Saludos

“This,” I told them, “is as good as a shot of adrenalin to a dying man. I was just sitting here feeling a bit sorry for myself.”

“We heard this afternoon that you had just come out of the hospital today, and we thought we’d drop by to cheer you up. We brought this,” announced Jean, “to help in the process.” She upwrapped a bottle of Chilean Ondurraga, a dry white wine.

“My favorite,” I said. “But unfortunately there is no ice to chill it, else I'd ask you to share it with me now.”

“Let’s have it anyway,” said Pat.

I rang for Victoria, but instead Maria padded in. She took in the situation at a glance and took the bottle to open in the kitchen. She came back with glasses and said, “Señnora, wouldn’t you like to ask your friends to stay for dinner? You have been very triste all day, and I think it would be good for you to have company.” Her dark, leathery face wrinkled into an enchanting smile. “They seem,” she added, “to be people de confianza.” A lovely phrase that—people of confidence.

Pat threw his lean, lanky body back in the armchair, ran a slim hand through his red Irish hair, and burst into laughter. “Thank you very much,” he told Maria. “We’d love to stay.”

At dinner Maria came herself with the pretty little clam soup she had made and stood by me while I tasted it. It was a pretty little soup, every whit as good as the more elaborate Parisian version I remembered. “There is not enough for you,” she said to Pat and Jean, “but there is something else.” Victoria set before them tall frappé glasses with crisp bits of lettuce showing over the edges. The “something else” seemed to be an appetizer of some sort. Jean took one bite and opened her eyes wide. “I’d like to know how she made this.”

“We’ll ask,” I said. But Maria had already anticipated the question and was peering around the pantry door.

“You take,” she told Jean, “a nice, ripe, fat palta (alligator pear) and cut it small. Then you take your fresh- cooked shrimps and chopped walnuts, and mix them just before serving with mayonnaise. You know how to make that with Spanish olive oil and garlic juice, eggs, and lime juice? It is a great pity,” she added, “that it is not cold. God willing, the next time you come we shall have ice.”

“God willing,” returned Pat. “We hope that will be soon.”

The Johnstons left early; my first day out of bed in weeks had pretty well exhausted me, and wearily I climbed the stairs with Tuti, the police dog, at my heels. For how long I dozed I do not know, but I woke with a start sitting bolt upright in bed. There was no sound from Tuti on his rug, but still there was an indefinable sense of something wrong in the house. The feeling was so strong that I slipped into a dressing gown and crept downstairs, snapping on lights as I went. There, in the patio, sitting up in a straight kitchen chair, was Maria, her head nodding in sleep.

“Maria!” I exclaimed. “Why aren’t you in bed?” The servant’s room opened just off the patio.

“Because,” she replied, “there is no bed.”

Snapping on the light in the little room, I saw that indeed there was no bed. A little investigation proved that it had been put in an unused room upstairs; it had never occurred to me that the cook’s room wasn’t in order.

“But,” I said, “why didn’t you come to me?”

“Ah, Señora, you were tired and ill. I did not want to wake you.”

In the days that followed, Maria produced miracles of delicacies from the strange fruits and foodstuffs she brought from the market. I loved the savory broths she made, but I had no appetite for solid foods, craving cold drinks instead. But there was never any ice. I complained feebly about it, but both Maria and Victoria said, “Ojalá (God willing), tomorrow we shall have ice.”

I explained, “All you have to do is telephone,” and slipped back into feverish dreams, leaving the household to run itself as best it could.