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“That must be very wonderful.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They have the ball at New Year’s and the Statue of Freedom.”

“Yeah. It’s a nice place, but so is Los Angeles. I mean, the weather here is so nice.”

“Yes,” she agreed, and we stopped climbing.

We were at a solitary door that was also a blockade. She knocked and we waited.

“What’s your name?” I asked just to keep talking.

“Luz.”

“Is that the whole name or is it short for something else?”

“Luzelena,” she said, and I was convinced that she was perfection.

The door opened then.

The man standing there was short, potbellied, and swarthy, at least ninety percent native stock. His constant expression was an easy smile, and, I found out later, his most common reply was a nod.

Luz said something in rapid-fire Spanish, and he nodded.

“You can go in,” she said to me. “It was nice meeting you.”

Mr. Valasquez’s “room” was the entire third floor of the barrio mansion. No walls but rather sections that were defined by furniture or utilities. There was a sitting section, a kitchen area, sleeping quarters, and another garden. This last subdivision was at the far end of the room, set before an entire wall of segmented windows.

Rather than flowers, Primo’s garden produced chilis, tomatoes, and other edibles.

The ceiling was at least fifteen feet above the floor and, I noticed, there was no clutter anywhere.

“You like?” my host asked.

“This is sumpin’ else, man. I mean, you would never expect it to be here, but once you see it, it makes perfect sense.”

The round little man smiled. He was wearing a faded blue work shirt that was unbuttoned over a once-white T-shirt that had a few tiny burn holes toward the hem. His brown trousers looked as if they were holding back the red in their dye, and his green belt looked almost like some snake out of a Mexican painting from the beginning of the last century. The buckle was silver and red.

“I like it here,” Primo said. “You want to sit?”

He guided me to two chairs in the sitting area and gestured at the seat for me.

“Drink?”

“No thank you,” I replied. “Is this some kind of home for kids or a nursery school?”

Primo’s teeth were stained but strong. They seemed ready-made for his smile.

“No, señor, no. This house is like a, what would you say, like a small village. Mothers and fathers and children.”

“Luz one’a those kids?”

“She is beautiful, no?”

“You ever read a guy named Gabriel García Márquez?” I asked, though I had not come there for that question.

“No. Is he good?”