“An unfriendly one, though.”
She shrugged. “Art doesn’t have to be friendly. To me all this bad taste is very alive and miraculous.” She was going to say more but she was not sure of her English. The language she had learned had been literary and she was occasionally conscious of not speaking ordinary words. Holton had not been listening, though. Caught in the magic she had performed upon the square, he was melting into it, his eyes fixed on the effect and not the details.
“What a place to make a decision,” he said firmly, turning to look at her.
“A decision?” She was not sure of him now; not sure of the magic. “What sort of decision?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“If you like.” She could see that he was not ready to talk to her yet. The signs were good, though. He was returning.
Arm in arm they deserted their concrete island. They crossed the street and stood for a moment on the edge of the square, looking back at the lights.
“Where do you want to go?” asked Holton.
“Back to my hotel,” she said, not looking at him.
“Shall I go with you?”