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“I have two parasols. There’s a Mexican café on the corner.”
THE WIND WAS cold, the rain blowing in ropes off the rooftops when they reached the café. It was smoky and warm inside, most of the food prepared on an open stone pit, the walls hung with banderillas and goatskin wine bags and sombreros and piñatas wrapped with crepe paper. Rather than wine, she ordered a cup of coffee with her dinner. “Did you find your son?” she said.
“He’s in an army hospital outside of Denver.”
“Is he all right?”
“He probably hasn’t had a chance to answer my letters.”
She waited for him to continue.
“I called the hospital. An administrator said Ishmael was inching along.” His eyes went away from hers.
“How bad was he wounded?”
“He was at the Second Battle of the Marne. It was the last chance for the Germans. I hear they fought like it. I wish I’d been there.”
“What would you have done?”
“Got him back home. Nursed him. Made up for not being there when he was little.”
“You mustn’t talk about yourself like that.”
“I cain’t figure you.”
“Because of the type of businesses I’ve run?”
“That’s not an inconsequential consideration.”
“I’ve never been interested in people’s condemnation of me. Do you care what people thin
k about you?”
“In my case, most of what they think is true.”
“I respect the women who work for me. Few people realize how much courage it takes to be a prostitute.”
He found himself glancing sideways at the other tables.
“Do you know what a girl in the life has to endure?” she said. “The outrage men commit on their bodies. The punches in the face. Do you know how many of them are murdered each year?”
“I think I’m going to have an ice-cold Coca-Cola. You want one?”
“No, thank you.”
“Miss Beatrice, I went to a sporting house years ago, down on the border. I’ve always been ashamed about it. Not because I slept with a woman for hire. I was ashamed because I took advantage of her poverty and her race. I’m going to have a beer now.”
“Sure you want to do that?”
“No, but I’m going to do it anyway.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I never have. Here’s our food. Boy howdy, doesn’t that look good?” He kept his eyes lowered until the cold, sweating bottle of Mexican beer was in his hand and its brassy taste in his mouth, like an old friend moving back into the house, ready to set up shop.
“What are you planning to do, Mr. Holland?”
“Eat this food and walk you home.”
