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The colonel lit a cigarette. "They're fine," he said. "They're just fine." 

"Does it come directly from Havana?" 

"No, from New York. I've been to Havana before. What do you drink?"

"When before?"

"About a month ago. What are you drinking?"

"A tomato, thank you."

"Tomato?! Not a Martini?" 

"No thanks. A tomato." 

"Why don't you drink a Martini?" the colonel asked. 

"Because it's ten in the morning," I said. 

"Strange." the colonel said. He turned towards the waiter who had come to take my order: "A tomato and another Martini." and then: "Do you smoke?" he said offering me a cigarette.

Better take this cigarette, I thought. Otherwise there is the risk of spending the morning arguing. "Thanks," I said pulling one out of the package. "Did they give you anything for me?" 

"He just said he's saying goodbye and hoping to see you again soon. When do you think you'll see each other again?"

"I don't know..." I said leaning towards the lighter. "Was he at the Casita?" I asked and smiled remembering how Papa, concerning the "scandal" in the newspapers, had reminded me that: "...Facts: you and your mother went to Cuba to see Gianfranco and you were our guests. You had a house of your own. I only went in there once to kill a mouse but you weren't there." Too bad he had wanted to be alone. I would have enjoyed watching his battle with the mouse.

"Casita...?" No, to the National. Nice hotel and only $20 a day. I have been to the Tropicana. Damn what a show! I guess he went to the Tropicana too, with Hemingway."