“Sylvia, are you okay?” Diego insisted.

“Yes,” she said.

In her mind she was answering an urgent request for a little more tongue.

“Did you hear a word I said in the last ten minutes?”

“Ssssure.”

“So … are you willing to do it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What am I asking you about?”

His voice was a mix of grunt and bark, throaty with a machete edge.

“I don’t know.”

“I’m talking about Umbra.”

“Oh … yeah,” she replied, smacking her lips unconsciously. “No … I can stick it out if I have to … I guess.”

“Seriously, mi hija,” he said, taking her hand. “Are you sure?”

“Yes … I am.” Shut up, she wanted to say, you’re breaking my concentration.

“C’mon, tell me the truth.”

“Why don’t you believe me?” she said, shaking her hand loose. “I was just venting a few minutes ago. I’m all right. I’m fine. Some days I’m finer than others, but I’m fine.”

He held her face. She stiffened. She didn’t want to be touched right now. She wanted to remain suspended in the weightlessness of fantasy.

“You’re not happy there. Why don’t you leave?”

His palms felt like slugs. She pulled away sharply.

“Mi hija—”

She cut him off. “Stop, Diego. Leave it alone.”

“You’re such a crazy bitch sometimes.”

She got up to leave. And he held on to her. She tried to twist away.

“Okay, mamí, I’m sorry … but stay so we can talk.”

Could I really just want to suck him off? The question was a ball of stress behind her eyes. As soon as she acknowledged it, it bounced back and forth between her temples, then began to ricochet around her head at faster and faster speeds.

“Diego … let me go.”

She had to leave.

“Just listen for just a sec …”

Could I really just want to suck him off?

She began to scream. Hyperventilate. “Let … me … go.” She lost control and slapped Diego, splitting his lip.

“You need to get outta here,” he said, heading toward the kitchen. “I’m about to get a little hostile.”

She began to apologize but he waved her away.

“Get the fuck out before I kill you.”

chapter three

On the seventh floor of the Fulton Inn, a hotel on the edge of Prospect Park, Fire lay down by a curtained window and wrote a letter to Blanche. Shirtless and barefoot, flowers by his side, he opened a packet of flecked beige paper and swam in a sea of thoughts, his pen skimming the words like a seal moving through scalloped waves.

He glanced outside and thought of why he liked this part of Brooklyn so. He paused and considered the arc within his view—the rambling woods in the rolling park … the triumphal arch at the roundabout … the grand boulevard with the old shade trees … the museum’s dome above a stand of trees. It was a little slice of Europe, where beauty was a premise, and form was more revered than function.