When he saw the gentleman nod, the waiter came up, and without waiting for directions, brought a whiskey bottle and two glasses. After pouring out the drinks he withdrew to a discreet distance, not, however, without casting at Robledo a glance and smile that closely resembled those bestowed upon him by the mistress of the establishment.
The woman drained her glass with avidity, and then, as she noticed that the contents of the other glass was still untouched, an imploring look passed through her eyes.
“Before the war, whiskey didn’t cost much, but now ... only kings and millionaires can afford it. May I ...?”
The hand stretched out toward Robledo’s glass trembled with eagerness. He nodded, and the woman drained this glass too at a gulp.
The liquor seemed to dispel the torpor he had noticed in her words and gestures. Her eyes brightened, and she began speaking more rapidly. Suddenly she asked him in Spanish,
“Where are you from? I knew at once from your accent that you were American ... South American.... From Buenos Aires perhaps?”
Robledo shook his head, and gravely produced a lie.
“I am a Mexican.”
“I don’t know Mexico very well. I spent a few days in Vera Cruz once, between steamers. But I know the Argentine. I lived there once, years ago.... Where haven’t I been! There isn’t a language on earth that I don’t speak! That’s why the men like me, and my women friends are all envious.”
Robledo was looking fixedly at her. This woman was Elena, he could no longer doubt it. Yet there remained here nothing of the woman he had known in the past. The last twelve years weighed on her more heavily than all her previous existence, stamping her with all the repugnant and distressing signs of moral and physical decrepitude.