“Well,” she responded red and cold, “come in.”
He came in but his demeanor was forced, leery.
“Would you like me to go downstairs and put on my better clothes?” he asked.
“But no!” she was almost shouting covering her ears, hurt, distressed, “but no!”
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” he came to her assistance taken aback, “it’s fine, the person who spoke isn’t here anymore . . .”
With her eyes shaking with tears, her face swollen, she tried out a happier smile but the light was sparkling in her wet retina and she could see in front of her shining and trembling drops with a certain anxious visual pleasure.
“But what’s happening?!” he asked growing horrified.
“Well, nothing! . . . what could be happening? . . . a little light in my eyes, I was in the dark, what could be happening? well . . .”
“In the dark . . .?” and he was seeming to approach something he would never understand.
“Yes, yes, in the dark, with a headache!” she shouted, lying.
He sat in a chair, his fingers crossed atop his leg. She stopped for an instant; she had nothing to say. He said:
“Sit down.”
She brightened:
“Sit? . . . and who’s going to make dinner?”
“Ah, right . . . Need some help?”
“No, no, thanks,” she declined almost offended. But she couldn’t move without knowing how to leave him sitting there and go to the kitchen.
“What time is it?” he inquired.
“How should I know?” she retorted, remorseful.
“That’s true . . .” — he pulled out his copper watch, looked at it: “it’s . . . it’s . . . it’s . . . nine o’clock! three . . . three . . . three . . . to nine!” he said laughing without her knowing why.
“Do you want dinner now?”
He looked suddenly frightened, he shrunk his neck into his shoulders in a gesture of desperate ignorance.
“I don’t know, I don’t know . . . it’s up to you, ma’am . . .”
They looked at each other an instant longer. She went to the kitchen to make the steaks. Every once in a while she’d stop and hazard a movement toward the living room — she couldn’t hear anything. Little delicate drops of sweat were being reborn atop her upper lip, her body seemed to have thickened, the malaise of the dress that was growing old upon her body. A bit worried she fried two eggs, warmed up the small fried balls, the rice — listened to the living room, silence — took the tray to the table. She had prepared herself to say something lively but whatever she was going to say escaped her palely when she saw him sitting in the same position with his fingers crossed. Yet upon seeing the steaming plates, Miguel’s dry lips parted in a weak smile of hope and despondency. She gave herself a little jolt and said smiling, attentive:
“To the table, to the table!”
Miguel sat down, rolled up his pants with a hurried sigh, started looking all around, under the table.
“What is it?” inquired Virgínia interrupting herself sharply.
“Napkin . . .”
Ah she’d forgotten! the flush heated her face and neck. He showed he was timid:
“No need . . . I only asked because, you know, at those fancier dinners they always have them, isn’t that right?”
Yes, yes, yes! She almost running to the kitchen, took the bottle of wine from the ice, grasped it with her inert hands, felt herself reanimated by the cold, touched it quickly to her hot lips. But he’d showed up at the kitchen door and was saying with a suddenly masculine air:
“No ma’am! I won’t let you . . .”
She was looking at him terrified . . . He stepped back surprised looking at her with the wine in her hand.
“Ah,” he said, “I thought you’d gone to get a napkin . . . Because there was no need, any old scrap works . . .”
They remained unmoving for an instant intent on each other.
“The food’s getting cold,” he finally said as if removing the blame from himself, “the food’s getting cold.”
She laughed:
“But isn’t it? come on . . . And you still need to open that bottle, work a little,” she added flatteringly.
“But you spent a ton of money, I can tell.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter.”
“That’s true enough. Money was made to be spent.” — They fell silent. But why wouldn’t he take the wine bottle that was freezing her hands?
“Don’t hesitate to split the expenses . . . if you want, ma’am.”
“No, thank you.”
“Fine, fine, my motto is: don’t insist.”
They started to eat silently; the food was good though the steaks had some gristle; the wine was hot and smooth and he drank almost all of it — by dessert his eyes were shining moist and suffering. She remained silent serving the dishes with ardor and a concentrated calm; she seemed impossible to be deterred. Then she made coffee and when they drank it, again his eyes looked full of mischief: what coffee! he exclaimed and she assented smiling deeply. He said to her at last, looking at the ground while lighting a cigar:
“The dinner was very good.”
She was looking at him quizzical, concerned. He quickly raised his eyes to her, lowered them fast but suddenly faced her with despair:
“The thing is my wife found out that I come here!”
Virgínia stared at him at first without understanding, asked almost stupid while her head was refusing to work and switch directions:
“Why?”
“They told her! what the devil can I do! people are talking . . .”
At that she’d already understood, her face pale with surprise; several instants rushed by vacant, countless . . . and she was feeling a beginning of wrath that actually did her good, in some strange way it symbolized the dinner.
“So why’d you come?” she finally flung at him hard and exasperated.
“Sorry,” he murmured as if in a leap, abruptly mannered and with caution, “sorry, I always called you ‘ma’am’ and to hear this tone now . . . I never took that liberty, the world is my witness” — and suddenly some idea popped into his head, he opened his mouth with terror and stupefaction. — “Don’t you even think about getting me in trouble now! damn it, I’m a married man! I told you
