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you hungry?” he asked. I nodded, though I had no idea whether I was or not. I took him in with my eyes and ears and skin, studying him, and I had no interest in my stomach.
    We walked along the shore road toward the restaurant. Beach umbrellas had been planted in the sand. The seawall was exposed, and people were picking their way among the rocks. The street was crowded with tourists who had come up from the beach for lunch. They had thrown on T-shirts over wet, sandy bathing suits, and some were clutching inner tubes. We walked closer together to avoid being separated.
    The translator was wearing a wool suit and the same tie as before. Tiny pearls decorated his cuff links and the matching tiepin.
    “I’ve never eaten in a real restaurant,” I told him. “Much less such a fancy one.”
    “There’s nothing to be nervous about. Just order whatever you like.”
    “Do you go often?”
    “No, not really. Only when my nephew comes to visit.”
    “You have a nephew?”
    “He’s the son of my late wife’s younger sister. He’s a few years older than you.” I was surprised to learn that he had a family, but the words “late wife” struck me most.
    “The wall is completely exposed today,” he said. Then he pointed out at the sea. Its color was most beautiful at this time of year, the pale blue at the shore deepening gradually out in the open water, set off by the occasional flash of white from a sail or the wake of a ship. The sun bathed the seawall right to its base, glistening on the crust of shells and seaweed, still damp from the retreating tide. I followed his gaze out to sea, finding no place for a “late wife” in a scene like this.
    At the restaurant, the doorman smiled and bowed politely, and we were just about to enter when someone spoke up behind us.
    “Well, this is a nice surprise!” The voice was familiar. “How are you? I never got a chance to thank you for the other night.” The tone was high and sweet, but there was a subtle note of confrontation. The translator put his arm around my shoulders and tried to pass inside without acknowledging the woman. “Now don’t pretend you don’t remember me,” she said, winking significantly at a second woman who had come up with her. “That’s too cruel.”
    Their faces were round and without makeup; their ratty hair was tied up in back. They wore very short skirts, and their feet were bare. I realized that the one who had spoken was the woman who had been at the Iris that night.
    “You’re a very funny man,” she cackled. “Acting all proper. You were happy enough that night with your tongue up my ass!” People passing in the street turned to look, and the customers in the windows of the restaurant stared at us. The smile had faded from the doorman’s face. I turned away and clung to the translator’s arm.
    He sighed so softly that no one else could hear. Then he looked straight ahead as if he hadn’t heard her, slipped his arm behind my back, and pushed through the glass door.
    “So you’re on to little girls now?” she called after us, refusing to give up. “What are you planning to do with her? Young lady! You’d better watch out!” I tried to press deeper into his chest to shut out her voice.
    The maître d’ greeted us just inside the door. He seemed confused by the women who had practically followed us into the restaurant, but he tried to observe the usual formalities. The translator gave his name. Outside the window, the woman yelled one last insult and stalked away. But her presence lingered around us like a mist.
    The maître d’ took a long time studying the leather-bound reservations book. His eyes ran from the top of the page to the bottom and back to the top again, and from time to time he stole a glance in our direction. I was feeling more and moreuneasy, and I suddenly felt too poorly dressed for the restaurant. I hid my little purse behind my back.
    At last the man looked up. “I’m terribly sorry,” he began