Alfredo Pita

I was born in 1948 in Celendín, a lovely town nestled in a small valley in the northern Peruvian Andes. For me, my home town defines the landscape of childhood, of paradise, and of an endless, translucent happiness. It lasted only a few years, until my family decided that it was time for me to go elsewhere, so they sent me to Lima to study.

In my memory, Celendín is still that Arcadia where every August I would fly my kite up in the San Isidrio hills while the sleeping city lay at my feet. Smoke would curl up from red-tiled roofs atop white walls, as our mothers prepared the hot chocolate that we all, rich and poor alike, stopped to drink every day at four o'clock. I remember that I would spin my top, or gaze at the distant clouds and horizon, wondering where the sunset fires burned when I saw the red glow above blue mountains. My grandmother played an important role in my life, and I would listen as she told me an endless supply of stories. Somehow, she taught me to tell stories, without knowing that one day I would use that skill as a writer.

Now I live in Paris, where I work on my books, and as a journalist in a large news agency. My life is like that of anyone else in this city. Sometimes things are hard, but I believe life is beautiful, and we should live it to the fullest. I believe that it is essential to cultivate a good mood, so that things will turn out better. The best memories of my childhood help me to do so.

In 2002, CIDCLI published my story Alberto, un pequeño capitán (Albert, a Small Captain).