The Night Telescope – Part 1: Clear Sky Over the Andes

The telescope lived on the roof of a crumbling apartment building in Providencia, under a dome Mateo had built himself from old plywood and a great deal of patience. Every clear night, when the smog lifted and the Andes stood out pale against the dark, he climbed up with a thermos of mate and let the stars do the talking.

He had never once invited anyone to join him.

The visitor arrived on a Thursday in June, carrying a battered backpack and a notebook full of equations. He was slim and dark-haired, with a neat beard and an accent that made the Spanish words sound like music.

"You're the one with the telescope," he said at the top of the stairs. "The university told me you had the best sky in the city. I'm Julián. I'm here for the southern galaxies."

"I'm Mateo," said Mateo, and for a moment he forgot what he was supposed to say next.

Julián looked around the roof: the dome, the tripod, the lines of string lights strung across the parapet. He looked back at Mateo, and his mouth curved into a slow smile.

"You built all this yourself?"

"Mostly from things I found in skips," said Mateo, flushing.

"That's beautiful," said Julián, very simply. "Can I look?"

Mateo swung the dome open. The sky above was black and endless, the Milky Way a pale river of light running from horizon to horizon. Julián bent to the eyepiece, and his breath caught audibly.

"Oh," he whispered. "Oh, that's the Tarantula."

"You can see it?"

"I can see it, and it's beautiful, and I've been trying to see it for three years through a bad telescope in Amsterdam." Julián stepped back, his eyes shining. "Thank you."

They stayed up for hours. Julián talked about galaxies, dark matter, the stars that had exploded long before the Earth was born. Mateo talked about the old observatory in Valparaíso where his grandfather had worked, and the night he had first seen Saturn through a borrowed lens and cried.

"You cry at the stars?" asked Julián, amused.

"Only when they're very beautiful," said Mateo. "Like tonight."

Julián was quiet for a long moment, looking at him in the faint glow of the string lights.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Yes."

"Why did you never invite anyone up here before?"

Mateo swallowed. "Because I was afraid people would ask why I'm up here alone every night," he said. "And I didn't want to lie, and I didn't want to say the truth to someone who'd laugh."

"And I'm not laughing."

"No," said Mateo quietly. "You're not."

Julián set down his notebook and came to stand beside him at the parapet. They were close now, close enough to feel the cool night air between them.

"Can I ask you something else?" said Julián.

"Yes."

"Would you let me come back, tomorrow night, and every clear night after that, while I'm in Santiago? Not for the sky. For the man who builds telescopes out of skips and cries at Saturn."

Mateo's heart gave a quick, wild thump. "Yes," he said. "But only if you let me show you the Magellanic Clouds, which are better than yours."

"Deal," said Julián, and smiled. "Green?"

"Green," said Mateo. "Very green. Now look up, Julián. The sky is about to show off."