When my friend received a postcard in the mail depicting his childhood home he had no idea who had sent it or why. Even stranger was the unknown address scrawled on the back in his own inimitable handwriting. Only one thing was clear. We had to go and find out for ourselves what this was all about. Our innocent little road trip down memory lane soon turned into something quite different, as one mystifying turn after another led us into a tangled knot of confused identities, alternate histories, unfathomable intrigues and sheer bewilderment in this short novel of the truth, the partial truth, and anything but the truth.
My friend Hernan noticed a few unusual things about the postcard he received in the mail one Saturday in August. He couldn't remember the last time he'd ever received a postcard and was even a bit surprised that such things still existed and could be sent overland in trucks and cars. Such inefficiency offended his modernist instincts. Not only was the thing an actual postcard, such as thrived in abundance in an earlier century, but it had come stuffed inside of a regular envelope. He'd always heard of postcards as being self-sufficient. The waste was doubled, not to mention the increased cost, which was anathema to his current, if not consistent, mode of budget consciousness. Thirdly, the postcard displayed the image of an ordinary looking house, a brownish squat thing with a flat pebble roof, a pair of absurd rectangular granite columns bracketing a dull and lifeless porch, a front window hidden by a dirty gray curtain, and all of this approached by a cracked and ragged concrete pathway heavily colonized by dandelions and other unwelcome flora. There were no pleasant features about the place, and the only clue to its whereabouts, if anyone cared, was the number seventy-five tacked up in aluminum letters and half-hanging on a middle step.