Half the Day Is Night by Maureen F. McHugh Page B

bank?” the old man asked.
    â€œThe bank is doing well,” she said. “Can you turn off the sprinklers? We’re getting wet.”
    She took the umbrella from the young man—Domingo?—and held it while he went to turn off the sprinklers. “I just got back from Marincite,” she said. “Did you read in the paper about Tumipamba’s funeral?”
    â€œJude said your picture was in the paper,” her grandfather said.
    There had been an im in the paper, of the coffin with Mayla standing at the foot, facing out of the picture. Mayla’s presence in the picture was an accident. Crisp black-and-white im, the cliché of funerals. Tim had said she looked like “a frigging presidential widow.”
    â€œI went to the funeral.” She sounded defensive.
    â€œThat was stupid,” he said.
    â€œI was working with Tumipamba,” she said. “I thought I should go to the funeral.”
    â€œAnd get your picture in the paper?”
    â€œI didn’t even know they took the im,” she said.
    â€œYou were working with this man? In Marincite?”
    â€œWe’re negotiating an agreement,” she said. “With Marincite.”
    She offered that as a kind of gift, her voice hopeful. The old man was silent, considering.
    The rain stopped. David found he’d been hunching his shoulders.
    â€œWhat kind of agreement?” her grandfather asked. Like his own father, David thought, this was a man who did not trust gifts. Who had to turn them over and over and who always suspected either a bribe or a catch.
    â€œMarincite Technical Exchange is going independent,” she said. “Marincite is spinning them off. We may do the financing. A lot of money.”
    He didn’t help her, just waited for her to go on. After a bit of silence she said tentatively, “I offered short-term notes with an automatic rollover. It would have been a better deal for them, but they wanted five-year fixed, something about the way they do business.” The terms meant nothing to David but he listened to the sound of her voice. He could hear things better now, through the strangeness of language and the shrillness. He could hear her nervousness, and hear how she got a little less nervous as she talked. She chattered on about buying some buildings and leasing them back to the company, while the old man sat silent, his eyes on the Indian red tile.
    â€œShort term?” he said suddenly, and coughed, a bark. “Why’d you push short term if they wanted fixed?” He had a hard, flat, American voice, David could hear that, too.
    â€œThe U.S. market is falling,” she said, her voice gone sharp and defensive again, “it’s got to correct, and then interest rates will drop. We thought with Marincite we’d have to give them short term. The bank will take short term,” she said and shoved her hands in her pockets.
    The old man looked up at her. “You didn’t do your homework.” The old tyrant looked pointedly at her hands and she took them out. “A client shouldn’t have to be sold,” he said.
    She didn’t say anything, just took her dressing down. Maybe she knew that nothing would make any difference. Better than himself, every time he saw his father they ended up screaming at each other. When was the last time he had seen his father?
    Mayla’s grandfather looked at him. “You’re new,” he said.
    Mayla promptly introduced her grandfather, “John Ling,” she said. John Ling leaned forward in his wicker chair and held out his hand and for a moment David thought he was supposed to help the old man stand up. Then he realized the old man wanted to shake hands.
    Loose dry skin over fragile bones.
    â€œWhat happened to the big blond … Tim?” the old man asked.
    â€œHe’s going back to Australia,” Mayla said.
    â€œAre you American?” John Ling asked.
    Nobody had ever