noticed a red-haired woman holding a glass in her ringed hand while listening attentively to a middle-aged man whose crazy hair and overgrown moustache reminded me of Mark Twain.
“Sheryl is busy right now,” Beatriz said. “You can’t expect her to entertain your guests.”
“Actually you will have her eternal gratitude if you were to interrupt her, for she would like nothing better than to get away from her present partner. She is only with him because her boss asked her to do so.”
Although nothing about the perfectly made-up face of the woman betrayed her annoyance, I knew, thanks to my new awareness, that Bécquer was right.
Bécquer caught my eye as I looked back and winked at me. Beatriz was not pleased. “What is it with you, Bécquer? Why is everything a joke to you?”
“My dear Beatriz, I assure you that is far from the case, but taking the world too seriously doesn’t make it a better place.”
With a flourish, Bécquer handed Beatriz back her phone. “And now, if you’ll excuse us. I must introduce Carla to Richard. Judging by his last e-mail, he’s very much interested in her novel.”
Beatriz glanced at me, her pale blue eyes cold and dismissive. I was glad for the mask that hid my features for I was certain my dislike of her was written on my face. I could read the hate on hers, as plainly as if I had sensed it in her mind. Which I hadn’t. For, unlike my experience with the woman Sheryl, I couldn’t read her mind. Federico hadn’t either. Why? I wondered. Why was Beatriz different?
“I agree he’s interested,” Beatriz was saying to Bécquer. “It’s with the subject of his interest I disagree.”
“Really, Beatriz. Who is the cynic now?”
“What is her problem?” I asked Bécquer as he led me through the crowd.
She’s jealous of you, Bécquer said, although he didn’t really, because at the same time he was talking with one of his guests, shaking a young man’s hand, bowing to a pretty woman with an ample bosom barely concealed by her low-cut dress, then moving past them, he complimented a tall gentleman on his attire, and kissed the gloved hand of his lady. So, really, he couldn’t be talking to me. Yet his voice was in my head explaining Beatriz was upset with him because she had noticed he liked me.
You like me? The question formed in my mind before I could stop it. Embarrassed, I turned my head away to hide my blushing.
Bécquer laughed but didn’t answer for just then we had reached the back of the room where a man in his thirties was leaning against the wall, a glass in his hand.
“Richard,” Bécquer said.
The man fixed his kohl-enhanced stare on Bécquer. “Bécquer, at last,” he said, his husky voice creating an intimacy that excluded everybody else. But Bécquer, his arm still on mine, nodded to him briefly and introduced me.
Limping slightly, Mr. Malick detached himself from the wall and bowed to me. “Enchanté,” he said.
“The pleasure is mine.”
“Getting into character, are we?” Bécquer asked him.
The man smiled, drinking Bécquer in with his stare. “Not everybody can pull Dorian Gray without make-up.”
“I meant the limp,” Bécquer said.
“Of course.” Mr. Malick turned to me. “Lord Byron,” he explained pointing at his flowing robes that consisted on the loose shirt and pants the Greek nationalists wore in the nineteenth century. “He had a congenital limp, the good lord. Mine is only temporary.”
Bécquer frowned. “You mean it’s real?”
“Quite so.”
“You should have told me. I would have gone to see you during the week. You didn’t have to stress yourself by coming here.”
“Nonsense.” Richard waved his hand to encompass the room. “I couldn’t possibly miss your party.”
“Let’s get you a seat.”
As Bécquer spoke, a couple sharing the sofa further along the wall got up.
A coincidence perhaps. Perhaps not, I thought as I remembered Federico’s conviction that Bécquer manipulated
“Sheryl is busy right now,” Beatriz said. “You can’t expect her to entertain your guests.”
“Actually you will have her eternal gratitude if you were to interrupt her, for she would like nothing better than to get away from her present partner. She is only with him because her boss asked her to do so.”
Although nothing about the perfectly made-up face of the woman betrayed her annoyance, I knew, thanks to my new awareness, that Bécquer was right.
Bécquer caught my eye as I looked back and winked at me. Beatriz was not pleased. “What is it with you, Bécquer? Why is everything a joke to you?”
“My dear Beatriz, I assure you that is far from the case, but taking the world too seriously doesn’t make it a better place.”
With a flourish, Bécquer handed Beatriz back her phone. “And now, if you’ll excuse us. I must introduce Carla to Richard. Judging by his last e-mail, he’s very much interested in her novel.”
Beatriz glanced at me, her pale blue eyes cold and dismissive. I was glad for the mask that hid my features for I was certain my dislike of her was written on my face. I could read the hate on hers, as plainly as if I had sensed it in her mind. Which I hadn’t. For, unlike my experience with the woman Sheryl, I couldn’t read her mind. Federico hadn’t either. Why? I wondered. Why was Beatriz different?
“I agree he’s interested,” Beatriz was saying to Bécquer. “It’s with the subject of his interest I disagree.”
“Really, Beatriz. Who is the cynic now?”
“What is her problem?” I asked Bécquer as he led me through the crowd.
She’s jealous of you, Bécquer said, although he didn’t really, because at the same time he was talking with one of his guests, shaking a young man’s hand, bowing to a pretty woman with an ample bosom barely concealed by her low-cut dress, then moving past them, he complimented a tall gentleman on his attire, and kissed the gloved hand of his lady. So, really, he couldn’t be talking to me. Yet his voice was in my head explaining Beatriz was upset with him because she had noticed he liked me.
You like me? The question formed in my mind before I could stop it. Embarrassed, I turned my head away to hide my blushing.
Bécquer laughed but didn’t answer for just then we had reached the back of the room where a man in his thirties was leaning against the wall, a glass in his hand.
“Richard,” Bécquer said.
The man fixed his kohl-enhanced stare on Bécquer. “Bécquer, at last,” he said, his husky voice creating an intimacy that excluded everybody else. But Bécquer, his arm still on mine, nodded to him briefly and introduced me.
Limping slightly, Mr. Malick detached himself from the wall and bowed to me. “Enchanté,” he said.
“The pleasure is mine.”
“Getting into character, are we?” Bécquer asked him.
The man smiled, drinking Bécquer in with his stare. “Not everybody can pull Dorian Gray without make-up.”
“I meant the limp,” Bécquer said.
“Of course.” Mr. Malick turned to me. “Lord Byron,” he explained pointing at his flowing robes that consisted on the loose shirt and pants the Greek nationalists wore in the nineteenth century. “He had a congenital limp, the good lord. Mine is only temporary.”
Bécquer frowned. “You mean it’s real?”
“Quite so.”
“You should have told me. I would have gone to see you during the week. You didn’t have to stress yourself by coming here.”
“Nonsense.” Richard waved his hand to encompass the room. “I couldn’t possibly miss your party.”
“Let’s get you a seat.”
As Bécquer spoke, a couple sharing the sofa further along the wall got up.
A coincidence perhaps. Perhaps not, I thought as I remembered Federico’s conviction that Bécquer manipulated
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