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friend.” She hesitated. “It’s all very complicated.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œ Too complicated . . . if you know what I mean.”
    â€œWell, I’d like to meet him, if he’s so much like me.”
    She felt, then, that her discretion was a little churlish and she added, “It’s nothing, really. I’m the executor of a will. A friend of mine—a man named Murray Stevenson. He left Almado some money.”
    Again, with the same gesture, Hugo passed his hand over his hair, as if he might pat it; but he didn’t. Then he said, “Execu trix .”
    Lorraine smiled. But then she frowned. It suddenly occurred to her that he might be establishing his awareness of her femininity preparatoryto making an advance along those lines: and then, thinking this, she realized that she’d been assuming that Hugo was gay just because Almado was. It seemed almost impossible to get it out of her mind, Hugo was so like Almado. It seemed absurd, but maybe Hugo was trying to pick her up, despite the difference in their ages. Had he thought, perhaps, that she and Almado might be lovers? But it was absurd. Still, she nodded and smiled. “All right. If you say so.”
    But he was going on. “So Almado—if I get this—you don’t know where he is? So you’re looking for him?”
    â€œWell, I had an address, on Calle K—”
    â€œRight behind here.”
    â€œYou know it?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œWell, he wasn’t there. I asked—it was a mess . . . rather funny, in a way. But I don’t speak any Spanish.” She shrugged. “It’s not a lot of money, at least by our standards. But these people don’t have anything.”
    â€œNot much.”
    â€œSo I’d like to get it to him—”
    â€œOf course.” He sat back; they’d been alone, but now a waiter was coming up. Hugo looked at her. “Would you like something?” When she shook her head, he said, “I’m waiting for someone, I won’t till they come.” And then he spoke quickly in Spanish to the waiter, who nodded and went off.
    Lorraine said, “I must say, you speak Spanish very well.”
    Hugo shrugged, as if this was hardly an accomplishment. “My father was an engineer, and I spent years as a kid in Mexico . . . you’re sure Almado isn’t Mexican ? You see, that’s what I’m really like, Mexican.”
    â€œI’m afraid Almado is definitely Cuban.”
    â€œWell, I was just going to say, if you like . . . Why don’t you let me ask at this place for you? If you don’t speak Spanish—”
    â€œBut I couldn’t let you do that.”
    â€œWhy not? What you find is that a lot of Cubans speak a little English, but not very much. They don’t really understand. It’s hard to do anything or explain anything if you don’t speak the language.”
    What he’d said about Cubans speaking a little English, but not much, was perfectly true, thought Lorraine. “All the same—”
    â€œI’d like to. Really. I can’t right this minute—I’m waiting for someone. But I could tomorrow. What’s the address?”
    Lorraine hesitated. “What would you do?”
    â€œGo there. Whatever you want. Give him a message . . . leave a message.”
    She thought a second. “I’d just want him to get in touch.”
    â€œCall you. Sure. You say it’s on Calle K—”
    What harm could it do? He took an old receipt from the breast pocket of his shirt, and, leaning forward slightly, found a ballpoint pen in the hip pocket of his pants. He clicked it, and wrote down the address, and then said, “Okay. If I find him, how do I get in touch with you—or where do I tell him to go?”
    â€œHere,” she said. She handed him the printed card the Hotel Raquel had given her; it gave all the hotel details, and her name and room