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The quieter place had no neon lights and no marquee over the sidewalk. We stepped out of a cab in front and I tried to memorize the street, to make out the signs at the corners, the storefronts (shutters down, unlit) across the way, but there was nothing to catch on to. In the cab I had tried to mark each turn we had taken but had lost track; the streets were narrow in this part of town and we had stopped and reversed twice when blocked by the tedious inching of a night bus. I felt sober because I was nervous, but I could tell that I wasn’t thinking all that fast, and the champagne and the long hours were weighing on me. Marcelo had assumed the role of my chaperone, and helped me onto the sidewalk. It was all campy, his intercession between me and every door we had encountered since le
