“Oh, yes,” Martin said, as if I’d opened up the most fascinating subject in the world. “Cacao completely changed the economy and politics of this country. It used to be that all the money and power was in Quito—with the traditional elite and the Church—but after the cacao boom a new oligarchy was born in Guayaquil and we finally have a say in national politics. The last few presidents have been liberal and have pushed for modernization and the separation of Church and State. Am I boring you?”

Martin leaned over the table, resting his arms on the flat surface while he watched me.

“Not at all,” I said.

He continued telling me about local politics and regionalism. He smiled often, but it was a guarded smile, one might even call it rehearsed. His voice was not as loud as it used to be nor was his laughter as boisterous. He was also careful with his language. Not a single curse word was voiced in my presence anymore.

It was driving me crazy.

I missed the old, unrestrained Martin, and I told him so. He sat back with an amused smile.

“All right, I’ll throw an hijo de puta here and there if it pleases you.”

I laughed.

“I was getting exhausted with having to watch everything I say or do anyway,” he said, and ordered two more puros.

When the prostitutes came, Martin told them we didn’t need their services tonight. I was grateful for being spared the sight of that woman sitting on Martin’s lap and kissing him. The two of them gave us a baffled look and hesitantly left. As they walked away, Carmela whispered something into her friend’s ear.

Martin and I talked for a long time. He wanted to know everything about my childhood in Spain, about the scarce memories of my father, about how my mother and I had survived all those years without a husband and a father. I told him my father used to send us money, plus my mother had a small inheritance from my grandfather, who’d been a merchant of fabrics. I also told Martin about my grandmother, María Purificación García, and how she’d invented a cacao roasting machine in 1847, which could also be used for coffee beans. He was extremely interested in this invention. He borrowed a fountain pen and ink from the barman and asked me to draw the contraption on a napkin.

“Where is it?” he said after I was done drawing and explaining how the roaster worked.

“I left it with my former assistant, La Cordobesa. It’s the only thing I have left in Spain.”

He said I should send for it “once this was all over.” That was the only time he mentioned my precarious situation.

After we’d finished an entire bottle of aguardiente, Martin wanted to know about my husband. I loosened my tie.