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Show 166 at the bar, drinking cheap brandy, unwilling to leave though the singer himself had left. Paco. There was a man standing next to me. You are alone? he asked when we found ourselves looking at each other. I'm expecting friends, I lied. At first I didn't want to speak with him. His suit was too expensive, he was too well-groomed, he spoke to me too freely. Such men interest me professionally but bore me with their talk of art and business and women. I prefer to study them at a distance. On holiday? No. What then? I travel in my business, I told him. I see, he said, and the sad, concerned look that broke over his face redeemed him. Then I will buy you a drink, he said, for the road. His concern was that my road went no place in particular, and soon we were sitting at a table and he was talking across it to me with a father's concern in his voice. I did not mind. When I was younger I was like you, Paco told me that first night. Constantly on the move. I could never decide on anything, a place to make my home, a woman, what to do with my life. Now I am fifty, and if my father had not died a rich man I would not have my bank balance to give me pleasure. He patted his breast pocket. How old was I, he wanted to know. |
