It was Buenos Aires, springtime, 1927. Days rich as wine, nights filled with stars and the heady scent of flowers. Together we witnessed Alekhine's defeat of Capablanca; admired the Barrio Parque Los Andes; met with Yrigoyen on the transport issue; relaxed in the sea breeze of San Clemente del Tuyú; secretly observed young Borges, who before long would rock the literary world; lingered in that lovely café on the Avenida de Mayo.
All too soon the Corps whisked you away to Arkhangelsk and I was sent back to Tsena Commocko in 1621, hoping to forestall the Opechanacanough Affair in its incipient phase… Ah! Futile hopes they turned out to be, as so often they were, yet even knowing the likeliest outcome to three decimal places, we were bound to try.
And you, Leandra — have the centuries treated you well?
Or is it perhaps someone else I'm thinking of? In which case:
Pass.