But I remember that night in my room, the lights of the St Paul Hotel throwing red and green blobs across my bed as I lay and shuddered and dreamed of the anger of that girl, of the way she danced from table to table, and the black glance of her eyes. That! remember, even to forgetting I was poor and without an idea for a story.

I looked for her early the next morning. Eight o’clock, and I was down on Spring Street. I had a copy of The Little Dog Laughed in my pocket. She would think differently about me if she read that story. I had it autographed, right there in my back pocket, ready to present at the slightest notice. But the place was dosed at that early hour. It was called the Columbia Buffet. I pushed my nose against the window and looked inside. The chairs were piled upon the tables, and an old man in rubber boots was swabbing the floor. I walked down the street a block or two, the wet air already-bluish from monoxide gas. A fine idea came into my head. I took out the magazine and erased the autograph. In its place I wrote, ‘To a Mayan Princess, from a worthless Gringo.’ This seemed right, exactly the correct spirit. I walked back to the Columbia Buffet and pounded the front window. The old man opened the door with wet hands, sweat seeping from his hair.

I said, ‘What’s the name of that girl who works here?’

‘You mean Camilla?’

‘The one who worked here last night.’

‘That’s her,’ he said. ‘Camilla Lopez.’

‘Will you give this to her?’ I said. ‘Just give it to her. Tell her a fellow came by and said for you to give it to her.’

He wiped his dripping hards on his apron and look the magazine.

‘Take good care of it,’ I said. ‘It’s valuable.’

The old man closed the door. Through the glass I saw him limp back to his mop and bucket He placed the magazine on the bar and resumed his work. A little breeze flipped the pages of the magazine. As I walked away I was afraid he would forget all about it When I reached the Civic Centre I realised 1 had made a bad mistake: the inscription on the story would never impress that kind of a girl. I hurried back to the Columbia Buffet and banged the window with ray knuckles. I heard the old man grumbling and swearing as he fumbled with the lock. He wiped the sweat from his old eyes and saw me again.

‘Could I have that magazine?’ I said. ‘I want to write something in it.’

The old man couldn’t understand any of this. He shook his head with a sigh and told me to come inside.

‘Go get it yourself, goddamnit.’ he said. ‘I got work to do.’

I flattened the magazine on the bar and erased the inscription to the Mayan Princess. In place of it I wrote: