She fell into the nearest chair and closed her eyes, her hands on her knees. She looked years older, her face swollen, her skin slack and without vitality. Consuela wore no makeup or jewelry and her black dress looked slept in. I wondered where she had been all this time. I said, Can I make you something? She said, Is there any Cinzano? I said, They’ve cleaned us out. Except for scotch. Scotch, then. I’ll be in the living room. I made the drink and followed her into the living room. Of course the Cinzano was on the drinks tray but when I moved to prepare her what she wanted, Consuela waved her hand. Never mind, she said. I don’t care what I drink. She lay back on the sofa, holding the drink with both hands on her stomach, staring into the middle distance, her lips moving soundlessly. It seemed to me then that Jack Brule’s ghost was in the room with us. When I saw a drink untouched on the cocktail table I was certain of it. The apartment was silent and I wondered where the aunts had gone.
