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expect that.” She got up abruptly and said, “Let’s go, okay, Mom? I’m tired of sitting.”
    It was a fairly long walk to Triana. They walked on wide avenues and in and out of narrow cobbled streets and footpaths until they reached the Puente de Triana, which crossed the river. On the other side of the bridge was a wide staircase that led to Triana Square, a lovely public space surrounded by a church and several restaurants. The first street sign Jennifer noticed was CALLE RODRIGO DE TRIANA . “There’s a story about that,” Emma said. That guy Rodrigo, he was with Columbus. He was the one who saw land first. He shouted, ‘Tierra a la vista’—‘Land in sight’—and became famous forever after. Every Spanish school child has heard of him.”
    Jennifer saw young people sitting on the steps, laughing, talking, some swigging from bottles of beer. Emma looked around—a little nervously, Jennifer thought. Maybe she was reluctant after what had happened to run into anyone she knew. But she didn’t seem to recognize anyone and no one greeted her, though Jennifer thought a few people seemed to stare at her and—was she imagining it?—some seemed to whisper together, looking in her direction. They wandered around for a while, looking at the houses, the architecture, the church, and finally, getting hungry, they found an outdoor table at one of a string of restaurants and sat down. Emma ordered chopitos—grilled baby squid—for an appetizer and followed it with cazón en adobo, which she said was marinated deep-fried fish wrapped in a cardboard cone, a Spanish version of the English fish and chips. The smell of sizzling olive oil and fried fish permeated the air. Emma was smiling. Jennifer felt relaxed, even happy. She almost forgot the tension between them since she’d arrived. Almost, but not quite.
    She didn’t bring up Paco again. She found that while Emma would chat easily about the sights of Seville and listen happily to stories about her sister and brother or friends back home, she became edgy, secretive, and prickly as soon as Jennifer asked anything about her personal life in Spain, her boyfriend, or, especially, the night of the murder. Thinking this was a form of shock, or at least a means of self-protection, Jennifer hoped it would slowly wear off and they would be able to make progress in planning their next steps before too long. In the meantime, she avoided subjects that set off Emma’s hair trigger and tried to engage her in nonthreatening conversation.
    They took a taxi back to the hotel. Jennifer hoped they would talk more the next day, but in the days that followed the pattern held. They saw the sights, ate in cafés and restaurants, walked all over the city, and spoke of anything that wasn’t the one subject Jennifer wanted to engage.
    They picked up the local paper every day and saw that there was a new feature: a box on the front page requesting the man they called
el buen samaritano
to step forward. But no one appeared. Emma translated, reading the story aloud to her mother. Although Emma’s knowledge of the language wasn’t perfect, she could make out most of the details. The police had offered to petition for the man to be granted asylum in Spain if he gave evidence. So far, however, he had still not appeared. “I’m sure he doesn’t trust them,” Emma said. “I wouldn’t. Would you?”
    There was one minor explosion when Jennifer admitted to Emma that it nagged at her that she had lied to her about staying at the Residencia when really she was living in a slum. “You had the money—what did you do with it?” Jennifer pressed. Emma turned on her angrily, saying it was just like her to focus on the most trivial, materialistic aspect of her situation. She refused to say anything else on the subject.
    Jennifer called Mark daily, spoke to the children, e-mailed back and forth with Lily about her friends and school papers and extracurricular activities, a life that more and more