He shrugged . “ Should I complain ?”
She asked him what was wrong . It was a routine , as ritualized as catechism or vaudeville .
“ My house .”
An exasperated look appeared , on cue , in Beatriz ’ s face . This too was part of the ritual , ever since he ’ d begun organizing protests against the new development that would demolish all the homes in the colony .
“ Do we have to always talk about that right away ? Never a ‘ how are you , how are the kids , how ’ s Stanley ?’ You ’ re like a kid yourself . Just want your own way .”
It seemed Beatriz had decided she was now the parent . “ Damn right I want my own way ,” he said . “ Why should I leave here ? I built this house . Bunch of Mafiosos come in here to take it away .”
He shifted in his chair . He felt the cramping in his leg muscles that always seemed to worsen when Beatriz visited .
98
“ Oh , you think everyone in the construction business is Mafia . Everybody is corrupt but you , right ?”
Beatriz was getting worked up , Gil figured , because she was married to an Italian . Well , half-Italian , half-Jewish . And Stanley was an accountant , not in construction . He liked Stanley , who spoke very little — how could you get a word in edgewise with Beatriz ? --and was a good father to the two boys .
“ Anyway ,” Beatriz was saying , “ I ’ m taking a run over to the supermarket . Do you need anything from there ?”
He considered a minute . “ Well , I could use some asafran .” “ You know they don ’ t sell that stuff there .” “ You asked me what I need , I told you . I can ’ t make arroz con pollo without it .” “ We ’ ll get it in the city one of these days . Meanwhile you can just use paprika .” “ Not the same .” Genuine Spanish saffron was one of Gil ’ s few indulgences , and one of his last