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Show 181 born in a less troubled world. The sailor's face softens. We drink to the future, to better weather. His eyes become clouded, his voice uneven. The threat subsides. Her hand has risen, is between my legs. I look around the room. At the other end of the table, a small pipe is being passed back and forth. Near the phonograph player two men are trying to dance, their arms square and locked. On a top bunk, in a dark corner, a young sailor and an old sailor caress each other, fall out of view. The old man across the room who recognized me has gone to sleep. Where will you marry? mumbles Alexis. Jerusalem, she says. She is smiling. And where will you live? Jerusalem also, she says. His eyes shift to me. What will your profession be? Financier, I say. I invest other people's money. He is suddenly, violently, on his feet. Dance with me, he yells. Has thrown out his arms. Dance with me. He strikes a pose in front of Elisa. I don't know how, she says. I will show y< ;, he cries. You must dance with a Greek before you marry. He jerks her'up from the table. They move toward the music, the flutes and the dulcimer. Sometimes I imagine Paco is dead. His note suggested as much. He often spoke of suicide, although never his own, and admired Seneca, who, like him, was born in Cordoba. But if it is so I do |