To Less‘s delight, the name of the hotel is the Monkey House, and it is filled with art and music: in the front hallway is an enormous portrait of Frida Kahlo holding a heart in each hand. Below her, a player piano works through a roll of Scott Joplin. Arturo speaks in rapid Spanish to a portly older man, his hair slick as silver, who then turns to Less and says,
˝Welcome to our little home! I hear you are a famous poet!˝
˝No,˝ Less said. ˝But I knew a famous poet. That seems to be enough, these days.˝
˝Yes, he knew Robert Brownburn,˝ Arturo gravely explains, hands clasped.
˝Brownburn!˝ the hotel owner shouts. ˝To me he is better than Ross! When did you meet him?˝
˝Oh, a long time ago. I was twenty-one.˝
˝Your first time in Mexico?˝
˝Yes, yes, it is.˝
˝Welcome to Mexico!˝
To Less‘s delight, the name of the hotel is the Monkey House, and it is filled with art and music: in the front hallway is an enormous portrait of Frida Kahlo holding a heart in each hand. Below her, a player piano works through a roll of Scott Joplin. Arturo speaks in rapid Spanish to a portly older man, his hair slick as silver, who then turns to Less and says,
"Welcome to our little home! I hear you are a famous poet!"
"No," Less said. "But I knew a famous poet. That seems to be enough, these days."
"Yes, he knew Robert Brownburn," Arturo gravely explains, hands clasped.
"Brownburn!" the hotel owner shouts. "To me he is better than Ross! When did you meet him?"
"Oh, a long time ago. I was twenty-one."
"Your first time in Mexico?"
"Yes, yes, it is."
"Welcome to Mexico!"
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