Breathless, frantic, endless thing, going to be something big, going on and on, I hammered away for hours, until gradually it came upon me in the flesh, stole over me, haunted my bones, dripped from me, weakened me, blinded me. Camilla! I had to have that Camilla! I got up and walked out of the hotel and down Bunker Hill to the Columbia Buffet.

‘Back again?’

Like film over my eyes, like a spider web over me.

‘Why not?’

Arturo Bandini, author of The Little Dog Laughed and a certain plagiarization from Ernest Dowson, and a certain telegram proposing marriage. Could that be laughter in her eyes? But forget it, and remember the dark flesh under her smock. I drank beer and watched her at work. I sneered when she laughed with those men near the piano. I cackled when one of them put his hand on her hip. This Mexican! Trash, I tell you! I signalled her. She came at her leisure, fifteen minutes later. Be nice to her, Arturo. Fake it.

‘You want something else?’

‘How are you, Camilla?’

‘Alright, I guess.’

‘I’d like to see you after work.’

‘I have another engagement.’

Gently: ‘Could you postpone it, Camilla? It’s very important that I see you.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Please Camilla. Just tonight. It’s so important.’

‘I can’t, Arturo. Really, I can’t.’

‘You’ll see me,’ I said.

She walked away. I pushed back my chair. I pointed my finger at her, yelled it out: ‘You’ll see me! You little insolent beerhall twirp! You’ll see me!’

You’re goddamn right she’d see me. Because I was going to wait. Because I walked out to the parking lot and sat on the running board of her car and waited. Because she wasn’t so good that she could excuse herself from a date with Arturo Bandini. Because, by God, I hated her guts.

Then she came into the lot, and Sammy the bartender was with her. She paused when she saw me get to my feet. She put her hand on Sammy’s arm, restraining him. They whispered. Then it was going to be a fight. Fine. Come you, you stupid scarecrow of a bartender, just you make a pass at me and I’ll break you in half. And I stood there with both fists hard and waiting. They approached. Sammy didn’t speak. He walked around me and got into the car. I stood beside the driver’s seat. Camilla looked straight ahead, opened the car door. I shook my head.

‘You’re going with me, Mexican.’

I seized her wrist.

‘Let go!’ she said. ‘Get your filthy hands off!’

‘You’re going with me.’

Sammy leaned over.

‘Maybe she doesn’t feel like it, kid.’

I had her with my right hand. I raised my left fist and shoved it against Sammy’s face. ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘I don’t like you. So keep that lousy trap shut.’

‘Be sensible,’ he said. ‘What for you want to get all burned up about a dame?’

‘She’s going with me.’

‘I’m not going with you!’