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from which the shimmering view wasn’t visible. She hadn’t troubled to wash her somewhat greasy face or to change for the evening apart from removing the polyester jacket: beneath, she was wearing a rumpled T-shirt, matte black, with a faded sparkly image—a human face of some kind, glaring eyes, wild hair—Beethoven?
    While Austin prepared drinks Ines continued to walk about in her clattery high heels, exclaiming at things—old, familiar—new, bonito . It was impossible to tell—impossible for Mariana to tell—if the vivacious little woman was sincerely admiring, or subtly mocking; if, drawing her former husband’s attention to a sculpted “demon” from Mexico, or a grimacing Cambodian mask, or the lacquered Japanese screen, she meant to remind him cruelly of their shared past, or to congratulate him on having retained some of the beauty of their shared past. She spent some time examining the orchids, the bonsai trees, the little lemon tree.
    Mariana thought She will pick one of the little lemons and put it in her pocket.
    But Ines just complimented Austin on his beautiful house —seemingly without irony. Then, recalling Mariana, the new wife, turning to Mariana with a warm smile, to include her as well.
    Seeing the empty socket beneath the arched eyebrow, Mariana felt a wave of faintness again.
    And the other eye, the remaining eye—bright as reflected glass, beautifully made up and all but winking at the new, young wife.
    Mariana excused herself to get appetizers from the kitchen, which she’d prepared earlier. Expensive cheeses, Austin’s favorites, had been set out to warm, from the refrigerator; there were Greek olives, cashews, small perfect grapes, and Austin’s favorite rye-crisp crackers. How grateful Mariana was to escape Ines’s presence for even so brief a period of time—the impulse came strong, to run outside, along the graveled drive to the road, and—away.
    But I am his wife now, he loves me. I belong here.
    She wasn’t so sure of this. The wave of faintness rose in her again, confused with a powerful scent of overripe peaches and a meaty odor from the rich cassoulet Austin had begun preparing the previous evening, that was simmering at a low heat in a Dutch oven on the counter.
    When Mariana returned with the tray of appetizers, Austin and their guests were seated at uncomfortable angles to each other—Ines on the white-leather sofa facing the plate-glass window, Austin in a chair exactly perpendicular to Ines, and Hortensa at the far end of the sofa. But no one was looking at anyone else, and no one seemed, for the moment, to have anything to say.
    Even Ines was just slightly uncomfortable. She had a habit of stroking her bare arm slowly, sensuously; caressing herself, as if to comfort herself.
    Her bare arms were thin, crepey. Mariana saw what appeared to be tiny black ants on her arms, which were, of course, moles.
    Moles on the nape of Ines’s neck. A mole on the underside of her jaw.
    Smiling, Mariana served the appetizers. She was very warm: beginning to perspire. Of course she’d showered earlier that day but not since and she dreaded Austin glancing at her, as he’d done once, not long ago, startled by a smell of her skin perhaps, when she’d become unexpectedly warm, and he’d asked her—not cruelly, not maliciously, but just a little playfully, teasing—if she hadn’t had time to shower that morning?—and she’d been deeply embarrassed and ashamed.
    She saw that the expensive Brie was soft and runny—Austin would approve. For this difficult evening she’d dressed in new clothes: a blue pleated top, a white pleated skirt. Around her neck was the heavy Chinese jade medallion, a gift from Austin. Her hair had begun to recover some of its glossy thickness and her skin was less sallow than it had been; she’d darkened her lips with a plum-colored lipstick that seemed to