The World in Half by Cristina Henríquez Read Free Book Online

this is a business!” yet another man chimes in.
    “What we’re talking about is a business, too, payaso. ” The first voice.
    “Your business office is out on the street, not here in my lobby.”
    I crane my neck but I can’t see anything.
    “ Your lobby? What? Now you own this building?”
    Then I see him, the same guy from the alley the night before. He crosses the doorway—my little rectangular field of vision—in the direction of the front desk, his baggy pants dragging lightly against the tile floor. Hernán, the doorman, strides briskly after him as he says, “I am telling you again that you have to calm down!” and then the front bell rings repeatedly. There are some scuffling noises, but no more talking, before the lobby goes quiet again. I sneak to the doorway of the bar and peer out. The guy—he’s about my age, his hair bleached the color of butterscotch—is sitting, scowling, on one of the two chairs in the lobby with his arms crossed while Hernán kneels in front of him and appears to be whispering to him sternly. The front-desk clerk stands red-faced, staring at the two of them as if on guard for an attack he believes might still happen.
    From behind me, I hear, “Your food,” and turn as the bartender places my plate on the table with a clatter. I linger for a moment before returning to the table.
    I’m cutting off a second piece of the hot, crispy corn cake when the guy from the lobby strides into the bar and plops himself onto a stool at the counter. His light brown hair is curled against his neck, and he scratches it absently before he starts drumming his fingers on the lacquered bartop. He pushes himself forward across the counter, searching, I guess, for the bartender. A few seconds later, he spins around on the stool. Even with my eyes trained on my plate, I can feel him staring at me. I take another bite of my corn cake. He keeps staring. Finally, I look up. “The bartender is around here somewhere,” I say, in Spanish.
    He grins, hops off the stool, and shuffles toward me.
    “How’s your food?” he asks.
    “Good.”
    He pulls out a chair and sits across from me.
    I rest my fork on the lip of the plate. I don’t feel scared of him, exactly, but I don’t know what to expect.
    He slides the toothpick dispenser across the tabletop toward himself and turns it over, catching one of the slender sticks in his palm. “Do you mind?” he asks.
    When I shake my head, he pops the toothpick into the corner of his mouth, the greater part of it dangling from between his lips like a slide.
    We sit for a full minute at least, neither of us saying anything, although I can feel him watching me curiously. He never turns away. Neither do I. It’s like we’re in some kind of silently agreed-upon contest. The rest of the bar is almost impossibly quiet, not a single particle of sound floating in from the lobby or from the kitchen.
    Finally, he says, “Are you staying in this hotel?”
    I cock my head. “Maybe. Why?”
    “Just wondering. I haven’t seen you around here before. The people who pop up out of nowhere are the ones staying here. The people who hang around all the time are employees.”
    “That’s usually how a hotel works.”
    “So I’m going to guess you’re staying here.”
    “Okay.”
    His skin is honey-brown, and he has wide-set, light brown eyes traced with a hint of green. One of his front teeth is chipped at the inside corner, giving his grin an air of mischief and boyishness, and his hair is cut short. He’s wearing baggy cargo pants and a red T-shirt with a faded checkered-flag decal on the front.
    I finger the handle of my fork and move it from one position to another on the thick, rounded edge of my plate.
    “I’m bothering you?” he asks. “I just wanted to welcome you to the hotel. Make sure you have everything you need.” He smiles as though that wasn’t his intention at all. Not in a malicious way. More as though it was simply something to say, a token bit