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them.”
    Mrs. Ross put aside the pocketbook she had been reading (a Spanish imitation of the English-language mystery thriller entitled Parachute to Death!). She admired the mound of tamales in their corn-husk sheathes. Steam curled upward from them. And at one side there was another mound of beans with cheese, some green peas, and a sweetbread roll. The pill rested on the edge of the saucer beside the coffee cup.
    “How very nice the food looks,” said Mrs. Ross.
    “The Señor Hoblitt goes away,” said Serena.
    In the act of reaching for her fork, Mrs. Ross stopped, looked up, saw no sadness on Serena’s face. For all that it showed in her expression, the woman could just as well have announced an increase in production by Mrs. Gonzales’s chickens.
    “The artist?” inquired Mrs. Ross. “He is leaving San Juan?”
    “Yes. Even now he is packing.” Serena maintained her look of bland unconcern.
    She is presenting a brave front for my benefit, thought Mrs. Ross. She said: “And what of the painting he was to do of you and María Carlotta?”
    Serena shrugged. “As you said: artists are fickle.”
    “And where does he go?” asked Mrs. Ross.
    “Away.”
    “Yes, but where?”
    “Who knows?”
    “I see.” Mrs. Ross recognized Serena’s reply. It was the one frequently used when she knew an answer but refused to reveal it. On occasion, though, it meant no more than it suggested.
    “Then you do not know where he is going?” pressed Mrs. Ross.
    “He has not told me, Señora.”
    “To be sure.” Mrs. Ross recognized the futility of further questioning. “Well …” She straightened against the pillows.
    “Careful, Señora!” Serena rescued the vase of roses which was teetering on the tray. She put the vase on the bedside stand.
    Mrs. Ross smiled. No matter where Hoblitt went: he was going. By Mexican standards, Jaime had achieved miraculous speed in ridding them of the artist. Mrs. Ross felt rested, her appetite sharp.
    “I think I will try getting up for lunch today,” she said.
    Serena’s braids flung themselves about with the violent shaking of her head. “Dr. Herrera said …”
    “Dr. Herrera does not run my life! Bring me my robe. Hmmmph. The man barely knows one pill from another.”
    Later in the afternoon, Mrs. Ross ventured across the cobblestones to visit Paulita. It was a dampish, hot day and the humidity gave a cloying quality to all the tropic aromas, sharpened the bitter odors of decay. She felt a sense of escape as she stepped into the shadows of the Romera doorway.
    Paulita sat at her accustomed place beneath the Moorish fretwork that framed the entrance to her sala. A white serape draped her legs. All around her—the courtyard lush with flowers and a riot of greenery, the somnolence of humming insects and muted house sounds—there was an air of relaxation. But Paulita’s fingers, darting the needle across the red splash of poinsettia, betrayed a secret frenzy, out of tune with her surroundings. And the Hidalgo ancestress stood out prominently in her today: the flaring nostrils, quick movements of the head, the proud way she straightened in the chair to greet her visitor.
    “But you are better!” she called in English while Mrs. Ross was crossing the courtyard. “We were so worried about you.”
    Mrs. Ross resigned herself to the sharp-edged cane chair facing Paulita, took a deep breath. The afternoons were so muggy this time of year. She noted the perspiration dotting Paulita’s forehead, the bubbling-over in the girl’s manner.
    “I’m feeling much better, thank you,” said Mrs. Ross. And she wondered: What is wrong with the girl?
    “We sent Carmella with a cup of herb soup,” said Paulita.
    Mrs. Ross recalled ordering Serena out of the room with the offering. “It was delicious,” she said. She fanned herself. In spite of the uncomfortable chair, it felt good to be sitting.
    “It will rain soon,” said Paulita. “It is so damp.” She returned to her