I worked on the book, pausing now and then to re-read his letter. I was reading it the night she came again. It was about midnight, and she walked in without knocking.

‘Hello,’ she said.

I said, ‘Hello, Stupid.’

‘Working?’ she said.

‘What does it look like?’ I said.

‘Mad?’ she said.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Just disgusted.’

‘With me?’

‘Naturally,’ I said. ‘Look at yourself.’

Under her jacket was the white smock. It was spotted, stained. One of her stockings was loose, wrinkled at the ankles. Her face seemed tired, some of the lip rouge having vanished. The coat she wore was dotted with lint and dust. She was perched on cheap high heels.

‘You try so hard to be an American,’ I said. ‘Why do you do that? Take a look at yourself.’

She went to the mirror, studied herself gravely. ‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘We were busy tonight.’

‘It’s those shoes,’ I said. ‘You ought to wear what your feet were meant to wear — huaraches. And all that paint on your face. You look awful — a cheap imitation of an American. You look frowsy. If I were a Mexican I’d knock your head off. You’re a disgrace to your people.’

‘Who are you to talk like that?’ she said. ‘I’m just as much an American as you are. Why, you’re not an American at all. Look at your skin. You’re dark like Eyetalians. And your eyes, they’re black.’

‘Brown,’ I said.

‘They’re not either. They’re black. Look at your hair. Black.’

‘Brown,’ I said.

She took off her coat, threw herself on the bed and stuck a cigarette in her mouth. She began to rumble and search for a match. There was a pack beside me on the desk. She waited for me to hand them to her.

‘You’re not crippled,’ I said. ‘Get them yourself.’

She lit a cigarette and smoked in silence, her stare at the ceiling, smoke tumbling from her nostrils in quiet agitation. It was foggy outside. Far away came the sound of a police siren.

‘Thinking of Sammy?’ I said.

‘Maybe.’

‘You don’t have to think of him here. You can always leave, you know.’

She snubbed out the cigarette, twisted and gutted it and her words had the same effect. ‘Jesus, you’re nasty,’ she said. ‘You must be awfully unhappy.’

‘You’re crazy.’

She lay with her legs crossed. The tops of her rolled stockings and an inch or two of dark flesh showed where the white smock ended. Her hair spilled over the pillow like a bottle of overturned ink. She lay on her side, watching me out of the depth of the pillow. She smiled. She lifted her hand and wagged her finger at me.

‘Come here, Arturo,’ she said. It was a warm voice.

I waved my hand.

‘No thanks. I’m comfortable.’

For five minutes she watched me stare through the window. I might have touched her, held her in my arms; yes, Arturo, it was only a matter of getting out of the chair and stretching out beside her, but there was the night at the beach and the sonnet on the floor and the telegram of love and I remembered them like nightmares filling the room.