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It was twenty minutes after eleven. “A lady is on her way up to your room,” the switchboard told me.

A lady! Renata was here. I dragged the drapes aside from the windows and ran to brush my teeth and wash my face. I pulled on a bathrobe, gave a swipe at my hair to cover the bald spot, and was drying myself with one of the heavy luxurious towels when the knocker ticked many times, like a telegraph key, only more delicately, suggestively. I shouted, “Darling!” I swept the door open and found Renata’s old mother before me. She was wearing her dark travel costume, with many of her own arrangements, including the hat and the veil. “Señora!” I said.

She entered in her medieval garments. Just over the threshold she reached a gloved hand behind her and brought in Renata’s little boy, Roger. “Roger!” I said. “Why is Roger in Madrid? What are you doing here, Señora?”

“Poor baby. He was sleeping on the plane. I had them carry him off.”

“But Christmas with the grandparents in Milwaukee—what about that?”

“His grandfather had a stroke. May die. As for his father, we can’t locate the man. I couldn’t keep Roger with me, my apartment is small.”

“What about Renata’s apartment?”

No, the Señora, with her affaires de coeur, couldn’t take care of a small child. I had met some of her gentlemen friends. It was wise not to expose the child to them. As a rule I avoided thinking about her romances.

“Does Renata know?”

“Of course she knows we’re coming. We discussed it on the telephone. Please order breakfast for us, Charles. Will you eat some nice Frosted Flakes, Roger darling? For me, hot chocolate and also some croissants and a glass of brandy.”

The child sat bowed over the arm of the tall Spanish chair.

“Come on, kid,” I said, “lie on my bed.” I pulled off his small shoes and led him into the alcove. The Señora watched as I covered him and drew the curtains. “So Renata told you to bring him here.”

“Of course. You may be here for months. It was the only thing to do.”

“When is Renata arriving?”

“Tomorrow is Christmas,” said the Señora.

“Terrific. What does your statement mean? Will she be here for Christmas or is she having Christmas with her father in Milan? Is she getting anywhere? How can she, if you’re suing Mr. Biferno?”

“We’ve been in the air for ten hours, Charles. I’m not strong enough to answer questions. Please order breakfast. I wish you would shave also. I really can’t bear a man’s unshaven face across the table.”

This made me consider the Señora’s own face. She had wonderful dignity. She sat in her wimple like Edith Sitwell. Her power with her daughter, whom I so badly needed, was very great. There was a serpentine dryness about her eyes. Yes, the Señora was bananas. However, her composure, with its large content of furious irrationality, was unassailable.

“I’ll shave while you’re waiting for your cocoa, Señora. Why, I wonder, did you choose such a time to sue Signor Biferno?”

“Isn’t that my own business?”

“Isn’t it Renata’s business also?”

“You speak like Renata’s husband,” she said. “Renata went to Milan to give that man a chance to acknowledge his daughter. But there is a mother in the case too. Who brought the girl up and made such an extraordinary woman of her? Who taught her class and all the important lessons of a woman? The whole injustice should be dealt with. The man has three plain ugly daughters. If he wants this marvelous child he had by me, let him settle his bill. Don’t try to teach a Latin woman about such things, Charles.”

I sat in my not entirely clean beige silk robe. The sash was too long and the tassels had dragged on the floor for many years. The waiter came, the tray was uncovered with a flourish, and we breakfasted. As the Señora snuffed up her cognac I observed the grain of her skin, the touch of whisker on her lip, the arched nose with its operatic nostrils and the peculiar chicken luster of her eyeballs. “I got the TWA tickets from your travel agent, that Portuguese lady who wears a paisley turban, Mrs. Da Cintra. Renata told me to charge them. I didn’t have