“What are you thinking about?” Beatrice said, looking at him.

“Where we’ll live once we leave this miserable country,” he said, lying. She moved her body completely against his.

“I fell asleep; it’s late,” she said.

“So did I.”

She reached for him. Her hand felt warm on his chest. “Do you really want me?” she asked. “To marry me?”

“Very much,” he said.

“I’m afraid.”

“So am I,” he said. “But you haven’t told me yes or no.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then I’ll become a priest. Or maybe a circus performer in Poland. . . . You have to, because we love each other,” he said, holding her.

“All right,” she said. “I can’t have you dancing with bears, or whatever they do . . . the circus people.” She lifted herself out of the blankets and kissed him. He felt her breasts press against his chest. “You tell me what to do, and I’ll do it,” she said.

They made love again. It was different than before. He felt safe. He was no longer afraid of losing her. She was going to be his.

He walked into the kitchen. It was dark now. The lights were on, and the room seemed very bright to him after the twilight of the bedroom. Olga was doing the ironing. She seemed to love the work, or at least get some peace out of it. When she’d been with him, she’d been very deliberate about it. She was standing on an old wooden box and using the old marble counter as an ironing board. The iron was a huge mid-century thing.

“Olga?” He continued to tie his tie. She looked up at him, her face slightly wet from the heat of the iron. “Olga, I . . . could I ask you a favor?”

“Of course, sir,” she said, concentrating on her work.

“I don’t want you to mention to anyone that Doña Beatrice was here with me today. Or that she was ever here.”

Olga smiled like a pixie.

“Why, señor.” She was teasing him. He was grateful and felt connected to the woman in a way he hadn’t before. Seeing her now, as she must have been with his mother, somehow made his mother’s memory more real to him. “The señora is very, very beautiful,” Olga said.

“Yes she is, Olga.”

“I’ve seen her in the newspapers,” Olga said. She touched her index finger to her tongue, then touched the bottom of the iron quickly. It hissed. “Beautiful, like your mother.”

Olga served them sandwiches in the dining room. It was an elegant room, with the original furniture. His uncle hadn’t gotten around to changing it before he’d left for Paris.

They spoke very little as they ate. Already Russell could see the fear in Beatrice’s face. She’d promised him something that she might not be able to carry out, he realized.

She brought her cell phone out from the living room.

“Carlos has called me six times,” she said, looking at the screen. “I hope it’s not the children. I shouldn’t have stayed so long.”

He watched her punch in her husband’s number. He put the cup down and listened. She stopped talking. A strange expression came over her face as she listened to Carlos.

“I can be there in half an hour,” she said finally. “Yes, of course. No. I’ll just drive myself. Don’t send anyone . . . I’m at the club Alemán and I don’t want a fuss. Besides, it would just take time.” She closed the phone. “He’s the bloody president,” she said, picking her things up from the couch.

“What?”

“Blanco’s just appointed Carlos president. Blanco’s leaving for Miami this weekend, and he’s appointed Carlos president until the election. I’ve got to go.” She picked her handbag up off the floor. “It’s impossible now. How can I leave him now? He’ll never give me a divorce now,” she said. “Not now.”

•••

“It’s so good to see you, Carlos,” Rudy Valladolid said. He was in his bathrobe. He’d been drinking a brandy, watching Larry King speak to Governor Connally’s widow about the Kennedy assassination.

Valladolid’s butler brought Carlos into the room and asked whether the general would care for anything.

“What would you like, Carlos? It’s late; how about a brandy?”

Carlos looked at the old man. The general was in uniform, and Valladolid realized that he wasn’t there on a social call.

“Please sit, Carlos. How is your mother, my dear sister? And your beautiful wife?”

“Oh, God, my mother won’t leave Miami now. I mean, with the news,” Carlos said. He smiled, finally, and sat down in one of the senator’s chairs.

Rudy didn’t sit down again. The room felt suddenly hot. He looked at the big screen TV, and at Larry King. He’d always wanted to meet Larry King and ask him how he could be so perfectly blasé about everything.

“Well, if you don’t mind, a scotch on the rocks then,” Carlos said. “Beatrice is fine; she’s in shock. I mean about the news.”

“Bring the general a scotch. The Glenlivet,” the senator told his butler. “Of course she is. We are all very proud of you.”

“Yes, I suppose so. My sister has got something on for the weekend at Puertos. Horse jumping. We’ll go, of course,” Carlos said. “President or not, she’ll kill me if I don’t come.”

“Of course,” Rudy said. He turned to look at his man, who looked worried. “Well, Manuel, go on. The president of the republic is thirsty.” The butler, after hesitating, turned and left the study.

“I’ve had him since he was a boy. Loves me like a father,” Rudy said. Carlos looked at him, his head slightly cocked to one side. Rudy put his cigar down on the large ashtray. He took the control to the TV and hit the mute button. “Do you like Larry King, Carlos?”

“Of course. Everyone loves Larry King . . . Rudy, I’m afraid there’s a situation,” Carlos said. “A delicate affair.”

“Congratulations, by the way. I’m jealous, of course.”

“Yes. I was as surprised as everyone.”

“I think Blanco has been ready to leave for months. He has so many interests abroad now.” Rudy sat down on the beautiful brown leather couch. He felt old, ancient in fact. He was slightly drunk; he really didn’t feel good any more unless he was slightly inebriated.

The trouble was that he’d never been able to click off his intellect, he thought, looking at Carlos. He’d known Carlos since Carlos was a child, and he’d never liked him. The problem with so many of his countrymen was that they had no conversation. Not really. They were talkative, but said absolutely nothing.

“Situation?” Rudy asked.

“I’m afraid so, uncle.”

“Well, there’s always a situation in this country, Carlos.”

“It seems the embassy thinks that there’s a plot against the government.”

“Really? That would be silly.”

“They seem to think that you’re in the middle of it.”

“Me?”

“Yes. I’m afraid so,” Carlos said.

“Oh, dear. Well, the Americans have very active imaginations, don’t they? I mean, they’re worried about everything these days. I hope they don’t think I’m al-Qaeda or something. I think we had an Arab in the family somewhere. No—a Persian, but then, they don’t count, do they?” He tried to smile, but Carlos wasn’t smiling now. The old senator allowed himself to realize what his intuition had told him the moment the general had walked into the room: you’re in trouble.

“They said that you had cooperated with them in the past. I was a little surprised by that, Rudy. I mean . . . given your attitudes.”

“Well, I have lent the embassy a hand once or twice,” Rudy said. “Of course, they always pay one for that.” The senator looked at Carlos in a level, all-business way.

“Yes. Well, they want to know who is plotting against the government. They said that they could make another arrangement with you.”

“Did they? They’re always so kind to me. Did they say what kind of arrangement?”

“A hundred thousand dollars.”

“Good God!” Rudy said, and picked up his cigar. “You don’t smoke, do you, Carlos?”

“No. It’s bad for the health,” Carlos said. He seemed to stress the word bad in a way that Rudy couldn’t help but notice.