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The lobby newsstand offered the international edition of the Herald Tribune, which was published in Pa
ris. It was four days old. It also offered Le Matin and Paris Match, which were also published in Paris. They were two days old. He wondered if this was coincidental or whether the newsstand had two-day-old copies of the Trib hidden somewhere in order to promote sales of Le Matin and Paris Match.
Then he saw, partially hidden behind a stack of the local newspaper, which was in Portuguese, Die Frankfurter Rundschau. It was yesterday’s paper.
What is that, another manifestation of all-around Teutonic efficiency?
He bought the Rundschau and took it with him into the bar, where he found a table that was not only deep inside but mostly behind a thick pillar. He could not see into the lobby and, therefore, someone in the lobby would not be able to see him.
A waiter quickly came to the table and laid a bowl of cashews and a larger bowl of what looked like homemade potato chips before him.
Castillo asked for a local beer and a menu.
The waiter said he was sorry but not only was there no food service in the bar after four o’clock—it was now four-oh -five—there was no local beer, either. There were three kinds of French beer, and two kinds each of German, Holland, and English, plus one kind of American.
“What time does the restaurant open?”
“Half past five, sir.”
“I’ll have a Warsteiner, please,” Castillo said as he scooped a handful of cashews from the bowl.
Three Warsteiners and one bowl each of cashews and homemade potato chips later, as he was reading the Rundschau ’s nearly vitriolic opinion of the Social Democrats’ notions of fair severance pay, he sensed movement near him and lowered the Rundschau just in time to see Mrs. Patricia Davies Wilson slipping into the banquet seat beside him.
This is not a chance encounter, my love; you didn’t just happen to see me as you walked through the lobby. You were looking for me.
“Hi,” she said, showing him a mouth full of neat white teeth.
I had really forgotten how good looking you are. Watch yourself, Charley!
“Hi, yourself,” he replied.
“How was your day?” she asked.
“Not bad. Yours?”
“I was out to the airport,” she said.
“So was I,” he said.
“You want to swap what you found out for what I found out?”
“I think you would come out on the short end of that,” he said. “I didn’t really learn much that hasn’t already been written.”
“Much, or nothing?” she asked.
He didn’t have to answer. The waiter appeared with fresh bowls of cashews and homemade potato chips.
“I can’t drink beer,” Patricia said, indicating his nearly empty glass. “It makes me feel bloated.”
That’s my cue to suggest something for her to drink.
“Somehow you don’t strike me as someone who drinks anything that comes with a paper parasol and a chunk of pineapple,” he said.
She laughed, and there was something appealing about the laugh.
“How do you feel about martinis as a reward for a day’s hard work?” she asked.
“If I knew you better, I’d tell you what my boss says about martinis.”
