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There I did business with the president of the international society Los Amigos de la Capa. He was swarthy and small, stood somewhat lopsided, like a jammed accordion, had tooth problems and bad breath. On his dark face were white sycamore patches. As Americans do not tolerate such imperfections in themselves, I felt that I was in the Old World. The shop itself had a broken wooden floor. Cloaks hung from the ceiling everywhere. Women with long poles brought down these beautiful garments, velvet-lined, brocaded, and modeled them for me. Thaxter’s carabiniere costume looked sick by comparison. I bought a black cloak lined with red (black and red—Renata’s best colors) and forked over two hundred dollars in American Express checks. Many thanks and courtesies were exchanged. I shook hands with everyone and couldn’t wait to get back to the Ritz with my parcel to show the Señora.

But the Señora wasn’t there. In my room I found Roger on the settee, his feet resting on his packed bag. A chambermaid was keeping an eye on him. “Where’s Grandma?” I said. The maid told me that about two hours before the Señora had been called away urgently. I phoned the cashier, who told me that my guest, the lady in Room 482, had checked out and that her charges would appear on my bill. Then I dialed the concierge. Oh yes, he said, a limousine had taken Madam to the airport. No, Madam’s destination was not known. They had not been asked to arrange tickets for her.

“Charlie, have you got chocolate?” said Roger.

“Yes, kid, I brought you some.” He needed all the sweet he could get, and I handed him the entire bar. There was someone whose desire I understood. He desired his Mama. We desired the same person. Poor little guy, I thought, as he peeled the foil from the chocolate and filled his mouth. I had a true feeling for this kid. He was in that feverish beautiful state of pale childhood when we are beating all over with pulses—nothing but a craving defenseless greedy heart. I remembered the condition very well. The chambermaid, when she found that I knew a little Spanish, asked whether Rogelio were my grandson. “No!” I said. It was bad enough that he had been dumped on me, must I be a grandfather, too? Renata was on her honeymoon with Flonzaley. Never having been married herself, the Señora was mad to achieve respectability for her daughter. And Renata, for all of her erotic development, was an obedient child. Perhaps the Señora, when she schemed on her daughter’s behalf, felt herself more youthful. To do me in the eye must have made her decades younger. As for me, I now saw the connection between eternal youth and stupidity. If I was not too old to chase Renata, I was young enough to suffer adolescent heartache.

So I told the maid that Rogelio and I were not related although I was certainly old enough to be his abuelo, and I gave her a hundred pesetas to mind him for another hour. Even though I was going broke I still had money enough for certain refined needs. I could afford to suffer like a gentleman. Just now I couldn’t cope with the kid. I had an urge to go to the Retiro, where I could abandon myself and beat my breast or stamp my feet or curse or weep. As I was leaving my room the phone rang and I snatched it up, hoping to hear Renata’s voice. It was, however, New York calling.

“Mr. Citrine? This is Stewart in New York. We’ve never met. I know of you, of course.”

“Yes, I wanted to ask you. You are publishing a book by Pierre Thaxter on dictators?”

“We have great hopes for it,” he said.

“Where is Thaxter now, in Paris?”

“At the last moment he changed his plans and flew to South America. So far as I know he’s in Buenos Aires interviewing Perón’s widow. Very exciting. The country’s being torn apart.”

“You know, I suppose,” I said, “that I’m in Madrid to explore the possibility of doing a cultural guide to Europe.”

“Is that so?” he said.

“Didn’t Thaxter tell you that? I thought we had your blessing.”

“I don’t know the first thing about it.”

“You’re sure now? You have no recollection?”

“What’s this all about, Mr. Citrine?”