The Condition
Robert Finley, a skinny man in his early
thirties, leaned back in his chair, sipped his coffee and surveyed the hotel’s
outdoor dining area. His Vuarnets
reflected the glare of ocean whitecaps less than a hundred yards away. With each surging wave came scents of frying
bacon, coffee, and saline, ascending into the air and settling into his
nostrils. He looked down at the blue tile floor interwoven with wide yellow
stripes representing snakes, a design favored by three star Mexican hotels
hugging the Cancun coast line.
When vacationing, Robert stays at the
least expensive hotel, reasoning that little time will be spent in his room
other than to sleep. His room was on the
third floor with a small balcony facing the hotel’s parking lot. The room smelled of moth balls and
disinfectant, and while the small bathroom
was adequate, the finishing work was shoddy: it annoyed him that the tiles
weren’t set right and mold was setting in the mortar. He could imagine the native workers bent
over, slapping clumps of white grout on to the tile floor and not getting it
quite right, all the while cursing in Spanish at the oppressive heat.
Inhaling deeply and with an audible
sigh, he observed the luminous, white clouds overhead with the morning
sun just touching its edges. The air was warm and humid. Breezes pushed the thunderheads slowly across
the sky like obese Spanish galleons sailing the blue-green Caribbean
seas. He sat there languidly, contemplating the meaning of life,
and whether he would have trouble finding a date that evening.
He turned his attention to the beach
where girls in their scanty clad bikinis squeezed beads of oil from plastic
bottles and spreading it onto their pale skins.
Sitting up from his slouched position, he tried to catch the waiter’s
eye but the activity of the breakfast buffet crowd shielded him from being
noticed. He could have served himself,
but why should he? By not doing so, he
mused, waiters will stay gainfully employed instead of forming dissent and
kidnapping tourists, and that was a good thing, was it not?
Too bad, Beverly couldn’t come. But, then again, it was nice being alone and
not having to cheer her up. Cheering up
chronically depressed people can be absolutely acidulous and fatiguing to
one’s well-being. Bev has lived her life
like an extension of a Tennessee Williams’ play, and after three years of
living together, he had given up all hope that she might change.
“No, you go ahead, Bob. You know how I am
in tropical climates,” she said. “I’m
just not up to it. I have all sorts of
allergies and just the thought of my damp shirts sticking to my skin…it gets
suffocatingly hot there, you know. All
those itchy rashes breaking out between my legs, not to mention the steaminess
in the inside of my tight bras and panties, yuck! And those straps rubbing against my raw
skin…The water is undrinkable. I’d be
getting the runs and end up sitting in a smelly potty all day, and you know how
course their toilet paper is…let alone the condition of their potties. Well,
that’s what I heard. It’s really
disgusting how those people can live in those conditions. No, you go ahead without me…and have a good
time for the both of us, hear?”
Bev always had many reasons not to enjoy
herself, accompanied with an explicit graphic explanation of why. “Just go, have fun and I’ll be waiting for
you when you get back.” She kisses the
tip of her forefinger and presses it against his nose. Yes, she will be waiting.
He noticed the dark Hispanic woman that
first evening he stepped out on the patio of the resort’s bar and
restaurant. She was always dining alone. During her entire meal, she exhibited an air
of expectancy, her head up constantly surveying the room, dark glasses hiding
her eyes. But no one came; no one put in
an appearance, no husband, no boyfriend, no companion. This ritual went on for several days. He couldn’t judge her age, probably several
years older than himself, maybe not. Her
lips were thin and her hook nose lend a sharpness to her features. The head seemed small in proportion to her
body, but she was slender and moved with graceful purpose. She had the kind of sensual attraction that
causes heads to turn during high school study hall. Could she be seduced, he wondered?
The woman undoubtedly requested to be
seated alone in the dining area. This
was not unusual since he had also requested the same. His request was predicated by an incident
that happened years ago on a holiday cruise.
He was assigned to sit with a group and, as he began his first course,
they stopped him while his soup spoon was in mid-air. The tourists, seated on both sides, asked for
his hands. He hastily dropped the spoon
and did as they requested, thinking it was a séance to improve their
appetites. With his hands held tightly,
the group bowed their heads and said Grace.
After Grace was Amended, one female member of the group turned to him
and, with an air of assurance, said, “You are a Christian, of course.” For which Robert replied with a blank
expression, “No, Ma’am, I’m not. I
happened to be a Moslem, a Shiite Moslem.”
“But you’re White,” protested the woman.
“And if I was Black, then it would be
alright?” The rest of the meal was eaten
in silence and profound awkwardness. Robert, an agnostic, just glared when a male member of
the group offered a stuttering apology.
It was fun.
After several days of surveillance,
Robert made up his mind during breakfast to introduce himself. He rose from his chair and, with heart
pounding caution, approached her table.
She was not wearing her sunglasses.
“Good morning. May I enquire, do you speak English?”
“Yes, what do you want?” she snaps, with alert suspicion. He observed a nearly imperceptible stiffing
of her body.
“Please forgive me. It’s just…these past few days, I couldn’t
help noticing that you’ve been dining alone.
I’m also alone and wonder if you and I could, perhaps, keep each other
company…of course if you wish privacy, then allow me to apologize for intruding
and I’ll return to my table and not bother you again.”
She blinked her eyes with bewilderment and
looked at him for a few seconds. “No,
no, it is I that should apologize for being so abrupt. Please if you will,” she nodded and
graciously motioned to the chair opposite her.
“Why thank you.” He quickly sat down on the wicker that
made small chirping sounds as he adjusted himself. “My name is Robert Finley,” he said, with a
broad smile, “but I like people to call me Bob.
I’m not fond of Robert, the name, I mean.…maybe it’s because I had no
choice in the matter, but then, who does?”
He waited for a reaction to his ice breaking pronouncement. Her face was blank. After an embarrassing
pause, he continued, “And what, may I ask, is your name?”
“Ah…Robert is a very nice name, I think,
much nicer than Bob,” she said, “Bob sounds so much like, ah, what you call a
horse tail or a cut of hair? And my name
is...Leticia. I am pleased to meet you.”
“Leticia is a beautiful name. You haven’t ordered breakfast, I see. Would you mind if I join you?”
She hesitated, “You mean to eat with me?”
“Yes, of course. Joining you, in this case, means sharing with
you an activity, like breakfast.” Is she
yanking his chain? “It doesn’t mean that
we should be joined together physically.
English has so many idioms.” She
said nothing. He continued, “Now, would
you prefer to line up at the buffet or wait to be served? Or would you rather we just sit and have our
morning coffee? I am being too
presumptuous? Please forgive me.”
She places a finger to her cheek as if
meditating, then said, “No, not so, but I can tell you are a man in a big hurry. You are tourist, no? You must relax. It is what you come for…not to rush. Yes?”
Could this be a come on? Maybe she was a prostitute playing coy? Perhaps she thinks I’m a hotel cop? Nothing was too asinine for Robert’s fertile
imagination. “You’re right, I am kind of
rushing it a bit. It always happens when
I meet interesting people.”
She raises an eye brow and said, ”Oh,…I am
interesting to you?”
“No, I don’t mean…Look, let me start
again. Can you and I eat our breakfast
…..together?
She paused as if making a monumental
decision. “I do not see why we should
not. Yes, I would like that.”
“Well, great. I mean…that’s great.” Excitedly, he looked around for a waiter.
“No, not yet.” She gently placed her hand on his uplifted
arm. “The waiters are busy. We can just sit here and talk while we wait.”
Robert’s sexual fantasy was slowly
materializing. “I would like nothing
better. First, I would like to know
where you’re from. No, don’t tell me, let me guess….you’re from Mexico City?.”
”But you are wrong,” she said. “I am from
the province
of Acatecas,
a dry country a thousand kilometers from the capitol. Now please allow me to do
the same and see if I can tell where you are from."
“Be my guest,” said Robert, leaning toward
her.
“I am not your guest,” she laughs. Then furrowing her brow, she studied him for
several seconds. “You are, maybe, from California and your home is Los Angeles, that is my guess. Would I be correct?”
“Well, I’ll be…tell me how you knew,” he
asked.
“Do you know, I spent many years in your
city? I was exchange student and was to
be a nurse,” she said. “I am, now, a registered nurse. I passed the nurse’s exam in your
country.” She glanced over his shoulder,
presumably to estimate the length of the line at the buffet table.
“Uh..not to change the subject but are you
with someone? I mean, did you come with
a friend, a relative…a husband, perhaps?” He uncrossed his legs and stirred his coffee cup.
“…I am with no one at the moment, although
I am married,” she announced, with a tone of regret. “It is not wrong, a woman eating alone. I see this in your country often.”
“Not married ones”, he said.
“Well, …my eating alone is a sad story and
I am sure you do not want to hear it.”
“But I do”, he said. ‘I’m fascinated by
sad stories.”
“Now I know you are mocking me,” she
frowned.
“But I'm not… Look, I don’t mean to make
light of your circumstances,” he reached over and gently touched her hand,
“really I don’t.. tell me about it, perhaps I can help….but I think we should
be having our breakfast
first,” he suggested. Robert noticed the dining room emptying. He reached for her hand, “Come on, let’s join
the end of the line. It seems to be
getting shorter. That alright with you?”
“Yes, I suppose,” she made an effort to be
cheerful.
Not another Bev, the thought flipped
through his mind as they passed the steam table and spooned the food onto their
plates. Am I condemned to be attracted
to this kind of woman?
Robert was surprised at her large
appetite. She systematically devoured
two brown biscuits, three slices of bacon, two eggs, a slab of ham, a huge
mound of hash browns topped with chili and beans, and a small salad. There was half as much on his plate and he
wasn’t sure he could finish even that amount.
Being self-conscience is certainly not in her repertoire, he thought. She was smooth and efficient as she stabbed
and then delicately sliced her meat and placed it in her mouth. She even managed to spread cold butter on
biscuits without crumbling it into pieces, a feat that he never could master.
While she was consuming her meal, she kept
eyeing him as if expecting some response.
Robert took small inhibiting bites which she seemed to resent. “If I
haven’t mentioned this, uh, I sell things for a living,” he said. She nodded and kept eating. “I work for a company that makes custodial
equipment for institutions. In fact,
it’s paying for this trip because I had the best sales record this past year.
“It must be wonderful…selling things,” she
said after struggling to swallow a mouthful of food. “Please forgive me. I am not use to this…”
What is it that she's not used to? he
wondered. Better to leave that one
alone, probably some kind of eating disorder.
She continued, “What do you sell?” She herded her food into little piles
and scooped them up with her fork.
“Paper products, office equipment, cleaning supplies, furniture. I
sell to large institutions like hospitals, hotels, prisons…”
“Prisons?” she interrupted suddenly,
looking up with fork poised in mid-air.
“They’re our biggest customers,” he said,
with a little pride. I’m just a middle guy that gets the contracts…a kind of
useless thing when you really look at it, but it’s what I do. I’m sure it’s much more rewarding working as
a nurse.”
“You think so?” She looked at Robert expectantly while she
continued to battle with her plate. He
began to concentrate on his own breakfast which was hardly touched. Seeing that he had begun to eat and had no
intention of continuing the conversation, she laid down her eating utensils
dejectedly and said, “I do not know if it is rewarding or not. I’m a charge nurse, charge nurses have
administrative duties and hardly leaves the nursing station, although we do
give out medications and give the injections.
Have you ever given medication to anyone, Mr. Finley?
“You mean like giving somebody pills?” He was surprised at the question but attributed it to small talk.
“No, like hypodermic injection or putting
in a catheter.”
“You can’t be serious? I cover my eyes when I get vaccinated.” He gives a shudder as he cuts his cold
eggs into sections.
“It is not the same, you know, receiving
pain and giving pain. I doubt you would
have troubles giving injections if you had practice,” she said.
“Practice?”
“I give you a needle and let you practice
on a pork chop or an orange or two.
After a few jabs, you will discover it can be fun,” she picked up her
silverware and began putting more food
in her mouth. “You will find no pain when you do the injecting,” she grinned
chewed and swallowed.
“Leticia, I am surprise. What you are saying sounds a little bit
sadistical. Is there a side of you that
I should be careful about?” he asked, mischievously.
There was a perceptible change in her
demeanor. He wasn’t sure if it was
something he had just said. The air of
amusement slowly drained from her face.
She looked down at her plate, then pushed it away. After a moment of silence, she looked up out
into the ocean and said to no one in particular, “Sadism is a word that has
many meanings.” Facing Robert again, she
reached into her purse and retrieved a cigarette. She then placed it between her lips and ceremoniously
lights it. Inhaling the smoke deep in
her lungs, she slowly lets it drift through her nostrils as her gaze wandered
past his left shoulder. She picked up her cup and sipped her coffee in silence. Robert never smoked and had no great sympathy
with those who did.
She continued, “I told you I was married, and I guess you are wondering why my husband is not here.”
Immediately, he regretted for having
broached upon the subject of her seclusion.
The ablution of possible family sins does not fit a romantic
scenario. He began slowly, deliberately,
trying to phrase a correct response without being patronizing. ”Please, I don’t have any right to pry, not
even the slightest, not into something that is …obviously painful and
private.” He reached over and
solicitously pats her hand.
“Oh, I do not mind a bit. To be truthful, it would make me feel better
if I told someone. You seem so nice a
person, so gentlemanly, so why not you?”
Yes….why not me? There was no stopping her. Robert felt his half eaten eggs congealing on
his plate and getting colder by the minute.
Desperately, he says, “..but
shouldn’t we, uh, let’s say, talk about it…after dinner tonight? I was hoping we could spend the evening
together, perhaps on the beach. We could
warm up with some margaritas,” he began gesturing with his hips and his hands, “The sounds
of distant guitars will be playing for us from a distant shore. Your audience would be me and a million
stars, eager to listen to the sound of your voice.”
“You do speak with lovely words,” she
sighed.
“It’s what I do.”
“No, no, it must come off my chest,” she
said adamantly. “I would be more relaxed
if I can speak of it now. Then we go for
a swim, no? And wash all these cares
away?” She squashed her cigarette into a
saucer, rummaging her purse for another one. Robert laid down his silverware
and slowly sat back on the rattan chair creating a host of chirping
noises. He puffed out his cheeks and she
sees it. “Oh, you are unhappy,” she exclaimed. “You are unhappy because I make you listen to
my troubles.”
“Of course not. I’m not the least unhappy. What makes you think I’m unhappy?
“You give a look. You give a..what you call it…how my papa look
at me when I break something…” She began
fluttering her hands and then lights her cigarette. “You give a solemn look.”
“I look solemn?” he laughed. “Maybe it’s because you have my
fullest attention. It doesn’t mean I’m
unhappy, not by a long shot.”
“How can I believe you?. But tell me..what is a long shot? Is it very different from a ‘short’
one?” Before Robert could explain
another perplexing idiom, she went on, “No matter, it is more important to
tell you my sad story.” Exhaling smoke
from her nostrils, she stared into his Vuarnets, looking at her
reflection. Somehow his appetite faded
and he hungered for more hot coffee. He
motioned to the waiter and pointed down to his cup. This time, the waiter rushed over with a
thermos, poured coffee into both cups and leaves the thermos on the table. Robert was distracted momentarily
at the waiter’s generosity and prompt service.
She began, “My husband’s name is Armando, a nice name,
yes? It is as nice as yours, only he
likes his name. In fact, he likes everything
about himself. I met him when he was a
student at the American hospital where I was training to be a nurse. When you
are far away from home for a long time, sometimes you forget the customs and
the traditions that govern your life. We
were surrounded with America
friends and, being in the United
States of America, it was easy for us to
forget our places and who we are.” She
paused to watch the cigarette smoke rise to the ceiling.
“Go on…,” prompted Robert.
“I will try,” she said, dabbing her eyes
with the table napkin. “Armando is a
Castilian. His ancestors came with
Cortez when he sailed from Spain
to this country. They are very proud…and
they are very rich. They have land
grants given to them, centuries ago, by King Phillip of Spain. When I met Armando, all he wanted was to be a
medical doctor. He was handsome and
every nice. We see each other many times
at work, and soon, we see each other after work. We became as one, in our soul and in our
body. You understand?”
“You slept with him?” he gently enquired.
“Yes.
We were ashamed at first. After a
time it seemed so easy and so natural, but we decided not to live in sin and to
get married. All our American friends, and people
we worked with, thought it was fine of what we were about to do. They just wished us happiness and joy. They could not see what we would not
see. We were so happy that we forgot the
great difference that existed between us…”
“There is a difference between you
two?” Robert neglected to put sugar in
his coffee and when he sipped it, he made a grimace and choked slightly. “What
is he?” he sputtered, half coughing.
“He’s rich and you’re poor, is that it?
His parents think you’re marrying him for his money? You are Catholic and he's not? I do understand, since I am Episcopalian.” Taking a napkin,
Robert carefully wiped his chin.
“No, no, you are mistaken. It is not that he is rich or I so poor, and he is Catholic like me. No, no, it is something else.”
They both turned to the sound of a crying
baby coming from the beach, then focused on the drama of the mother trying to
comfort her baby. There was a moment of silence,….
“Well, if it’s not that…is he a lot
younger than you…or is Armando old enough to be your father? he asked.
“Look at me. What do you see?”
“a lovely young lady,” he said,
tentatively.
“Look again.”
“I
don’t know what to look for. Is it
something physical? I don’t suppose you
have a wooden leg or something? Just kidding.”
For an instant, the word ‘trans-gender’ appeared in his mind, but was
immediately dismissed. “Frankly, I can’t
see a goddamn thing wrong with you.”
“I am Indian.” She announced proudly.
“What?
Come again? What kind of
Indian? You mean like an Apache Indian,
a Sioux, or an Indian from India? I’m not a native and I really can’t tell you
people apart. You sure look Anglo-Saxon
Mexican to me, if there is such a thing.
But so what? So what if you’re
an…an Indian.
“If you open your eyes, you will see my
face is Mayan. My skin has yellowish
tone, my cheeks high, my eyes almond shaped.
My ancestors were Mayans who greeted Armando’s ancestors when they
landed here with Cortez’s army. They
came to seek gold, and my ancestors became slaves to their greed. Armando’s parents are pure blooded Spaniards
as is Armando, while I.. I am a Mestizo...”
“What are Mestizos?” interrupted Robert.
”The Mestizos…are like the Negros in your country.
The difference is, ancestors of Negros
were forced from their homeland and made slaves on foreign soils, while we
Mestizos…we became slaves in our own country.
Eventually we were freed,” she said, sarcastically, “but most of us are
still oppressed, many live in dire poverty, and all are look down upon in the
Mexican society. I am Mestizo and my
in-laws are not. They despise me. They look at me with fear and disgust. If you look at me closely, Mr. Finley, you
will see the difference.” She angrily
flicked her cigarette ashes on the blue tile floor.
Earlier that week, Robert took a bus tour
to Chichen Itza, an ancient Mayan ruin in the Yucatan Peninsula. He recalled the bus passing a group of dark
skinned people, wearing white muslin pants and thick wool panchos, trudging
along the side of the dirt road. The
tour guide, on seeing the group, abruptly broke off his lecture and made
disparaging remarks concerning native Indians.
He gave dire warnings about dealing with ‘these Mestizos’. “They are lazy,” he commented, “and they will
cheat when they can. Do not do business
with them. Many are criminals and
beggars…” The Mexican guide looked European. Now, that he
thought about it, it did seemed that the busboys, the janitors, the maids, the
ones who did the unpleasant labor, the manual labor, were all either darker
skinned or had flat noses, higher cheek bones or both. The fairer, more Anglo-Saxon type, had the
better jobs. They were the managers, the
tour guides, the administrators.
“Is this the reason why your husband has
abandoned you? If that’s the case, then
he is the biggest fool I can think of,” he said, indignantly.
‘Do
not make judgment until I tell you the rest.
Before we were married, we went to our parent for their blessing. My parents were against this union. They said that if we had to marry, it must
not be in the church or by a priest.”
“…because?” he asked.
“My parents felt that to be married in the
Church, we would not be able to get a divorce later when we came to our
senses. Armando’s parents were against
any form of marriage. They would rather
we just sleep together, then I would be just his whore, but my sweet Armando was persistent, so his
family finally consented that we could, only in a civil ceremony….and with just
one condition. At the time , it seemed
such a small thing,” she said bitterly.
“Just one condition? “ he asked.
“Yes, just one…And it was asked by Armando’s
mother. You must understand, my husband,
he is a man of honor and integrity and would never break his word. His mother knew that. If he accepted this condition, he would never
cheat on it and she was sure that eventually it would drive us apart.”
“What was the condition?” asked Robert, now
thoroughly immersed in the story.
Leticia looked down at her breast and
brushed away an imaginary piece of bread crumb, then she said in a dry,
breaking voice, “The condition was that we were never to eat together.”
There was a long pause. Robert grappled
with the significance of her revelation.
He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or look sympathetic. Was she joking? He finally asked. “You and your husband not eat together? I’m sorry but it sounds so..so bizarre, so
trivial, so…so stupid!”
“Stupid or not, it was what Armando’s
parents wanted. We were told that if the
condition was ever violated, Armando’s very large inheritance would go to a
religious order,” Leticia’s eyes widen., “and we would not get a peso; not a
peso.”
“Well, I don’t know what to say. I guess not eating together can be a little
annoying. But to tell you the truth, my
girl friend, back in the States, we hardly have a meal together for weeks at a
time. It doesn’t seem to bother us in
the least.
“You have a girlfriend?” she asked
quickly, then thought better of it, and before Robert could reply, she
continued, “In the beginning, we thought as you did. We accepted the condition and married in a
civil ceremony. We thought that when his parents died, we would not have to
abide by the condition, and then we could be married in the Church, by a
priest.”
“What does this condition entail exactly?”
asked Robert. “What if you both were at
a party, does it mean you and your husband can’t eat at the same time, even
when separated by, say, several tables?
Or what if you’re on a balcony and he’s down in the patio, do you break
the condition by eating in the same place, in sight of each other, but not
looking? And who’s going to find out if
you ate together in the privacy of your own bedroom?”
“As I said before, my husband is a man of
honor and would never cheat. He would
never break the condition even if only the Devil would know: he is that kind of
man. The condition is that we could
never dine within twenty meters of each other in any direction. It was that simple, and because it was
simple, we could not find what you call, ‘loopholes’? These Spaniards know how to torture. They have a long history practicing on our
people.“
“Still, to rank this thing as torture…,”
muttered Robert, shaking his head.
“It was torture, make no mistake,” she
said. “At first, we try taking turns eating.
We think it was funny and we laughed about it. I would eat my meal while he would tell me
the day’s events. When I finished, he
would eat while I talked. One time,
Armando ate at a restaurant in the top of a building, while I was eating at a
sidewalk café across the street. I
looked up while he looked down and, sometimes, we talked by cellular phone so
we could see each other while being in different restaurants. It was exciting and fun but as time passed,
it became tiresome and embarrassing, We
were seen to be waving at no one, talking to no one, and people were beginning
to stare at us.
“Before long, we began eating with
friends. And our weekends together were
constantly being interrupted by having to eat separately.
Soon we only saw each other when the evening was coming to an end. Many times I go to bed alone: he works late
at the hospital, you see. This small thing slowly evolved to be a big thing and
my mother-in-law knew it. It was just a
matter of time before I began wondering who my husband was lunching with
or....having breakfast with. We could not even have a cup of coffee
together.” Leticia grabbed her elbows,
held them close to her body, and begins to cry.
She took a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed her eyes. Then she
daintily blew her nose, and after a few sniffles, she straighten up and said,
“The worst of it is Armando is thinking the same about me. He is big and strong and he becomes a brute
when he thinks I am dining with someone else.
He thinks I am cheating on him, although I think it is he who is doing
the cheating. A few months ago, he
thought I was having a..a..affaire d’amour!”
“You mean a sexual encounter?” injected
Robert.
“Whatever you call it. He thought I was having this thing with a man
whom I was just dining with in a restaurant.
He was an acquaintance I knew in my youth. But Armando found us together
in a private booth, with the curtains drawn, having a coffee after our
meal. He became furious and he caned
this poor, innocent, harmless man nearly to death. He beat him so badly, the poor man was in the
hospital for months. To this day, that
man cannot hear too well. And if not
for political influence of Armando’s family and our corrupt judicial system,
Armando would be lying in a filthy and foul prison right at this very moment.”
“My God, I can just imagine how absolutely
horrible it has been for you. This is
insidious. Your mother-in-law is not a
very good person, and I have to say that her son, your husband, sounds like a
dangerous and abusive man.” Robert
began to have second thoughts about his attempts to seduce this woman. “So, what is the situation now?” he enquired
compassionately. “Is Armando abroad or
is he still in this country?”
“He is still in this country,” sniffled
Leticia behind her handkerchief.
“Is he staying near here?…uh…is he staying
near this hotel?
“Yes.
He is right over there at the bar watching us.” Leticia lifts her hand and waves.
