Cimetière de Plainpalais
Rue des Rois 10
1204 Genève, Switzerland
Dear Sir or Madam,
I am writing you on a personal matter of some importance, not only to me, but to literary scholars as well. I believe that I may be the hitherto unrecognized child of Jorge Luis Borges, whose body lies in your esteemed graveyard, and I am requesting your assistance in discovering the truth about my origins.
My mother, Alicia Marcella Barrington (née Cornhall) passed away at the remarkable age of 101, in 1997. As I went through her effects earlier this year, I discovered a set of journals, which record, from her childhood until her death, the wondrous and whimsical life she lived (including having been a Gibson Girl model). She and my father, Solomon Ezra Barrington, married in 1914, and traveled to the lovely city of Geneva for their honeymoon, where, if I am not mistaken, I was conceived. I reproduce the relevant passages from her journal here:
May 24th, 1914
What a delightful evening! Solomon and I attended a performance of, among other pieces, the Flower Duet from Lakmé and Sinfonie fantastique. At the moment in which the hero meets his death in Berlioz’ work, I grabbed the hand of my husband and, also, the fellow on my left, and squeezed tightly. Only after the piece was over did I discover my mistake. I felt the blood rush to my cheeks as I apologized, concluding with, “I suppose I lost my head!” The fellow responded with “That would be a shame—it is such a pretty one,” in an accent I could not identify. We introduced ourselves, and then we invited Georgie—for that was the young man’s name—to the tavern adjacent for a nightcap. We all celebrated with the green fairy, and I must say that I became quite tipsy, delightedly so. He and his family had emigrated to Geneva from Argentina a few months before, so that his father might have cataract surgery. He said he was only 14, but I don’t believe that—he has already published a short story and a translation, and hopes to make a small contribution to the world of literature as a poet, someday.
Unfortunately, this pleasant chat was interrupted by Solomon falling out of his seat; after Georgie paid our bill, he and one of the garçons carried Solomon to our hotel next door and put him on the divan in our sitting room.
They began to leave, but I asked Georgie to help me take off my husband’s shoes. As we bent over Solomon’s feet, he asked me what I had thought of the performance of Lakme’s “Flower Duet,” which brought the blood to my cheeks once again—such is the effect that piece has upon me, always. He then said something in Italian, which he translated for me: “And that book was indeed a Galahad, and we read no more that day.” I blushed for the third and last time in his company, and then kissed him fiercely. I am not ashamed of what followed. Solomon has had 23 days to pluck my maidenhead, and has failed, so Georgie won that prize.
Afterwards, we lay abed for a few moments. I pulled from my evening bag the cigarette holder given to me as a wedding present from my cousin Meredith, and Georgie—such a gentleman—lit my cigarette for me. “So you are a poet?” I asked, and I blew out a series of smoke rings above our heads—I managed to have seven or eight floating above us at one time, I think. He pointed at them, saying, “Each of those rings is an ashy remnant of itself, like its siblings, floating down what we perceive as a river of time.” I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I leaned in and kissed him.
Solomon began to snore, then, and we laughed. “If he leaves off dreaming about you…” Georgie said, and then we heard Solomon stirring. “In the closet!” I said, and then I went out to my husband and undressed him. He reached for me, clumsily, but passed out again before he could consummate our marriage. Pushing Solomon off me, I arose and I got Georgie from his hiding place. We tried everything I could remember having read in my mother’s French novels, and he slipped out about two hours later, but not without first asking how long we would be in town. I told him that we were leaving that morning.
“Who can tell us,” he said, “to whom we shall say farewell, without knowing it to be the ultimate time?” So saying, he bowed and kissed my hand. He closed the door so gently that it was inaudible under my husband’s snoring.
And so ends the relevant portion of my mother’s journal. I was born nine months later, on February 26th, 1915. It is notable that she records no liaisons, with her husband or anyone else, which might have resulted in my conception. There is some slight chance that Solomon is my father, but since he suffered from rheumatic fever as a child, it is quite possible that he was sterile (and I should like to point out that, unlike my mother’s smoke rings, my siblings and I barely resemble each other in the least). There is a strong similarity between Georgie’s words to my mother, and Borges’ oeuvre; we also know that Borges was in fact in Geneva at the same time as my parents, for the exact reason that my mother states. This evidence, circumstantial though it might be, leads me to believe that Jorge Luis Borges was partly responsible for dreaming me, and bodying me forth, into this world.
I do not make my request lightly—one should never disturb the bones of the dead without good reason—but nevertheless, I am requesting that Borges’ body be exhumed that we may conduct a paternity test by comparing his DNA to mine. I am willing to pay for any and all expenses.
If you are not the party responsible for overseeing such matters, would you be so kind as to inform me to whom I should make my application?
I have enclosed a self addressed envelope, with Swiss postage stamps, in the hopes that it will speed your reply to me. I look forward to hearing from you soon.
Curiously,
Hermester Barrington
Hermester is a retired archivist, a non-Euclidean haiku poet, and a rogue protozoologist. He has spent the past four decades of his life traveling to the round earth’s imagined corners with his impossibly beautiful wife, Fayaway, in search of falling leaves, geomagnetic anomalies, and forgotten stone walls. His most recently published ficciones can be found in Fate Magazine, Underland Arcana, and HyphenPunk (the last two being co-authored with Fay). His next project, co-written with Fayaway, is Singer of Songs, None Perceptible: A Beginner’s Guide to Vespertiliomancy.
Published 2/14/25