The Condition

 

 

                                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.