, or television, or for anybody, really, who might want to broadcast any evidence of my real identity. On the phone I made sure to project a zealous belief in all the ridiculous bullshit my book contained.
    I had just asked to borrow some money from my father—my credit cards were now more maxed out than ever—when I received the first check, the first amazing royalty check from sales of the book. I’ll just say this: we went to Italy for six months so we could take care of the baby in comfort and ease. When we returned there were two more checks waiting: we bought a car and there was so much money left over that when the next one arrived we bought the whole apartment that contained the little au pair suite where we had been living. From then on our capital gains grew thinner, but we didn’t notice it so much because I was already earning more, working in the mornings translating better-paying books for a more respectable press.
    I’m not going to say that we weren’t disappointed the first quarter when a royalty check didn’t show up, but by then it wasn’t such a big deal. Cathy had taken on some private students and I was completely focused on spending the afternoons working on what turned out to be my first novel, which sold a grand total of four hundred and twenty-three magnificent copies.

GULA, OR: THE INVOCATION

    One fine day, with no particular destination in mind, we found ourselves brainstorming ideas about how to escape from Mexico City. For my part, at least, I couldn’t stand the place anymore. The current government as well as the opposition party; my coworkers; my neighbors and their endlessly rude, spoiled children; having to wait in line at the bank to file my quarterly tax returns: it had all become insufferable. As we had a little money saved up, we figured we could move—without too much hardship—to some new and exciting foreign city. After shuffling through a bunch of possibilities, our deliberations ended with our settling on two possible locations: one, glamorous and risky, where we could continue living out our intensely bohemian life; the other, more secure, where I could work as a university professor. It was July; we set our departure for January and decided to let fate choose our destination.
    Moving abroad is a lot more work than it seems: we ended up spending nine months getting everything in order. Then, on a day like any other, I ran into an old astrologer friend—as serious and professional a fellow as his profession allows—in the produce aisle at the supermarket. Being well-versed in the Ancient Greek tragedies, I’ve always been reluctant to visit him for advice. He did draw up my star chart once, but I was altogether too anxious to sit down and read the results.
    That day in the store he told me that he’d been thinking about me and that perhaps it was time for us to have a proper consultation. So I went, casting my lot with ancient superstitions—who knew, perhaps it would give our life a direction, pointing out which city would be luckiest for us.
    On my one and only visit to his study, I quickly learned the cold, hard truth about the stars: nothing so banal as points on a map ever show up in your horoscope. What I was shown instead was a descent into hell, with death at either end. First, a terrible one in February. Someone in your family, he said, your mother, your son, Cathy, one of your brothers or sisters. Then another one, later on, between April and August, which, if I didn’t take precautions, would be my own.
    There was even more bad news to come, albeit of a less fatal variety. You’re going