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"
Si
.
The
window
?
"
"
The
window
,
Jorge
,
if
you
please
.
"
"
A
moment
,
"
said
the
voice
.
And
,
thousands
of
miles
away
,
in
a
southern
land
,
in
an
office
in
a
building
in
that
land
,
there
was
the
sound
of
footsteps
retreating
from
the
phone
.
The
old
man
leaned
forward
,
gripping
the
receiver
tight
to
his
wrinkled
ear
that
ached
with
waiting
for
the
next
sound
.
The
raising
of
a
window
.
Ah
,
sighed
the
old
man
.
The
sounds
of
Mexico
City
on
a
hot
yellow
noon
through
the
open
window
into
the
waiting
phone
.
He
c
see
Jorge
standing
there
holding
the
mouthpiece
out
,
out
the
bright
day
.
"
Senor
.
.
.
"
"
No
,
no
,
please
.
Let
me
listen
.
"
He
listened
to
the
hooting
of
many
metal
horns
,
squealing
of
brakes
,
the
calls
of
vendors
selling
red
-
purple
bananas
and
jungle
oranges
in
their
stalls
.
Colonel
Freeleigh
’
s
feet
began
to
move
,
hanging
from
the
edge
of
his
wheel
chair
,
making
the
motions
of
a
man
walking
.
His
eyes
squeezed
tight
.
He
gave
a
series
of
immense
sniffs
,
as
if
to
gain
the
odors
of
meats
hung
on
iron
hooks
in
sunshine
,
cloaked
with
flies
like
a
mantle
of
raisins
;
the
smell
of
stone
alleys
wet
with
morning
rain
.
He
could
feel
the
sun
bum
his
spiny
-
bearded
cheek
,
and
he
was
twenty
-
five
years
old
again
,
walking
,
walking
,
looking
,
smiling
,
happy
to
be
alive
,
very
much
alert
,
drinking
in
colors
and
smells
.
A
rap
on
the
door
.
Quickly
he
hid
the
phone
under
his
lap
robe
.
