The Fugitivities, стр. 61

“You sure?” said Octavio.

“Yeah, I’ll catch up with you later.”

Jonah watched the two of them gliding down the stairs of the Pinacoteca together. He felt happy for his friend, and envious too. Maybe he’d have the same luck too if he stuck around the opening. But with everyone speaking in Portuguese he just felt lost. On the other hand, he had nothing better to do, so he upgraded from white wine to a glass of champagne and made another tour of the show, trying to take an interest in the labels. But his glass was very soon empty. No one had come over to take an interest in him, and there was no sign of Octavio and Francesca. He looked around for somewhere to leave his plastic flute, smiled at an elderly gentleman he didn’t know, and completed his desultory retreat from the gallery.

Ravines of gray and pink high-rises dominated the scuzzy streets around the Pinacoteca, but the older street-level shops, many of which were closing, spackled their bases with a dusky warmth. He walked back toward the Rialto with the discomforting feeling he was being watched, even though he knew it was really the opposite—he was insignificant to everyone he passed. At a corner, by the large roadway that marked the transition out of the historical city center, he passed a McDonald’s. He hadn’t eaten anything substantial all day. He looked around. What were the odds Octavio or Francesca would see him if he slipped in?

Everything was the same: the smell, the cold lighting, the demographic combination of working-class families and friends at recreation, and underclass drifters or loners camped out at the formica tables. The girl behind the terminal was dark-skinned with a lively, trained smile. He pointed to the image of the chicken tenders above her and she laughed and helped him through his order. He considered a seat by the large plateglass window overlooking the thoroughfare but opted instead for a booth closer to the condiment dispensary. Maybe it was only fair given the whole situation with Barthes. He hadn’t wanted that, of course; if only Teresa had been available it would all have been different. Was this what it all came down to? There was a tap on his shoulder. The girl from the register was holding a soda out for him. He had forgotten to take it off the counter with his order. Embarrassed, he blurted out an awkward obrigado, which made her quiver with laughter. Her lip gloss sparkled as she said something he didn’t understand beyond its sisterly compassion. She sauntered back to her station. He hadn’t finished his meal, but he was so flustered by the interaction that he wrapped the remaining chicken to go and took off.

When he got back to the room, Octavio was there, his maté gourd in hand, bouncing off the walls with frenetic energy.

“Hey, I figured since I didn’t see you guys come back for a while that maybe you had, you know, gone somewhere, so I…”

“What a woman! Jonah—I’m telling you—this is tremendous, she’s devastated me, there is nothing else to say, no other way to put it!”

“Okay, chill…What happened? What did you get up to?”

They had talked about Francesca’s life in Porto Alegre, about her family. Her parents were involved in city politics but had separated when she was still a teenager and only saw each other when necessary. He also learned that she was a mother. Divorced from the father now and raising the child on her own. A little girl named Paolina. They lived with Francesca’s grandmother, who watched the girl when she went out. She wasn’t from the city originally but from the mountains to the north. Her father was from the nearby city of Alvorada. Apparently, they were both invited to a family dinner at her grandmother’s home that Sunday. Octavio had already said yes, that they would go. He described how as they walked back down toward the gallery she stopped and demanded that Octavio tell her if he had intentions. He said that he did. She demanded that he kiss her so that she could decide if he was worth it. She had approved. The next thing he knew they were back in the champagne chatter of the gallery looking for Jonah.

“When we realized you had gone, Francesca was very upset, actually. I told her it was fine, that you wouldn’t mind at all, but she was all bent out of shape about it. She really likes you. But I’m warning you—don’t get any ideas. Don’t even think about it. This is not a game. I won’t tolerate any more acts of treason.”