112
PARTISAN REVIEW
•
Greek owner does not begrudge him the food he eats and he is pleased
that the two boys from his hometown with whom he shares a room on
Allen Street must come home each night after a day of standing outside
subway stops selling roses from their native Mexico. Even on cold days in
winter. He crushes the cigarette in the saucer, ready to mop the floor,
happy in America.
At the register, the Greek owner is trying to narrow his focus to the
exact spot on the head of the woman with the dyed hair where the gray
roots and red dye join. He wonders what it would be like to make love
to her. He has promised his wife to bring a pound of cod home for din–
ner. The remembered promise irritates him. Outside snow falls. He closes
his eyes. He wishes it would snow harder. He wishes he could spend the
night here, in his coffee shop, near the woman with the dyed red hair.
The good-looking woman has decided to give the old man what–
ever he wants. Frantisek is dead, Prague is in Europe, and she is a good–
looking woman who needs enough money to keep her life unchanged.
Besides, maybe she can convince the old man to let her paint his por–
trait. She would like that. She would like to leave the portrait unfin–
ished.
"I went back to Prague," she says. "After he died."
"I wish I could help," the old man says.
"It
must be a terrible thing
to face alone. Let me help, Alicia."
"I don't like European men anymore," the woman says. "I can't live
that way. Not after the years here."
"Frantisek dying like that," the old man says. "The pain, I mean.
It
would have been easier if it was a heart."
"There's no night life. I went to Wenceslas Square . Empty. Just
hippies. They steal. Like over here." The good-looking woman sighs,
zips her red ski jacket up. Maybe it will be enough simply to stroke him
a little, to talk to him. Maybe it will not be so bad. The old man has
money now. "They watch television. No night life. And the way they
dress." The good-looking woman shakes her head in exasperation. "The
only time I went to the theater, I wore a white sweater and blue jeans.
Not even a piece of costume jewelry." She touches 'the old man's hand.
The hand lies flat, unmoving. "Is it time to go, Willie?"
The old man looks at the good-looking woman as if he were notic–
ing her for the first time. "It was Kennedy loused the county up. With
that immigration law. The people who built this country were
Europeans, like us. But he give preference to all them Caribbeans."
"It's time, Willie, the woman says. "I'll take you home. We'll have
