After he got dressed, he lingered, a pleasant smile on his face. “I’ve brought you a poem I know will touch you.” He settled on the upholstered chair, had Batya perch on his knees, and pulled out a folded sheet of paper typeset in Yiddish. “It’s called ‘The Circus Lady,’ by Celia Dropkin.”

I’m a circus lady,

I dance between the knives

standing in the ring,

tips pointing up.

My lightly bending body

avoids death from falling

by brushing lightly, lightly against the blades.

Breathless, they watch me dance

and someone prays for me.

Before my eyes the points

flash in a fiery wheel,—

and no one knows how I want to fall.

I’m tired of dancing between

you, cold steel knives.

I want my blood to scald you,

I want to fall

on your naked tips.

Tears had gathered in Batya’s eyes even before he was done. Did a client finally understand?

He touched her face and kissed her mouth. Then, still seated, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a key and dangled it in front of her face.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“What does it look like?”

“A key.” Her heart gave a flip. Was it finally happening?

“That’s right. I’ve purchased an apartment in Barrio Norte, and I am asking you to live there.” His voice lost its force. “If you want me, of course.”

She couldn’t believe her good luck. Yet— “Your poor wife. Will she get better?”

He shook his head. “The doctors agree that she’s deteriorating.”

Batya dropped down to her knees, closing her arms around his waist. “Of course I want you.” She tilted her head back and, using her sweetest tone, said, “You’ll talk to Moskowitz?”

“I’m prepared to pay him. I am a man of comfortable means, but not wealthy. My store is small, and my expenses are high, what with my wife’s medical bills and my saving for my boys’ education. The oldest is about to leave for boarding school in England.” Ulmann held both of Batya’s hands in his and brought the tips of her fingers to his lips. “I can guarantee you a small stipend, enough to pay for your food and those little things you women find so charming. Also some clothes—nothing extravagant, but of the style you can wear to accompany me to the theater.”

Her heart sang. Ulmann didn’t need to add that he would be her only man. She would be done with her life of prostitution. Being a mistress was a thousand times better—and there could never be a more gentle, more considerate patron.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and planted little kisses all over his face. “I will make you very happy.”

“What was your given name, your Jewish name before Esperanza?”

“Batya.”

“Batya,” he repeated. “I’m Bernardo. Baruch at the synagogue, but call me Bernie.”