“How long have you been here?” he asked, offering a light.
“I don’t know.”
“Long?”
“I can’t say, mister.”
“How did you get here?” Nicky inquired.
“I don’t seem to recall—I can’t seem to remember.”
They looked at one another. The alcalde came up.
“He is of no account,” he declared. “He cannot help you,” he continued in his slow Spanish, using the words as though he was trying to recall the proper ones; his usual conversation was in a degenerate dialect form that he seemed to feel was too undignified for the occasion of the visit of such dignitaries. “Come away!” he added. “Tomorrow I will receive you and talk to you.” He turned on his heel and walked away.
Bill looked after him and made a wry grimace of disgust.
“Tomorrow!” he said. “That’s what you hear all through the Spanish tropics, ‘tomorrow!’” And he might have added that “tomorrow” may also bring its “tomorrow,” for the hot countries breed delays and indolence and the slow, dragging moments seem interminable to the Americans, with their purposeful, aggressive manner and their habit of doing things at once!