She smiled sweetly in dismissal, and having settled the matter in the favorite Latin-American fashion, reopened her vanity case, upon the mirror of which was pasted the photograph of her sweetheart, who seemed even more important than this affair of State. Gringo-like, I persisted.
“How about to-day?”
“Impossible, señor. The Secretary is in conference. And the Sub-secretary has gone home.”
“Where does he live?”
“Quién sabe? Who knows, señor?”
Evidently annoyed at my insistence, she finally discovered a clerk who professed that he did know. He wrote out the address for me: “Numero —, Calle 10 Poniente.” It was only the middle of the morning, but it was already fairly hot in San Salvador. I hiked through sun-blanched streets, only a few of which were numbered. At length I asked a policeman for directions. He glanced at my perspiring forehead, and assured me that I was now at the Tenth Street Poniente.
So I knocked at the proper number, and inquired of a servant whether His Excellency were at home. I learned that he was. A colored gentleman in pajamas rose from a hammock in the patio, and shook hands very cordially. Not to be outdone in politeness, I made an elaborate speech, emphasizing my regret at having to leave his delightful country, and begging that he would do me the favor to grant permission.
“The permission is yours, señor!”
“Do I not require your visé on my passport?”
“Not mine, señor, but that of the Sub-Secretary of Foreign Relations. I am only an humble employee of the street-cleaning department. But muchas gracias for your visit. Always my house is yours, at Numero —, Seventh Street Poniente.”