This is the tag end of that bunch, Billy said.
Yep.
They rode on.
When you're a kid you have these notions about how things are goin to be, Billy said. You get a little older and you pull back some on that. I think you wind up just tryin to minimize the pain. Anyway this country aint the same. Nor anything in it. The war changed everthing. I dont think people even know it yet.
The sky to the west darkened. A cold wind blew. They could see the aura of the lights from the city come up forty miles away.
You need to wear more clothes than that, Billy said.
I'm all right. How did the war change it?
It just did. It aint the same no more. It never will be.
EDUARDO STOOD at the rear door smoking one of his thin cigars and looking out at the rain. There was a sheetiron warehouse behind the building and there was nothing much there to see except the rain and black pools of water standing in the alley where the rain fell and the soft light from the yellow bulb screwed into the fixture over the back door. The air was cool. The smoke drifted in the light. A young girl who limped on a withered leg passed carrying a great armload of soiled linen down the hall. After a while he closed the door and walked back up the hallway to his office.
When Tiburcio knocked he did not even turn around. Adelante, he said. Tiburcio entered. He stood at the desk and counted out money. The desk was of polished glass and fruitwood and there was a white leather sofa against one wall and a low coffeetable of glass and chrome and there was a small bar against the other wall with four white leather stools. The carpeting on the floor was a rich cream color. The alcahuete counted out the money and stood waiting. Eduardo turned and looked at him. The alcahuete smiled thinly under his thin moustache. His black greased hair shone in the soft light. His black shirt bore a glossy sheen from the pressings of an iron too hot.
Eduardo put the cigar between his teeth and came to the desk. He stood looking down. He fanned with one slender jeweled hand the bills on the glass and he took the cigar from his teeth and looked up.
El mismo muchacho?
El mismo.
He pursed his lips, he nodded. Bueno, he said. cndale.
When Tiburcio had gone he unlocked his desk drawer and took from it a long leather wallet with a chain hanging from it and put the bills in the wallet and put the wallet back in the drawer and locked it again. He opened his ledgerbook and made an entry in it and closed it. Then he went to the door and stood smoking quietly and looking out up the hallway. His hands clasped behind him at the small of his back in a stance he had perhaps admired or read of but a stance native to some other country, not his.
THE MONTH of NOVEMBER passed and he saw her but once more. The alcahuete came to the door and tapped and went away and she said that he must leave. He held her hands in his, both of them sitting tailorwise and fully dressed in the center of the canopy bed. Leaning and talking to her very quickly and with great earnestness but she would only say it was too dangerous and then the alcahuete rapped at the door again and did not go away.
PromZteme, he said. PromZteme.
The alcahuete rapped with the heel of his fist. She clutched his hand, her eyes wide.
Debes salir, she whispered.
PromZteme.
S'. S'. Lo prometo.
When he passed through the salon it was all but empty. The blind pianist who sat in for the string trio at these late hours was at the bench but he was not playing. His young daughter stood beside him. On the piano lay the book which she had been reading to him as he played. John Grady crossed the room and took his last dollar but one and dropped it into the barglass atop the piano. The maestro smiled and bowed slightly. Gracias, he said.
C-mo est++s, said John Grady.
The old man smiled again. My young friend, he said. How are you? You are well?
Yes, thank you. And you?
He shrugged. His thin shoulders rose in the dull black stuff of his suit and fell again. I am well, he said. I am well.
Are you done for the night?
No. We go for our supper.
It is very late.
Oh yes. It is late.
The blind man spoke an oldworld english, a language from another place and time. He steadied himself and rose and turned woodenly.
Will you join us?
No thank you sir. I need to get on.
And how is your suit advancing?
He wasnt sure what that meant. He turned the words over in his mind. The girl, he said.
The old man bowed his head in affirmation.
I dont know, John Grady said. All right, I think. I hope so.
It is an uncertain business, the old man said. You must persevere. To persevere is everything.
Yessir.
The girl had taken her father's hat from the piano and stood holding it. She took his hand but he made no motion to leave. He faced the room, empty save for two whores and a drunk at the bar. We are friends, he said.
Yessir, John Grady said. He wasnt sure of whom the old man spoke.
May I speak in confidence?
Yes.
I believe she is favorable. He placed one delicate and yellowed finger to his lips.
Thank you sir. I appreciate that.
Of course. He held out one hand palm up and the girl placed the brim of his hat in his grip and he took it in both hands and turned and placed it on his head and looked up.
Do you think she's a good person? John Grady said.
Oh my, said the blind man. Oh my.
I think she is.
Oh my, said the blind man.
John Grady smiled. I'll let you get on to your supper. He nodded to the girl and turned to go.
Her condition, the blind man said. You know her condition?
He turned back. Sir? he said.
Little is known. There is a great deal of superstition. Here they are divided in two camps. Some take a benign view and others do not. You see. But this is my belief. My belief is that she is at best a visitor. At best. She does not belong here. Among us.
Yessir. I know she dont belong here.
No, said the blind man. I do not mean in this house. I mean here. Among us.
He walked back through the streets. Carrying the blind man's words concerning his prospects as if they were a contract with the world to come. Cold as it was the Ju++renses stood in the open doorways and smoked or called to one another. Along the sandy unpaved streets nightvendors trundled their carts or drove their small burros before them. They called out leeenya. They called out queroseeena. Plying the darkened streets and calling out like old suitors in search themselves of maids long lost to them.
II
HE WAITED but she didnt come. He stood at the window with the hangings of old lace gathered back in his hand and watched the life in the streets. Anyone who would have looked up to see him there behind the untrue panes of dusty glass could have told his story. The afternoon grew quiet. Across the street a merchant closed and locked the iron shutters of his hardware shop. A taxi stopped in front of the hotel and he leaned with his face against the cold pane but he could not see if anyone got out. He turned and went to the door and opened it and walked out to the head of the stairwell where he could look down into the lobby. No one came. When he went back and stood at the window again the taxi was gone. He sat on the bed. The shadows grew long. After a while it was dark in the room and the green neon of the hotel sign came on outside the window and after a while he rose and took his hat from the top of the bureau and went out. He turned at the door and looked back into the room and then pulled the door shut behind him. If he'd stood longer he'd have passed the criada La Tuerta in the shabby stairwell instead of the lobby as he did, he any lodger, she any old woman with one clouded eye struggling in from the street. He stepped out into the cool evening and she labored up the stairs and knocked at the door and waited and knocked again. A door down the hallway opened and a man looked out. He told her that he had no towels.