He went in search of coffee. He didn’t use the elevator down to the street. He walked down the five flights of stairs he found at the end of the hall eight doors down from his hotel room. It was six o’clock in the morning. He’d moved into the hotel the night before and had slept badly.
This would be his first day alone in Cartagena. Yesterday, after their week together in hotel on the beach, his girlfriend deserted him and flew back to Bogotá. This small hotel was three blocks inland. It had a courtyard shaded by a giant mango tree loaded with fruit.
He stepped out of the hotel into the bright Caribbean sunlight. Six o´clock and already warm. Next to the hotel he saw a small café, but his desire for coffee was distracted. He couldn’t believe what he saw. In front of the small café, on the sidewalk and partially in the street, was the most astounding sight.
There may have been a dozen. Some were wearing cocktail dress, some had on short shorts, and all were dressed for the evening. One, a black, was tall and beautiful; her friend standing and chatting next to her had the same café con leche skin color as his girlfriend. He heard her say, “Hasta luego,” to the black girl before she walked over to where he was standing.
“Buenos días. Eres italiano?” she said. “Are you an Italian?”
“No,” I said. “American.”
“Do you date?” she said.
“Would you like a coffee?” I said. I indicated a table just inside open front of the café. She walked with me into the café and sat down at the first table. I sat across from her.
“Café con leche?” I asked. She nodded yes.
“Dos.” I said to the waiter.
“Are you busy later?” she said. “What are you doing later?”
“I am going to walk and get to know the city.”
“Are you at the hotel?” she indicated the hotel next door with her head.
“I am. Do you live in Cartagena?”
“No. I am from outside of Monteria, Cordoba.” She said. “I am here for the season. I can make enough in three months to last all year.”
“I was here with my girlfriend.” I said. “She had to go back home yesterday.”
“We could spend an hour together. I’ll call my mother and tell her I’ll be late,” she said. “$200.000 pesos for you.”
“Your mother?” I said.
“Yes, she takes care of my little girl, my daughter.”
The waiter set a large, white cup with espresso coffee in the bottom and a small pitcher of hot milk on the table in front of each of us. He placed a bowl of brown sugar in the center of the table and gave each of us a spoon that he set on top of a napkin to the right of the cups.
I watched the pretty woman cross her legs, lean forward, and spoon three spoonfuls of sugar into her cup. She poured in milk until the coffee was the color of her skin, picked up the cup, and took a sip. I fixed up my coffee with sugar but did not add as much hot milk. I took a sip and smiled.
“I needed coffee,” I said.
“We could go up to your room.” She took another sip of her coffee.
“You are very beautiful,” I said, “but my girlfriend . . .”
“I won’t tell.” She smiled.
