The Head gives a cat grin. "At our age, you‘ve got to stockup! I‘ll try a pack this afternoon and tell you if it‘s legit?" Heputshis fist down at his crotch level, then springs his erectilethumb upward.
The mynah birds above mock them in ragtime.
"Señor Less, Señor Banderbander." It is Arturo; he seemsnot to have changed clothes or demeanor from the night be-fore. "Are you ready to go?"
Less, still bewildered, turns to the Head. "You‘re comingwith us? Don‘t you have to see the panels?"
"I really have put together some wonderful panels! But Inever go," he explains, spreading his hands on his chest. "Idon‘t speak Spanish."


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"Another Manhattan, please."
It is later the same night; Arthur Less had better not behungover for the interview tomorrow with Mandern. Andhe had better find something space operatic to wear.
He is talking: "I‘m traveling around the world."
This conversation takes place in a Midtown bar close to thehotel. Less used to frequent it as a very young man. Nothing haschanged about the joint: not the doorman, dubious of anyone


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Whenever her grandmother‘s parties ran late, Astrid wouldnormally opt to spend the night at Tyersall Park. She preferrednot to wake Cassian if he was sleeping soundly, and she wouldhead for the bedroom (just opposite from Nick‘s) that had beenset aside for her frequent visits since she was a little girl. Heradoring grandmother had created an enchanted emporium forher, commissioning whimsical hand-carved furniture fromItaly and walls painted with scenes from her favorite fairy tale,
"The Twelve Dancing Princesses." Astrid still loved the occa-sional night spent in this childhood bedroom, cosseted by themost fantastical dolls, stuffed animals, and tea sets that moneycould buy.


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"Oh, she‘s incredibly chic—one of the few from her gen-eration who gets it right," the comtesse decreed. "François-Marie tells me Astrid has a couture collection that rivals theSheikha of Qatar‘s. She never attends the shows, because sheloathes to be photographed, but she goes straight to the ate-liers and snaps up dozens of dresses every season as if theywere macarons."
Astrid was in the salon admiring the Balthus portrait overthe mantelpiece when someone behind her said, "That‘s Lau-rent‘s mother, you know." It was the Baronne Marie-Hélènede la Durée, this time attempting a smile on her tightly pulledface.
"I thought it might be," Astrid replied.


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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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