Another month had passed when her family in Russia celebrated Passover, while in Argentina summer refused to leave and its humid heat pressed on Batya like the lead cape of her dilemma. In his weekly visits, Ulmann had repeated the sweetest words Batya had ever heard, “I want you to be my lifelong companion,” to which she mumbled that this was what she wanted most in her life. “You know it takes time to get the papers in order,” she said.

He never asked the obvious question, whether she had saved enough to pay for the ocean crossings for her family. She wouldn’t have had a positive answer: her bank account hadn’t grown since Freda had begun deducting Dora’s cost. Nor did he ask what would happen when her family arrived. She alone existed for him, detached from her relatives, and Batya guessed that, wrapped as he was in his need, he assumed that they’d fend for themselves as all immigrant families did.

Her only escape from her predicament and the men visiting her chamber was her dance practice sessions in the upstairs hall above the milonga, where the bandoneón player pumped his instrument and the music swept Batya into forgetting, at least for a little while, the pros and cons that kept churning in her head. How she loved the daring new combinations Sergio taught her! He had given names to the steps she already knew. Palanca was levering her during a jump. Tijeras were the foot or legs scissoring. Quebrada, the sudden body twist. At dawn, before falling asleep, Batya forced her mind off her burning quandary by envisioning their choreographed dances.

Twice more the prosecutor showed up at her rehearsals to interrogate Batya, going over endless details. He showed Batya photographs of pimps, asking her to identify those she knew. When and where she’d seen each, why she remembered the occasion, and what she had heard in café conversations.

“What about Restaurant Calle Florida? Have you ever been there?”

She let out a derisive chuckle. “Oh, yes.”

“Who were the caftans you met there?”

“One was in jail at the time but got permission to get out to see his dentist. Instead, he came to Calle Florida for a gourmet feast.”

“What was his name?”

“I don’t know. But I heard him tell the others that his judge had stored his own late mother’s furniture in the jail. Then, when his palm was greased—”

“Explain please what you mean by ‘greased’?”

“Bribed. The judge ordered the warden to furnish the pimp’s cell with his mother’s beautiful furniture.”

Señor Ramos took a moment to look at his notes. “The procurers. Whom do you know?”

“Procurers?”

“Alfonsos. Those who work in Europe for the pimps but don’t run the brothels.”