Victoria

Two days later.
He’s bent over the Olivetti.
Sweating, bare chested
in the roaring Mexico City heat.
Clack. Clack clack.

He’s typing with two fingers,
like Papa Hemingway.
The stack of typewritten pages has grown.
There’s a loud,
insistent knock.

He stops typing.
Sits up straight.
Listening,
he shuts his eyes.

One? Two?
He decides it’s one.
He knows, for some reason he can’t fathom,
it’s a woman.
He feels it’s her,
the near-raped rich girl
from the Club Papillion.

How did she find him? How?
Security cameras.
She’s rich and misbehaving —
and she has a father.

All this the blue eyed man
comprehends in a flash.

He picks up his blue shirt from the bed
and shrugs it on
before going barefoot to the door.
He unchains and opens the door a crack.
Sees a wide, gleaming eye.
An arched eyebrow.

She’s dressed today in a white blouse,
blue slacks, barely any jewelry.
She’s wearing flat white leather shoes
with star patterns cut into the toes.
Her hair is parted in the middle
and combed back shining.
She’s put on pink lip gloss
and a little eye-shadow, that’s all.

She looks very thin
and very prim,
as if stepping fresh through the gate
of a convent.

He opens the door.
Wide.
Gestures with his palm.
She steps in.
He shuts the door, locks and chains it.
She goes to the bed —
a liquid, strange, cutting walk.

Sits on the edge.
It squeaks as the springs settle.
Gazes up at him.

May I do something for you? he asks.

You already did. Two nights ago. I am Victoria.

Her English is perfect.

So he tells her his first name.
The real one.

Then:
How did you find me here?

She shrugs. Smiles a little.
My father. His men.

Obviously,
the topic of finding people is boring.
He’s found, that’s all.

The blue eyed man goes to the chair.
Turns it around.
Sits.

Looks at her.
At the wild beauty,
the youth.
The amazing youth.

At the green eyes,
the wild black hair.

For some reason,
she evokes for him Ilena Sanchez.
And so many others.

Are they downstairs?
Si.
All around the hotel?
Si.

He feels a little better.
It wouldn’t have helped to get a room with a fire escape.
Not since they’re all around the hotel.

I am to go with you?
Yes.
To see your father?
Yes.
So he can thank me personally,
and with the appropriate Latin warmth?

She smiles. A dimple. Dazzling teeth.
Si.

He says:
I will leave my own weapon here. But these —
he opens a drawer and takes out Bald Man’s pistol
and Cowboy Boots’ switchblade —
I should present to you as souvenirs.

She takes them, smiling
— this time her lips are pressed together,
as if in recognition of a secret joke —
from his hands.
Then, Victoria turns her body
as he studies her calm Latin profile
to slip them into her small white purse,
which she now zips fast.

She stands.

Are you coming?
Of course.

He stands.

They look at each other.
She takes two steps foward, then three.
She looks up at him,
her brows at his chin,
eyes great and shining.

He says,
You don’t need to —

She lifts herself on her toes,
ballerina-like,
and kisses his lips,
softly. Delicately.
It’s like the kiss of a butterfly
or a flower.

He shuts his eyes.
His heart is drumming.
She licks her upper lip
with the point of her tongue
and says to him,
And now that I’ve thanked you as I should,
shall we go to see my narco papa?

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