Larry?”
“Hey, Ma.”
Fernanda tries to sit up, adjusting the T-shirt she’s using as a nightgown. She isn’t wearing anything else. She’s lit up by the hall light, and my shadow is falling across her face, which she scrunches up like a little girl carelessly awakened. She murmurs something, as if weighed down by her own body. I put my hand on her back, and she asks me, confused, “How did you get in?”
“Pedro unlocked the door.”
“Oh, O.K.,” she says, and looks around in a daze, as if she’s awakened in an unfamiliar room. “What time is it?” she asks.
“Three thirty.”
“Did you just get here?”
I nod, and Fernanda sits up in bed, pulls the sheet over her legs, and runs her hand through her hair. She seems surprised to discover that it’s still damp. I reach out to turn on the bedside lamp, but she stops me. “No,” she pleads, “I look awful.”
She gazes at me a while and strokes my cheek. “Larry,” she says, “I’ve really missed you.” She grabs my hand and leans toward me. “You smell like liquor,” she says, smiling.
“They refused to bring me. I’ve been trying to get here for a while, but Pedro told me you weren’t . . .”
“I was bushed,” she says, and touches her hair again. “What time did you arrive?”
“In Medellín?”
“Yeah.”
“Like noon. I haven’t slept at all.”
“Come here, sweetie.” She gestures for me to sit next to her. She leans her head on my shoulder. Her hair smells clean, but her breath smells like cigarettes.
“Where’s Julio?” I ask.
“At the farm. But he said he’d come early.”
She slides down the bed a little. She shakes her head and covers her ears.
“All those fireworks, Jesus Christ,” she complains. “What time are they going to stop?”
She breathes in, sighs, then rests against my shoulder again.
“Did you see the apartment?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“It’s really small.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“It’s not like the house,” she says.
It is smaller. The bed is half the size of the one she used to have. Instead of picture windows it’s got narrow casements; there’s no artwork or heavy drapes, just blinds.
“It’s great,” I say. “You don’t need any more than this. It’s bigger than my place in London.”
“It isn’t easy,” she says, and clears her throat.
It occurs to me now that the reason she never sent me a photo of the apartment or showed it to me when we talked on Skype was more because of the mess than the size. Fernanda has never finished unpacking the things she brought from the house.
“I set up Julio’s room for you,” she says. “He’s at the farm pretty much all the time. At any rate, it’s got two beds, if it turns out he wants to stay. Hope so. It would be wonderful to be all together again.” She sighs, sighs again, and clarifies, “Not beds. Cots.”
“I’m so tired I could sleep on the floor,” I tell her.
“Sleep here with me tonight, if that’s even possible with all this noise. Are you hungry? Did you eat?”
“I’m fine. Sleepy.”
I could fall asleep like this, fully clothed and with my shoes still on, leaning back against the wooden headboard, with Fernanda’s damp hair as a pillow. I would plunge into sleep as soon as I close my eyes, but the overhead light suddenly flips on and blinds us.
“Why is it so dark in here?” asks Pedro, standing in the doorway.
Fernanda pulls the sheet over her head. “Jackass,” she says.
“Turn off the light, dipshit,” I tell him.
“I just wanted to show you the shirt I borrowed,” Pedro says. He spreads his arms to show me the one he’s put on in place of his bloody one. “It was the best one I found,” he says. “Your clothes are butt-ugly. You’ve got the worst fashion sense.”
“What are you doing here?” Fernanda asks.
“I brought you your son.”
“Right, but why are you still here?”
“I was changing.”
Now I see her in the overhead light. Her skin is red, her eyes swollen, and she has spots and wrinkles that weren’t visible on the computer screen. It wasn’t so long ago that I last saw her in person. It could be the hour—everybody looks like crap when they’re disturbed in the middle of the night. She’s still beautiful anyway; she still looks like a queen. Or is it the passing years, which destroy everything?
“What happened to your face?” she asks Pedro.
“Not too much. Sure happened to the other guy, though.”
“Well, bye,” I tell Pedro.
“Bye?” He laughs. “You’re coming with us. Inga and the others are waiting in the car.”
Fernanda laughs too, and I don’t understand her reaction. I’m irritated by the complicity in her chuckle. “What’s so funny?” I ask, and the question only makes them laugh harder. Fernanda’s face flushes, her nostrils flare, and a thread of spit lashes her upper teeth to her lower ones.
“I’m going to pee,” she says, and gets up.
The Dictator goes gloomy, deflates when it’s just me around. It’s always been like that when we annoy each other. Our friendship always saves us eventually, or his willingness to turn the page as if nothing had happened. I’m not budging from here, Pedro, I tell him. It’s still early, he says, let’s go for a ride. I shake my head. I heard about this kickass afterparty, he says, it’s going to be off the hook. No, I say. He looks at me. Fernanda flushes the toilet. I’m taking your shirt, Pedro says. I shrug, and he leaves. I feel myself nodding off. Fernanda’s taking a long time. Just as I’m about to fall asleep, she says, “You stayed?”
“Uh-huh.”
She gets into bed. Maybe it’s me, but something about her isn’t right. The sparkle and mischief in her laughter from before has gone. “Take off your shoes, Larry.”
She runs her hands over the part of the bed where I’m going to lie down. She fluffs my pillow.
“Turn off the light,” she instructs me, “and leave the one in the hallway on for Julio.”
I see it’s too late to tell her I’d rather sleep in the other room. It doesn’t matter. Sleeping is what counts.
“Are you cold?” she asks.
“No.”
“I am.”
I float adrift on fatigue; my legs are aching. She whispers, it’s so nice to have you here. I don’t have the energy to respond. She presses against me, and her breathing lulls me again. I feel her trembling, and just when I think I’m finally going to slide into the abyss of sleep, Fernanda says, don’t fall asleep, Larry, don’t leave me alone. I stop, take a couple of steps back to hover right there, on the threshold where the fireworks are still booming. Don’t go to sleep, she says again. I’m begging you, she says in anguish, stay with me, honey. Crying, she beseeches me: please, talk to me.