They sat in the living room. Russell watched Olga open the room’s curtains, filling the living room with a slanted pulverized light. Beatrice, not sure how to act around Olga, smiled, and Olga smiled back at her.

“My friend Beatrice Selva, Olga,” he said. Beatrice nodded. “Olga was my mother’s friend,” Russell said in Spanish. Olga smiled in a pleased way.

“Can I get you something, Don Russell, Doña Beatrice?” Olga asked.

“Coffee. Please,” Beatrice said. She’d come from playing tennis, and was wearing a brown velour track suit. Her hair was down. She looked like a college girl, not a wife and mother.

The wood floor creaked as Olga went towards the kitchen. As soon as they were alone, Beatrice fell into his arms and they kissed, going to the couch. It had been a week since they’d seen each other, and they let the kiss go on.

“Will she say anything?” Beatrice said finally.

“No. I don’t think so. She’s loyal to me. To our family. She was devoted to my mother,” he said. “I’ll ask her not to.”

“Good, then we can be as we really are.” Beatrice smiled and cuddled up in his arms. It was surprising, how small she felt. When they were making love, she felt bigger.

“I’m going to join the government,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I think I can help,” he said.

“But you’re an American.”

“Technically. Antonio is getting me my Guatemalan passport. They say I’m entitled to it, because of my mother. Then he’s announcing my joining the party. What’s so strange about that? You have two passports.”

She looked at him, her cheeks rosy from the tennis. She put her hand on his chest.

“I’m glad then, if it means you will stay here with me,” she said. “I worry that one day you’ll leave and not even tell me.” She smiled. “Would you leave me? Could you?”

“No. That’s what I want to talk to you about.” He heard Olga coming back. Beatrice moved slightly in his arms, but not much, so when Olga put the coffee tray in front of them, it was obvious to her what was going on.

Beatrice smiled at her and took a cup from the tray. Olga left them without saying anything.

“Was she shocked?” Beatrice asked when they heard the door close, holding the cup and saucer on her lap.

“I think so. She’s seen you on TV, I’m sure. She knows who you are.

“I want to marry you,” he said. “I want you to leave Carlos and come with me.” He’d been planning to tell her, and now he knew he had to, before the crisis got any worse. “I had to tell you now . . . there’s going to be a fight. I don’t think the crisis can be resolved peacefully.” He noticed the zipper of her running jacket was pulled down to where he could see the white of her bra.

“I don’t understand?” she said.

“There’s nothing to understand. I want you to leave Carlos. I don’t want to sneak around anymore. I want us to get married. This can’t go on the way it has been. Anyway, he’ll find out soon. People are already talking. It’s only a matter of time now.”

“He’ll kill you,” she said. She sat up straight, moving away from him.

“I don’t think so. Why? I’m not that important.”

“You don’t know him. He’s liable to kill us both.” She put her cup down.

“He’s not going to kill the mother of his children,” Russell said.

“He’s a monster,” she said.

“I love you. I know living here is out of the question. We’ll leave. I thought, New York. . . . I’ve planned it all. I’ll have money, too, if that’s what you’re worried about. I understand, if you are. I know what you expect. I mean, I’ll be able to take care of you. And the children, too . . . of course,” he said. “I promise you.” She looked at him. “I wouldn’t expect you to live . . . I mean, to leave this for something small.”

“I don’t care about money,” she said. “Is that what you think of me? That I married Carlos for his money?”

“Well . . . I do care. It’s important. Money, I mean. I don’t care why you married him. I could care less.”

“I could never take the children from him,” she said.

“They aren’t his property.”

“You’re a fool,” she said angrily, and got up and went to the window.

He knew it was going to be a shock, but he couldn’t go on the way things had been. He was in love with her, and he wanted a family. He wanted to have children with her, their children. He wanted to have a home, and he wanted to be her husband, not her lover. He wanted to take care of her.

The clouds broke. Bits of late afternoon sunlight hit her velour jacket and her hair that was so blonde.

“Look. I know it’s a shock, what I’m saying. But we haven’t exactly been discreet, not really. And you know . . . sometimes you don’t seem to care if he knows or not. It’s better my way,” he said.

“I’m not well,” she said. She turned from the window and looked at him.

“What do you mean?”

“Something’s wrong with me. My brain, the doctor says.” She came back from the window and sat down, her knees pressed together at the far end of the couch. “The doctor says that it’s the drugs I took. The ecstasy, when I was dancing. In London. There’s something that makes me impulsive. He says that there’s some kind of scarring, or something. I don’t know. I’m scared. I wanted to tell you. I went to someone in Miami, Carlos insisted. He said that there had to be something wrong with me . . . that I’d been acting strange.” She turned to look at him. “It’s true . . . I have been. I know that.”

“Everyone takes that drug. I’ve taken it. Countless times,” he said.

“Well, some people get this,” she said. She touched her head.

“I don’t care. I love you.”

“You shouldn’t.” She dove into his arms. “You shouldn’t—” she said.

He kissed her. She smelled of perfume and coffee. They held each other. He could hear the afternoon traffic outside on La Reforma.

“It doesn’t matter. At all,” he said.

“I can get better,” she said.

“Of course.”

“I know I can. I’m young.” He didn’t answer. “I want to be with you.” She stood up. “I want to be with you. Everything you want, I want,” she said. He looked toward the kitchen. “I want to be with you now.”

“All right. But Olga…”

“I don’t care about Olga,” she said. “Please.”

“I have to say something, even if it’s for her not to bother us,” he said.

“Well then, tell her a crazy English girl wants to sleep with you. Where’s the bedroom?”

He nodded down the hall. “The second door.”

She went down the hall, turned at the door, and held her hand out. He got up and turned towards the window. He could see a tank crawling down the avenue, cars trying to pull around it. He heard the phone ring. It was Beatrice’s cell phone. She’d left it on the table by her coffee cup.

“Don’t touch it,” he heard her say from the hallway. “Just come here.”

He knew it didn’t matter; the fact that she might be sick, or whatever, didn’t matter. He loved her. It was a simple love, really.

When he got to the bedroom, she was standing next to a pile of her clothes on the floor. He closed the door quickly, afraid Olga might see.

It rained again that afternoon, and more tanks came out on the street as General Blanco was preparing himself. He’d been in politics a long time and knew someone out there wanted him dead, he said to an aide as he watched the central plaza from the palace office. Three tanks stood guard. The traffic outside was lighter than usual.

“The thing about this country is, when it feels quiet, like this, that’s when things happen to you,” Blanco said. He picked up the phone, acutely aware of what had happened to one of his predecessors in this very palace. He was too old for this intrigue; he called Carlos Selva.

“Carlos? It’s Manuel Blanco. I’m stepping down. I’ve just appointed you President of the glorious republic, et cetera, et cetera. I wish you all the best in the upcoming election.