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Was
she
phoning
Mexico
City
?
he
wondered
.
She
wouldn
’
t
dare
!
The
front
door
shut
.
He
thought
of
the
last
week
here
,
alone
,
in
his
room
,
and
the
secret
,
narcotic
calls
across
continents
,
an
isthmus
,
whole
jungle
countries
of
rain
forest
,
blue
-
orchid
plateaus
,
lakes
and
hills
.
.
.
talking
.
.
.
talking
.
.
.
to
Buenos
Aires
.
.
.
and
.
.
.
Lima
.
.
.
Rio
de
Janeiro
.
.
.
He
lifted
himself
in
the
cool
bed
.
Tomorrow
the
telephone
gone
!
What
a
greedy
fool
he
had
been
!
He
slipped
his
brittle
ivory
legs
down
from
the
bed
,
marveling
at
their
desiccation
.
They
seemed
to
be
things
which
had
been
fastened
to
his
body
while
he
slept
one
night
,
while
his
younger
legs
were
taken
off
and
burned
in
the
cellar
furnace
.
Over
the
years
,
they
had
destroyed
all
of
him
,
removing
hands
,
arms
,
and
legs
and
leaving
him
with
substitutes
as
delicate
and
useless
as
chess
pieces
.
And
now
they
were
tampering
with
something
more
intangible
—
the
memory
;
they
were
trying
to
cut
the
wires
which
led
back
into
another
year
.
He
was
across
the
room
in
a
stumbling
run
.
Grasping
the
phone
,
he
took
it
with
him
as
he
slid
down
the
wall
to
sit
upon
the
floor
.
He
got
the
long
-
distance
operator
,
his
heart
exploding
within
him
,
faster
and
faster
,
a
blackness
in
his
eyes
.
"
Hurry
,
hurry
!
"
He
waited
.
"
Bueno
?
"
"
Jorge
,
we
were
cut
off
.
"
"
You
must
not
phone
again
,
Senior
,
"
said
the
faraway
voice
.
"
Your
nurse
called
me
.
She
says
you
are
very
ill
.
I
must
hang
up
.
"
"
No
,
Jorge
!
Please
!
"
the
old
man
pleaded
.
"
One
last
time
,
listen
to
me
.
They
’
re
taking
the
phone
out
tomorrow
.
I
can
never
call
you
again
.
