At first, she didn’t mind seeing him waiting below, among the market stalls, and introducing him as her new novio to her vendor friends. They’d go for walks, sometimes sit in the cool and dusty interior of the Mother of Mercy church, or in the cathedral, holding hands and praying. Sometimes they dallied in the Parque Central or visited the Havana zoo. He never had much money in his pockets, didn’t even own an automobile, but still he bought her little things—ice cream cones from the popular Coppelia’s parlor, mainly, or they’d sip rum and Cokes—Cuba Libres—in a bar, eat cheap meals in waterside fritter joints. As they passed by, men always checked her out, and fiercely so, but he didn’t seem to notice, and if he did, he just wasn’t like Ignacio, who’d never put up with that kind of thing. Nestor, el pobre, was just too good-natured for that. People liked him—old ladies, looking down from their balconies, with fans in their hands, were always nodding approvingly at the very nice looking young fellow with the dazzling belleza by his side.
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