“What am I, their mother?” Two customers reached for slices of pineapple, and the vendor made an impatient gesture with his knife. “Señorita, buy or move.”

Her heart pounding in panic, Batya bought a slice, trying to figure out what to do. This afternoon Sergio would pick her up. Only when they arrived at the train would he learn that the promised ledger was gone. She would explain, apologize, and beg not to be sent back.

Yet he might do just that.

Her stomach knotted, and her apprehension mounting, Batya returned to the house. She had just dismissed the boy she’d hired in the market to carry her baskets when she spotted Sergio in the pavilion, hours earlier than had been agreed upon. He wore a cream-colored travel suit and a white shirt, its collar open. Next to him rested a long cloth bag, out of which peeked her rented pink performance dress.

For a split second Batya thought that he’d found out about Rafael’s disappearance.

“Are you ready?” he asked, smiling uncharacteristically widely, probably for Freda’s sake.

“I thought you weren’t leaving until later,” the boyish Juliet piped from the depth of a sofa, where she sat with three other girls. They all rose up. “We’ve planned to give you a proper farewell.”

“The train schedule has changed,” Sergio interrupted, and his eyebrows zigzagged at Batya. She understood enough not to question him.

She ran up to her chamber to gather her belongings. Earlier, she had folded the change of dress into the carpetbag along with the baking soda with which she cleaned her teeth, her hairbrush, the eye kohl, cheek rouge, and lip coloring, and the cream she used to remove her makeup. Now she retrieved her father’s letters from her dresser drawer and threw them into the bag, then slid under the bed, moved the trunk, yanked out the loose stone, and withdrew her treasures. She wondered whether she should leave Ulmann’s ring behind, but there was no time to unfurl the jewelry pouch.

Just as she pushed the trunk back and scrambled to her feet, Glikel entered her room.

“What’s down there?” Glikel’s eyes darted from the bed to the packet in Batya’s hand.

“None of your business. Leave my room.” Batya tossed a last glance at the room, purposely left as if she had gone out on a stroll: her velvet robe that she so loved was thrown casually on the bed, her comfortable pink slippers strewn like neglected children by her dresser, where half her clothes remained. She pushed Glikel out and closed the door. Behind her she heard her door reopen, but there was no time to fight. In a minute, Glikel would crawl under the bed and find enough objects of desire in the trunk to sell for her opium consumption. It would make up for Batya’s failure to return the carpetbag.