As he returned to the plaza he saw Santa vanishing in the opposite direction, moving stiffly, like a man in a body cast. In Woolworth’s, Gold was still nursing his cup. Although he had a newspaper—the New Mexican by the eagle on the masthead—he didn’t bother reading it. He sat looking at painted plaster sundaes, his lower lip pendulous with thought. He tapped the crystal of his watch, dropped change on the counter and walked out.

The plaza was coming to life, tourists not so much wandering in as suddenly appearing as customers at the portal, as kids with pistols running around the bandstand. The bank on the east side of the plaza opened its doors. Mail trucks rolled from the post office a block away and across from the cathedral. There were no traffic lights; cars and trucks ran counterclockwise around the plaza and sorted themselves out at the corners.

Gold stood on the curb, poised to dash through the traffic directly across the plaza and toward the obelisk and Joe. A milk truck went by, a carload of Navajos. Now Gold was walking up the street, under the pocket watch, past the Indian drums in the curio-shop windows, and again to the ticket office on the far corner. Then he appeared to make a decision to take his time. He strolled past the office, past Thunderbird Curios and the bank’s Ionic columns, crossed Palace Avenue and made a detour down a side street to Maytag’s. Joe didn’t know why he was following Gold. Curiosity? A sense that everything about Gold was wrong? He seemed carried by the wake of the fat little man. Maytag’s sold washing machines on one side of the store and music on the other. Gold scrutinized the Hit Parade list taped to the inside of the window. At last he came back up the street to the plaza and Santa Fe’s central attraction, the Indians on the portal.

The portal was a shaded arcade. Women from the pueblos of the Rio Grande valley sat against the cool adobe wall. In front of each was a blanket or rug displaying red San Juan pots, black pots from Santiago, Santa Clara’s double-necked wedding pots, turquoise jewelry from Santo Domingo or Navajo beaten-silver concho belts. A few women wore the single-shoulder dress; most wore cotton dresses, aprons and sweaters. They yawned, read movie magazines or gossiped, paying cursory attention to the Anglos who stooped or knelt to fondle or disparage the wares exhibited. This being an event of their vacations, the would-be buyers dressed like dudes and browsed with intensity.