that very Italian Christmas cake. As you can see, I don't forget my origin "Senor Bartletts smiled at me." Every year I make them come from Italy, at this time."
Between a mambo and a guaracha, every now and then I remembered to look for Papa. a circle of admirers and, as I passed by, I gratefully smiled at him.
For lunch at the Finca we had shark fin soup topped with El Monstruo's story about taking a nice picture of me. He had decided that my face had to be allergic to certain lights and too mobile, so it often came off staggered. To avoid further setbacks, he was considering resigning as "Adriana's official photographer." he said.
We ate, drank and joked. After lunch, Gianfranco had begun to re-study the application forms for the US visa, filled in in the afternoon with the help of Mary. I was thinking of Juan whom I could not see again tomorrow, family problems, he often had family problems, Juan. My mother, sitting next to me on the sofa, sipped her wine with a worried air. Since papa's death she often looked worried or sad, even if she always tried to hide it. But when I saw a slight shadow pass over my high smooth forehead, a light shadow passing by, I knew she was more worried than usual.
Mary and Papa, each with a glass in their hand, were standing talking. From the expression on their faces, they didn't seem to agree entirely. Mary, who had left the room for a moment, had returned with another bottle. Passing by the gramophone, she had turned up the music.
"I am faithful to you darling in my way..." she began to sing pirouetting around Papa. Papa looked at her with a smile that was not true,
"Let's dance, let's dance" said Mary.
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