pointed at the walls and ceiling give off the impression of dining in a cavernous lava dome. The dark booths rise like stones out of a lake of shadows that covers the floor.
“I thought you might like the ambience,” Mere says after the host seats us. She has to raise her voice to be heard over the music, and as soon as she finishes speaking, she shakes her head and slides out of her side of the booth and comes over to mine, bumping me with her hip to make room. “Not very ambient,” she says when she's settled next to me.
“It's a privacy screen,” I say, trying to adjust myself in the seat so that I have a little more space between us.
“Yes,” she nods. “That's a good word. Privacy. This is hardly the soundtrack to an intimate dinner.” The music was banal, heavy with electronic beats, and I vaguely recognize it as something that had been popular in the US a few years ago.
“When was the last time you took someone to dinner?” she asks, trying to make the question seem casual as she looks over the menu. Making small talk. But I feel a tiny tremor running through her body. Her heart rate seems elevated, though I can't be sure I'm not hearing echoes of the music.
“Several years,” I say. “You?”
She shakes her head. “We're not talking about me.”
“We're not?”
A waiter glides up to our table, seemingly legless in black trousers and a red shirt that glows in the indirect light of the restaurant. He starts in Spanish, switches smoothly to English when Mere offers him a rustic “Hiya,” runs us through the specials, and then glides away in response to her request for a couple of caipirinhas.
Mere puts the menu down on the table and rests her head on her hand so that she can give me her undivided attention. “Yes,” she says, “we're talking about you. Because I'm in Chile—illegally—where I'm probably being targeted by a bunch of ex-military heavies, while chasing the biggest story of my life. Oh, and there's this whole semantic game we're playing about the word ‘vampire,' which, yes, is another story entirely. And probably even bigger than the first one.”
“Is this an interview then. Like that book?”
“No, not like that book.”
“Off the record then?”
“Are you out of your mind?”
The waiter returns with our drinks and hovers, waiting for us to order food. Mere glances at him, frowns, and reaches for the menu. “Tapas,” I tell him. “Exquisitas combinaciones.” I pick up my drink. “Más bebidas, por favor,” I add.
“Gracias,” he says, collecting our menus and disappearing again.
“What was that about?” Mere asks.
“I ordered.”
“I figured that much out. What did you order?”
“Tapas. Chef's choice.” I give her a guileless smile. “And more drinks. It sounds like we're going to be here awhile.”
TWENTY-FIVE
It's not hard to get her drunk. She's tired, jetlagged, emotionally wrung out, still recovering from being doped by Secutores, and hasn't had a decent meal in more than twelve hours. What surprises me is that it takes as many drinks as it does.
After we've cleared a dozen plates and half as many drinks (of which I had one and a half), I have our waiter get us a cab. Mere's already half asleep by the time I coax her out of the booth. Once in the cab, I tell the driver to drive around for twenty minutes or so, and it only takes Mere five to fall asleep, her head resting against my shoulder. Fifteen minutes later, confident that we're not being followed, I tell the driver to take us to the hotel I had spotted near the open air mall.
I leave her in the car until I have a room, and then I carry her in. The concierge gets the elevator for me. “Thank you.” I nod toward Mere's limp form. “Too much to drink.”
“It happens,” he replies with that nonjudgmental air that good hotel staff learn. I smile, trying to make it seem like I'm the long-suffering one in the relationship, as the elevator doors close.
We're on the eighth floor, in a corner room. I key in, arrange Mere on the bed, and cover her with the sheets. I prowl around the room for a few minutes, pausing to peek out at the parade of lights that are strung along the side of San Cristobel, and then I acknowledge that I'm too restless to sit and wait. I leave Mere a note and go back downstairs.
The mall