There is a quality of pimpish insinuation in the way the proprietor of the Greek restaurant finds them a secluded table, in the way he keeps refilling her glass with raisin wine, in the way he grins and nods to the Lieutenant from behind her chair. LaPointe resents this, but Marie-Louise seems to be enjoying the special attention, so he lets it go.

Greek food is alien to her, but she eats with relish, unfolding the cooked grape leaves to get at the rice and lamb within. She doesn’t eat the leaves, considering them to be only wrappings.

A candle set in red glass lights her face from a low angle that would be unkind to an older woman, but it only accents her animation as she recounts her shopping trip, or comments on the other patrons of the restaurant. He has chosen to sit with his back to the room so she can have the amusement of looking at the people and the pleasure of having the people look at her. It is a deliberate and uncommon gesture on the part of a man who normally keeps his back to walls and rooms open before him.

She doesn’t really like the Greek wine, but she drinks too much of it. By the time the meal is over, she is laughing a little too loudly.

He enjoys watching the uncensored play of expression over her face. She has not yet developed a mask. She is perfectly capable of lying, but not yet of dissimulating. She is capable of wheedling, but not yet of treachery. She is vulgar, but not yet hardened. She is still young and vulnerable. He, on the other hand, is old and… tough.

As they finish their coffee—that Turkish coffee with thick dregs that Greeks think is Greek—she hums along with jukebox music coming from the floor above the restaurant.

“What’s up there?” she asks, looking toward the stairs.

“A bar of sorts.”

“With dancing?”

He shrugs. “Oh, there’s a dance floor…” He really feels like going home.

“Could we dance there?”

“I don’t dance.”

“Didn’t you ever? Even when you were young?”

He smiles. “No. Not even then.”

“How old are you anyway?”

“Fifty-three. I told you before.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did. You forgot.”

“You’re older than my father. Do you realize that? You are older than my father.” She seems to think that is remarkable.

It is so obvious a tactic that it would be unkind not to let it work. So they climb the stairs and enter a large dark room with a bar lit by colored bulbs behind ripple glass and a jukebox that glows with lights of ever-changing hues. They take one of the booths along the wall. The only other people there are the barmaid and a group of four young Greek boys at the next booth but one, sharing a bottle of ouzo that has been iced until it leaves wet rings on the tabletop. One of the boys leaves the booth and goes to the bar, where he lightheartedly sings the apple to the barmaid. She is wearing a short dress, and her thighs are so thick that her black hose squeaks with friction when she walks to serve the tables.

“What would you like?” LaPointe asks.

“What are they having?” She indicates the group of young men.

“Ouzo.”

“Would I like that?”

“Probably.”

“Do you like it?”

“No.”

She feels there is a mild dig in that, so she orders ouzo defiantly. He has an Armagnac.

While the barmaid squeaks away to fetch the drinks, Marie-Louise rises and goes to the jukebox to examine its selections, slightly bending the knee of her good leg to make her limp imperceptible. LaPointe knows she doesn’t care if he notices it, so the caution must be for the young Greek boys. As she leans over the jukebox, its colored light is caught in the frizzy mop of her hair, and she looks very attractive. Her bottom is round and tight under the new mini-skirt. He is proud of her. And the Greek boys do not fail to notice her and exchange appreciative looks.

She is the same age as his imaginary daughters sometimes are. She is the same age as his real wife always is. He feels two things simultaneously: he is proud of his attractive daughter, jealous of his attractive wife. Stupid.

There is some playful nudging among the Greek boys, and one of them—the boldest, or the clown—gets up and joins her, leaning close to study the record offerings. He puts a coin into the slot and gestures to her to make a selection. She smiles thanks and pushes two buttons. When he asks her to dance, she accepts without even looking at LaPointe. The music is modern and loud, and they dance without touching. Despite the jerky, primitive movements of the dance, she seems strong and controlled and graceful, and the dancing completely camouflages her limp. It is easy to see why she enjoys it so much.

The record stops without ending, like all modern music, a fade-out concealing its inability to resolve, and the dance is over. The young man says something to her, and she shakes her head, but she smiles. They return, each to his own table. As he passes, the Greek boy salutes LaPointe with a sassy little wave.

Marie-Louise slides into the booth a little out of breath and exuberant. “He’s a good dancer.”

“How can you tell?” LaPointe asks.

“Oh, the drinks are here. Well, ‘bottoms up.’ “ She speaks the toast in English so accented that the second word sounds like “zeup.” “Hey, this is good. Like licorice candy. But hot.” She finishes it off. “May I have another one?”

“Sure. But it might make you sick.”

She thrusts out her lower lip and shrugs.

He signals the waitress.

A party of older men clatters up the stairs, half drunk from celebrating a wedding. They drag out the tables from two booths and put them together, collecting chairs from everywhere. One man slaps his hand on the table and clamors for ouzo, and they are served two ice-cold bottles and a tray of glasses. One rises and proposes a toast to the father of the bride, who is the drunkest and happiest of the lot. The toaster is long-winded and somewhat incoherent; the others complain that they will never get a chance to drink, and finally they shout him down and slap back the first glasses.

One of the young men has put money into the jukebox. As the music starts he saunters toward LaPointe’s booth.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Marie-Louise asks.

He shakes his head.

The proprietor comes up from the restaurant to check on things. When he notices the boy dancing with Marie-Louise, he frowns and crosses to the booth with the three young men. There is a short conversation during which one of the boys stretches his neck to take a look at LaPointe. As he passes the booth to offer insincere congratulations to the father of the bride, the proprietor nods and winks conspiratorially at the Lieutenant. He has taken care of everything. The young men won’t be horning in on his girl again.

Marie-Louise finishes her ouzo and wants a third. For some minutes she sits, swaying her shoulders in tempo to a melody she is humming. She doesn’t understand why the boys don’t play more records and ask her to dance.

LaPointe is about to suggest that they go home, when one of the wedding party rises and navigates an arcing course to the jukebox. He pushes in a coin with operatic thoroughness, then presses first one button, then another. In a moment there comes the first twanging note of a stately traditional song. The old man lifts his arms slowly; his head is turned to one side and his eyes are closed; his fingers snap crisply to every second beat of the music.

The boys in the booth groan over the old-fashioned selection.

The old man looks directly at them, his eyes smiling and clever, and he slowly shuffles toward them, snapping his fingers and dipping gracefully with every third step.

“No way!” says one of the boys. “Forget it!”

But the old man advances confidently. These kids may be modern and may speak English, but their blood is Greek, and he will win.