Free The City of Palaces by Michael Nava Page A

lilies that had given the café its name, Los Lirios. The dome, like the mahogany bar that curved between Corinthian columns, had been imported from France.
    Sarmiento sat down. “I’m sorry to be late. I was delayed.”
    A white-jacketed waiter in a red fez approached to take their orders. When he had departed, Jorge Luis said suspiciously, “There is something different about you, Miguel.”
    Sarmiento shrugged and answered, “No, I don’t think so.”
    â€œYou seem unusually hale,” Jorge Luis continued. “Not the pale ghost I have become accustomed to.” He made a show of inspecting Sarmiento’s face. “Your eyes are clear. Have you stopped drinking?”
    â€œYou just heard me order a whiskey,” he replied with a smile.
    â€œBy this time of the afternoon you would already have had several whiskies, but not today. There are only two causes for sobriety, Primo, God or a woman, and since you are an atheist, I must assume there is a woman.”
    Jorge Luis paused to allow the waiter to set their drinks on the table. He lifted his glass of absinthe, touched it to Sarmiento’s, and said, “Who is this paragon, Miguel? Presumably not the little French girl at Silvestre’s place I recommended last time we met. She’s lovely, but falling for a whore requires more imagination than you have ever demonstrated.”
    â€œDo you never tire of being clever?”
    â€œDon’t change the subject,” he said, lifting the glass of green liquor to his lips. He paused, stared at Sarmiento, and blurted out, “No! It can’t be. Not Alicia Gavilán!” Sarmiento felt his face flush. “It is! My God, Miguel …”
    He grabbed Jorge Luis’s wrist and said, in an angry whisper, “Will you keep your voice down!”
    â€œThen rumors are true,” he marveled. “Beauty and the beast, the gossips call you, the roles inverted of course. You the beauty and—”
    â€œDo not dare complete that sentence,” Sarmiento said, his voice tight with fury.
    Jorge Luis fell back in his chair as if he had been struck. He swallowed his drink and laid the empty glass on the table. “But this is unbelievable, Miguel,” he said in a quiet, serious voice. “What does the lady say?”
    Sarmiento’s hand fluttered helplessly.
    â€œYou haven’t shared your sentiments with her?” his cousin asked.
    â€œHow can I, when I am uncertain of their meaning or their cause?”
    â€œSurely, their cause is the lady and as for their meaning …”
    Sarmiento swallowed some whiskey. “I have seen her without her veil. I cannot feel toward her the ordinary physical attraction one feels for women and yet, Primo, when I am with her, her very presence gives me a feeling of peace and well-being as if every sordid and wasteful thing I have ever done has been forgiven. Is that love? Is it gratitude? Do I want her to be my wife or my mother? Is my feeling of being forgiven an illusion that would shatter once she knew—” He stopped and raised his glass to the waiter.
    â€œOnce she knew what, Miguel?” his cousin asked when the waiter had come and gone.
    â€œI have lived less than an exemplary life,” he said. “Let’s leave it at that.”
    Their drinks came and they finished them and the next round in silence.
    When the fourth round came, Jorge Luis said, “Listen, Miguel, let’s not be glum. You want to know whether or not you are in love with the lady? Perhaps I can help you answer that question.”
    â€œHow so?”
    â€œThe president’s wife is throwing a charity ball on Saturday evening. Come with me and we will see how strong your sentiment is for the Condesa Alicia when you are surrounded by all the available beauties of the city.”
    â€œA charity ball? Which charity?”
    Jorge Luis smirked. “I offer you a garden of earthly delights and