“Though the men,” I reflect, “can easily remedy that by getting laid a few times or having some drinks.”

“Yes,” Bibi replies, “but they kill her, then kill themselves, and if they take to red wine instead, they start seeing flying rats: alcoholism, mental illness, suicide. And with that we come full circle: Those most likely to commit suicide are—”

“Right, I know: crazy people.”

“Yes, crazy people, which is an extremely vulgar and entirely incorrect thing to call them. In serious terms, the mentally ill fall into distinct categories: neurotics, psychotics, and abnormal personalities. Usually the ones who sentence themselves to suicide are suffering from melancholy, the sickness of depression. Not only do they destroy themselves, they’re propagandists; they’re the type that also kills children ‘so they won’t suffer.’ What can be done about it? Psychiatrists for all!”

Bibi adds, “But, I don’t have any specifics on any of this.”

She says she’ll work on it, it’s only a matter of time; she wants me to introduce her to Tío Eduardo. And she has no intention of cutting it out with the animals, no matter what I say.

•

I wait for Blanca where we’d agreed.

When she shows up, I see she’s made an effort, the hair salon and all the rest of it. She’s “all dressed up”—or, in other words, quite scantily clad.

My suit and shirt have been on since this morning, which must be apparent; Piel Blanca shoots me a disapproving glance. But her outfit won’t be as noticeable in the place we’re headed for, the Momotombo.

At the Momotombo they seat us in a corner on a piece of upholstered furniture that we share with other couples whose faces we’d be unable to tell apart.

We hold back while the drinks are arriving. Then we step onto the small dance floor and spend a long time there. We confine our movement to a tiny space, which isn’t exactly dancing, and each time the music stops we stay put until it starts again so as not to lose possession of our sixty square centimeters. She’s in my arms all the while, naturally.

I’ve kissed her two or three times and by now she accepts my hands but doesn’t participate.

Impossible to talk; with all the noise, it would take an enormous effort to be heard.

She indicates that her feet hurt and I make a gesture to suggest she take off her shoes. But it’s impossible to dance with the shoes in one hand while also holding each other, and if she leaves the shoes somewhere we might not find them later.

So we go back to the banquette where the ice in our whiskeys has melted.

Conversation is impossible here, too, but it’s slightly easier to make yourself understood.

In any case, I’d prefer for our bodies to make themselves understood.