enough water for even the simpler pieces of plumbing to function!” He laughed, and Bert laughed too. “It’s true, isn’t it? This is a country of paradoxes.”
“Dinner,” Mil Burns said, interrupting with a hand on Bert’s shoulder. “Come on, don’t you all be polite and let it get cold. Come on, everybody.”
Helen turned to take Bert’s arm, but Ernestine had already fastened on to him, smiling a great white smile. “I’ve been dying to talk to you,” she heard Ernestine say.
Nestor turned to her. “May I help you get a plate?” he asked. “It’s buffet.”
“Thank you.”
He was a nice little man, scarcely an inch taller than she was in her high heels, and he had a charming way of looking at her, as if he appreciated her but would not dream of making a pass unless she hinted at it first. It was that verge-of-a-pass look she had seen on other Brazilian men at American parties. They kissed your hand when they were introduced and when they said goodbye. They actually kissed your hand; they didn’t just lift it a bare two inches and make a token gesture. But they never held your hand too long at their lips, and if they squeezed it before they released it, it was such a slight squeeze that it was more flattering than forward.
They found seats next to Margie and Neil on the sofa. “Are you having a good time?” Margie murmured.
“Sort of,” she murmured back.
“Let’s not stay too late,” Margie said.
It was obvious that Mil had planned the menu with a great deal more nostalgia than practicality. There was ham and potato salad and Boston baked beans and brown bread and cold fried chicken and great buttermilk biscuits dripping with salt butter. The dessert sat on the sideboard: a large sticky-looking lemon pie, a chocolate pie covered with whipped cream, and a platter of brownies. The white-coated butler came around with a tray full of glasses of cold beer. It must have been a hundred degrees in the room, and the first bite of biscuit stuck in Helen’s throat. She put her piled-up plate on the coffee table in front of her and took a cigarette.
Nestor leaned forward to light it for her. “You don’t eat?”
“It’s very hot tonight.”
“This is a terrible summer,” he said. “It isn’t usually so hot in Rio.”
She smiled. “Is that true?”
“I swear it. I hate the heat too. In the summer here I nearly die of it.”
“My lord,” Margie said, “look at my husband eat, God bless him.”
Neil had devoured everything on his plate; he seemed oblivious to the heat. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
Margie laughed. “Nothing, darling.”
Neil stood up. “I’m going to get more. This is very good. Real kosher ham.” He grinned at his wife. “Does anyone want anything? More beer? Nestor?”
“No, no thank you,” Nestor said, looking slightly queasy. “I always eat a large lunch and then I eat very lightly at night. It’s much better in hot weather.”
Bert came over, with Ernestine following him. “Hi,” he said. “Is there room?”
Helen and Margie moved over on the sofa, and Ernestine sat down. Bert sat on the arm of the sofa next to Helen, even though there was still room where Neil had been. “Your husband certainly worries about you,” Ernestine exclaimed. “He insisted we come over to see if everything was all right.”
Nestor stood up. “I think I had better look for my wife,” he said. “I want to see if she’s all right.” He bowed slightly and left.
Ernestine got up from the couch and took Nestor’s empty chair, next to Bert. “You can just tell he’s a mining engineer,” she said, taking hold of Bert’s hand. “Just feel his hands! They’re wonderful. So hard! You can tell he’s been digging in those mines for jewels.” She rubbed her fingers against Bert’s palm. “Isn’t it exciting to be married to a mineralogist?”
“He’s a gemologist,” Helen said.
Bert extracted his hand from Ernestine’s grip. “That’s
“Dinner,” Mil Burns said, interrupting with a hand on Bert’s shoulder. “Come on, don’t you all be polite and let it get cold. Come on, everybody.”
Helen turned to take Bert’s arm, but Ernestine had already fastened on to him, smiling a great white smile. “I’ve been dying to talk to you,” she heard Ernestine say.
Nestor turned to her. “May I help you get a plate?” he asked. “It’s buffet.”
“Thank you.”
He was a nice little man, scarcely an inch taller than she was in her high heels, and he had a charming way of looking at her, as if he appreciated her but would not dream of making a pass unless she hinted at it first. It was that verge-of-a-pass look she had seen on other Brazilian men at American parties. They kissed your hand when they were introduced and when they said goodbye. They actually kissed your hand; they didn’t just lift it a bare two inches and make a token gesture. But they never held your hand too long at their lips, and if they squeezed it before they released it, it was such a slight squeeze that it was more flattering than forward.
They found seats next to Margie and Neil on the sofa. “Are you having a good time?” Margie murmured.
“Sort of,” she murmured back.
“Let’s not stay too late,” Margie said.
It was obvious that Mil had planned the menu with a great deal more nostalgia than practicality. There was ham and potato salad and Boston baked beans and brown bread and cold fried chicken and great buttermilk biscuits dripping with salt butter. The dessert sat on the sideboard: a large sticky-looking lemon pie, a chocolate pie covered with whipped cream, and a platter of brownies. The white-coated butler came around with a tray full of glasses of cold beer. It must have been a hundred degrees in the room, and the first bite of biscuit stuck in Helen’s throat. She put her piled-up plate on the coffee table in front of her and took a cigarette.
Nestor leaned forward to light it for her. “You don’t eat?”
“It’s very hot tonight.”
“This is a terrible summer,” he said. “It isn’t usually so hot in Rio.”
She smiled. “Is that true?”
“I swear it. I hate the heat too. In the summer here I nearly die of it.”
“My lord,” Margie said, “look at my husband eat, God bless him.”
Neil had devoured everything on his plate; he seemed oblivious to the heat. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
Margie laughed. “Nothing, darling.”
Neil stood up. “I’m going to get more. This is very good. Real kosher ham.” He grinned at his wife. “Does anyone want anything? More beer? Nestor?”
“No, no thank you,” Nestor said, looking slightly queasy. “I always eat a large lunch and then I eat very lightly at night. It’s much better in hot weather.”
Bert came over, with Ernestine following him. “Hi,” he said. “Is there room?”
Helen and Margie moved over on the sofa, and Ernestine sat down. Bert sat on the arm of the sofa next to Helen, even though there was still room where Neil had been. “Your husband certainly worries about you,” Ernestine exclaimed. “He insisted we come over to see if everything was all right.”
Nestor stood up. “I think I had better look for my wife,” he said. “I want to see if she’s all right.” He bowed slightly and left.
Ernestine got up from the couch and took Nestor’s empty chair, next to Bert. “You can just tell he’s a mining engineer,” she said, taking hold of Bert’s hand. “Just feel his hands! They’re wonderful. So hard! You can tell he’s been digging in those mines for jewels.” She rubbed her fingers against Bert’s palm. “Isn’t it exciting to be married to a mineralogist?”
“He’s a gemologist,” Helen said.
Bert extracted his hand from Ernestine’s grip. “That’s
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