Si, he said quickly. We go all over, around and around, stop here, stop there. . . He shook his head again. Ah, si, two hours, loco, senorita say you pay.
I gave him seven dollars, assuming he was lying, but believing him when he said the morning had been loco. No doubt it had been, and now it was my turn. I watched him drive off, then I went over to a spot under the flamboyan tree, out of sight of the windows. What the hell am I going to do with her? I thought I was barefoot and the sand was cool under my feet I looked up at the tree, then over to the window of my apartment. She was in there, already on the bed. Here the News was about to fold and suddenly I had a penniless girl on my hands — and a nut, to boot. What could I say to Yeamon, or even Sala? The whole thing was too much. I decided I would have to get her off my hands, even if it meant paying her way back to New York.
I went upstairs and opened the door, feeling more relaxed, now that I’d made up my mind. She was stretched out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
Have you had any breakfast? I asked, trying to sound cheerful.
No, she replied, so softly that I barely heard.
Well I have everything, I said. Eggs, bacon, coffee, the whole business. I went over to the sink. How about some orange juice?
Orange juice would be fine, she said, still staring at the ceiling.
I cooked a pan of bacon and scrambled some eggs, happy for something to keep me busy. Now and then I would glance back at the bed. She was lying on her back with her arms folded across her stomach.
Chenault, I said finally. Do you feel okay?
I’m fine, she replied in the same dull voice.
I turned around. Maybe I should call a doctor.
No, she said. I’m fine. I just want to rest.
I shrugged and went back to the stove. I put the eggs and bacon on two plates and poured two glasses of milk. Here, I said, taking her plate over to the bed. Eat this and see if you feel any better.
She didn’t move and I put the plate down on a table beside the bed. You better eat, I said. You look pretty damn unhealthy.
She kept staring at the ceiling. I know, she whispered. Just let me rest awhile.
Fine with me, I said. I have to go to work anyway. I went to the kitchen and drank two mouthfuls of warm rum, then I took a shower and got dressed. When I left, the food on her table was untouched. See you about eight, I said. Call the paper if you need anything.
I will, she said. Goodbye.
I spent most of the day in the library, taking notes on previous anti-communist investigations and looking for background material on people involved in hearings that were scheduled to start on Thursday. I avoided Sala, hoping he wouldn’t come looking for me to ask for news of Chenault. At six o’clock Lotterman called from Miami, telling Schwartz to handle the paper and saying he’d be back on Friday with good news. It could only mean that he’d found some financing; the paper would last a little longer and I still had my job.
I left about seven. There was nothing else to do and I didn’t want to get caught in some movement to Al’s. I went down the back stairs and slipped into my car like a fugitive. Somewhere in Santurce I ran over a dog, but I kept going. When I got to the apartment Chenault was still asleep.
I made some sandwiches and a pot of coffee, and while I was clattering around in the kitchen she woke up. Hello, she said quietly.
Hello, I said, not turning around. I opened a can of tomato soup and put it on to heat. You want something to eat? I asked.
I think so, she said, sitting up on the bed. I’ll fix it, though.