The Garden of the Forking Worlds

On July 9, 1985, by happenstance, I exchanged a few words with Jorge Luis Borges. It was the morning after my wedding and before taking off to our honeymoon, my wife and I went to greet my parents who had come from Tucumán to Buenos Aires, and were staying at the Hotel Dorá, on Maipú Street. My mother grabbed me by my arm and took me to the dining room. All the tables were empty, except for one, and there was Borges, having lunch with a woman who perhaps was Estela Canto, and with whom he spoke alternating Spanish with English. I was paralyzed with fascination and examined him just as we look at statues that have no sight. He was dressed in a dark suit, a neat tie, and his plate had an austere portion of white rice. My father persuaded me to approach him, so we waited until he finished his lunch, and when the waiter, who addressed him as “maestro”, brought him a cup of tea, we walked to his table. My father started the conversation and Borges, who was thrilled with the idea of chatting, treated us with some erudite fables. He spoke of God, the minotaur, and crit-