I walked through the city. It was almost noon. There was no one in the streets. I felt a strange happiness, the sort I often felt after a day when I had worked hard and written a report, or organized something. I did not feel any urgent need to see Charles again, as we had both quietly acknowledged before I left the apartment, but I knew that I would see him again, and it was possible that he would become an ally in the future. I had enjoyed waking in the morning beside him, with nothing furtive in the air, no strain. I began to imagine what it would be like to wake beside someone you loved, or someone whose body you could not keep your hands off, to spend all morning in bed, and then wash and dress and have the day together, basking in the afterglow of what had happened in the night.

AS SOON AS I went in the door of my own apartment that Sunday morning I rang Pablo. I told myself on the way up the stairs that if I rang now he would answer. I did not pray now, or it wasn’t really prayer, but I used the words: I asked God to let Pablo answer the phone if I rang the number. I got a drink of water and pulled a chair up and sat down beside the phone. I picked up the receiver and dialed. The man who answered simply said “Sí” in a brusque tone. I could not tell who it was.

“Hola. ¿Puedo hablar con Pablo, por favor?” I tried to sound as businesslike as I could.

“¿Quién es, por favor?” Still, I could not tell who it was.

“Amigo suyo,” I said.

“Yo soy Pablo,” he said.

I said nothing for a moment.

“I wanted to talk to you,” I spoke in English, “but I wasn’t quite sure how to arrange it.”

“I’ve dropped by your house a few times,” he said. I had never heard him speak English before.

“I’d like to see you,” I said. And then I stopped. I had not been listening properly: “You called around to my house?”

“I wasn’t sure which bell it was, and so I tried them all. Then a woman told me which was yours, and I tried that again, but there was no reply.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“Where are you now?” he asked.

“At home.”

“Can I come around?”

“When?”

“Now. I hate Sunday here.”

I wanted time to prepare for him. After all the waiting, I felt a strange resistance, as though I were happier thinking about him than I was facing the possibility of meeting him.

“What about later on?”

“Okay. Like what time?”

“Six, say, or seven.”

“Between six and seven, where?”

“What about the bar of the Sheraton Hotel?”

“I’ll come in on the train. That’s good. I’ll see you there.”