"I don't know, amigo. I hired a new cook and she won't allow me to put my face in the kitchen."
"She must be a smart cook."
"We'll find out in a few minutes. I forgot to tell you, but Gonzales had some news for us tonight. He says that Gamburdo is planning to delay the actual start of Congress for another week. His game is to allow the present high feelings of the people to cool down a bit before the Congress starts its business."
Hall was puzzled. "I don't quite understand the maneuver," he said.
"The Congress has to choose a delegation for the Inter-American parley, and to compose its mandate. Gamburdo still wants a delegation committed to neutrality."
"Can he get away with it?"
"Who knows? He was a long way toward success when Don Anibal stopped him. The real question is how long can Don Anibal be counted on to get out of bed and fight for an anti-fascist war policy?"
A soft rain had started to fall while Hall was sleeping. It splashed gently against the open shutters of the cottage, embracing the house, the palms and the papaya trees on the grounds, its soft rhythms throwing Hall into a small boy's melancholy. He talked little during dinner, and when he did, it was to subject Duarte to his reminiscences of rainy days when he was very young.
They swapped yarns for hours, listened to Duarte's endless collection of Mexican and flamenco records, and killed a bottle of black rum.
"I'm going to sleep until noon," Hall said when they quit for the night.