“Sorry,” he repeated, extricating himself from the cape of assorted clothing that covered him, backing himself onto the pile on the floor, standing up, as best he might, while he pulled down on the hem of his borrowed Versace jacket, which he had never had a chance to take off.

“Wet,” he said, pointing toward the kitchen.

“That’s disgusting,” she said, in the same whisper.

“Kitchen,” he added.

“Where is Rafik?” Suddenly she was screaming. “Where is he? Where is he?”

Her lips were quavering, her eyes bloodshot. Did Heather smoke hash? He looked around again for tinfoil, but all he could see was clothes.

“That stinking sonofabitch!” she was screaming. “That goddamn whoring piece of shit!”

“Heather,” he tried, attempting to maneuver in such a way that she might come toward him, thereby freeing the doorway. “Work.”

“That motherfucker is not at work!” she screamed.

“Work. Providence.”

“You take me to the motherfucking dog-sucking nightclub that asshole is at right now!”

“Heather,” he tried.

“You were with him!”

“Heather.”

He wished he could understand more of what she was saying. He heard nightclub. He tried to see if he could dare her into the room. He put his hand on one of the suitcases.

“Don’t touch that!”

She moved toward him, just as he had hoped. He slipped past her and out the bedroom. But she was after him.

“Look, you cocksucking douche bag, you are telling me which club, or I kick your brains all over this apartment. ¿Comprende? ”

Spanish, this was bad. She was out of herself.

“I take you,” he tried.

“You what?”

“I . . . take . . . you,” he said slowly.

“Tell me. Don’t take me. Tell me.”

He began moving past the kitchen, where his efforts had made no impact on the lake of water, except perhaps to postpone its advance into the living room. He listened. It was raining outside.

“We go.”

“No, you dickless shitheel. Tell me.”

He could not let her find Rafik. He decided to keep pretending he did not know what tell meant.

“My daddy is coming tomorrow, and Rafik is out drilling some whore. You stupid sack of shit, tell me where he is. Now!”

She had backed him into the living room.

“Take you. Take you,” he said.

“Fuck!” She looked at her watch, then flew back to the bedroom and slammed the door. Aziz looked at the front door and began fumbling with the dead bolt, the steel floor guard, his pockets for keys. At last he pulled the door and closed it as gently as he could behind him. He would run around the block. She would think he was gone. He would sneak back later.