Red Weather

11. Zona Rosa

64 11 ZonaRosa “You must eat here a lot,” Neva said, after they had been seated at a small round table by a window overlooking the courtyard. The room smelled of eucalyptus and garlic. The maître d’, then the waiters, had nodded at Tomás in recognition. “My apartment is around the corner,” he said. Neva looked down at her lap. A parrot screeched, “Cu-cu-cu-cullo!” from the courtyard. She thought: Well, I guess I know what he’s planning. But I’m through with all that. With this. I don’t want to love anyone anymore. I don’t want to be touched. “I mean: my apartment is around the corner, so I eat here often.” She felt a faint heat in her cheeks in the cool room, knew she was blushing. Oh, she thought. He didn’t mean that. Then this wasn’t a date? She never knew when something was a date. She didn’t know she’d been dating Will until she’d slept at his apartment for a month. “The calamari is good,” he said. He reached across the table and pointed it out on her menu. “Cujillo! Cujillo!” the parrot shrieked. “And they make a salad with jicama and lime—you might like that,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact. “All right,” she said, nodding. “The calamari and the jicama salad.” The waiter hovered. Tomás gave him their order and he turned to go. “At the same time,” Neva said to his back. “I want them together. Junto,” she said, looking at the waiter for the first time. “Okay, Miss,” he said. Tomás said, “After dinner, we can walk around for my car and I’ll drive you home.” When she said nothing, he said, “Or I can put you in a cab if you’d rather.” 65 “All right,” she said. The silence was awkward. They both began talking at once: “Did you—” “That marine—” “You first,” she said. “I couldn’t get back inside, at Mario’s. They wouldn’t tell us anything , and then they ordered everyone away.” “It was a marine,” Neva said. “He shot himself.” “I heard,” Tomás said. “I heard later. How awful. Were you—” “No, I was in the other room. I didn’t really see it. We got home really late, though. And then these soldiers picked us up and drove us home.” She didn’t tell him the rest. “Does that sort of thing happen to you often?” Tomás asked. She shook her head, then realized he was teasing her. “Yes, all the time,” she said. She began to laugh. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It was just so awful. “Really awful, all that blood.” She realized her giggles had turned to something else, her eyes wet and stinging. He handed her a handkerchief across the table. “Really, I’m sorry,” she said. “I was so scared when the soldiers picked us up, so glad to get home. I hadn’t really thought about him—that marine.” He nodded at her across the table. “He must have been so homesick,” she said. The waiter brought the wine, and Tomás poured her a glass. “Or maybe,” she said, “he was ashamed. Of what is happening here. Of what the United States is doing here.” She gulped her wine. “I’m sorry,” Tomás said. “Are you all right?” Neva nodded. She didn’t see how the evening could save itself. But then he slid his chair closer to hers and reached for his handkerchief. He dried her eyes, then reached down and squeezed her hand where it lay in her lap. “Okay?” he asked. “Yes,” she said. “I’m even hungry.” They talked easily after that, and Neva relaxed a little, knowing at the end of the evening she could get in her cab and go home to her quiet room. She could have this evening, apart from her life, and not look back at it, ever. She could remember how the handkerchief had smelled a little like clove when he dried her tears, how his hand had met hers with kindness, even tenderness. But she didn’t have to scrutinize anything for clues. It was here: the present, pushing both past and future away and claiming its own territory. 66 But after the calamari, the jicama, a plate of cheese, and slices of a...