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cautiously. “We have no reservation in that name.”
    “But you must be mistaken,” the translator protested. “Could you check again?”
    “But I have checked.”
    “I called five days ago: party of two, July eighth at twelve thirty, a table with a view of the sea.”
    “I’m afraid there must have been some sort of misunderstanding.”
    “A misunderstanding?”
    “I’m terribly sorry.”
    “But we’re here now. You must be able to do something.”
    “Unfortunately, we’re completely booked.”
    A drop of sweat appeared on the translator’s forehead and traced a line down his temple. His lips were dry, and the hand on my back was cold. The maître d’ bowed, but his expression seemed more annoyed than apologetic.
    “I want you to get the person who takes your reservations, and we’ll clear this up. You can’t just pretend I never called. I remember the voice, and every word that was said, down to the last syllable. I want to talk to the person who answers the phone. Or would you rather just show me that book? What would you do if I found my name there in the column for twelve thirty?”
    A man who seemed to be the manager appeared from theback with one of the waiters. Every eye in the restaurant was watching us now. I was frightened more than ever before, and I froze, feeling that something awful would happen if I moved any part of my body.
    “How can I help you?” the new man said.
    “You can stop insulting us!” the translator shouted. His hand shot out from behind my back and grabbed the reservations book, throwing it violently to the floor. We all stood staring down at the book. The translator was gasping, his empty hand dangling at his side. He seemed to be trying to expel something—not so much his anger as some deep distress. It was as if a tiny crack had opened somewhere in him and was growing, tearing him to pieces. If he had simply been angry, I might have found a way to calm him, but I had no idea how to put him back together once he came apart.
    “Please!” I said at last. “We don’t have to eat here. Who cares whether there was a reservation or not? Let’s go. Please don’t make it worse.” I clung to him, tears in my eyes. I thought about the sound of the translator’s voice as he’d said “Stop insulting us!” It was the voice that had overwhelmed me that night at the Iris. A blade of clear light cutting through the confusion.
    I was confused and afraid, and yet somewhere deep inside I was praying that voice would someday give me an order, too.
    We had been turned away, and though the color of the sea and the brilliance of the sun hadn’t changed, there was noway to regain the excitement we’d felt before the restaurant. It was as though we had suddenly fallen into a cold, dark cave.
    “I’m sorry,” the translator said. He seemed to have recovered quickly from the embarrassment. The sweat on his brow had dried, and his arm was once again wrapped around my back.
    “You mustn’t apologize,” I said. But my tears would not stop. The woman’s insults, the way we had been treated at the restaurant, the sudden change that had come over the translator—and the discovery of my secret desire—were all too much for me.
    “I’m sorry you had to see that. I had no idea we’d run into her.”
    “Please don’t apologize.”
    “Then at least let me wipe away these tears,” he said, taking a perfectly pressed handkerchief from his pocket and touching it to my cheek.
    “It was just an unfortunate mishap, and that’s not why I’m crying.” His scent on the handkerchief made me cry all the harder.
    No one had said a word as we left the restaurant. The patrons had cast only quick looks of contempt our way, then returned to their meals and conversations as though nothing had happened. The maître d’ retrieved the reservations book from the floor and wiped its cover. The doorman held the door open for us as we left.
    We walked until the restaurant was out of sight and