The lights of Mario’s shone ahead; as he approached, he saw Wilson emerge from the restaurant door and seat himself at one of the scattered tables that occupied half the sidewalk before the curtained window of the bar. Except for the American, the tables were empty. Wilson watched calmly as Da Silva came up with a smile of welcome and sank gratefully into a chair.
“Hello, Zé. You’re on time for a change. What happened?”
“It was come while I was still awake, or not come at all.” Da Silva’s smile changed to a frown. “I thought the first one here was to order drinks?”
“I just got here myself. I—”
“And where’s your date?”
“She’ll be here any minute.” Wilson tipped his head toward the restaurant door. “I just called her hotel, and they said she’s already left.”
Da Silva shook his head sadly. “Wilson, my friend, there’s a lot you’ve got to learn about romance. A gentleman picks a lady up at her hotel; he doesn’t arrange to meet her at some other place. Particularly in a strange town.”
Wilson shook his head back. “Zé, my friend, there’s a lot you have to learn about this particular girl. When she says she’ll meet you someplace because she doesn’t want you to pick her up, then you meet her there, and you don’t pick her up.”
“Ah!” Da Silva nodded. “Headstrong, eh?” He looked sad. “A bad trait, you realize.”
“Not headstrong. Capable.”
Da Silva shrugged. “Capable, headstrong — it’s the same thing.” He glanced at his watch. “One thing, at least, she’s feminine all right. It’s almost eight o’clock now.”
“She’ll be here on time,” Wilson said, and contemplated the other with a slight air of superiority. “She isn’t Brazilian, you know. She’s American. She’ll be here.”
Da Silva stared at him in amazement. “Brazilian or American, she’s a woman, isn’t she? Or at least that’s the impression you’ve been trying to give me. Wilson, my friend, if you are seriously thinking about this girl — or any girl — take a lesson from the old master. Time with a woman is strictly a matter of opinion. And this has nothing to do with national traits. Women are international in this.”
“Look who’s talking! When were you ever on time?”
“Once,” Da Silva said. “I was four at the time and hadn’t learned to read a clock—”
He twisted in his chair, rapping sharply on the curtained window behind him; it was the accepted method at Mario’s to induce a waiter to hazard the dangers of the great outdoors. A swarthy face appeared at the glass, tugging the curtain aside, studying the situation, and then disappeared. A moment later a white-jacketed figure appeared with a tray, two glasses, and a bottle of Maciera Five-Star; the desires of these two well-known customers were both standard and familiar. Wilson poured the drinks carefully, sliding one across the table to his companion. Da Silva raised it in a small salute.
“Saúde. And Merry Christmas.”
Wilson accepted the toast with a nod, drank, and then sighed.
“You know,” he said slowly, thoughtfully, “somehow it never seems like Christmas in a place where all you can see are warm beaches and palm trees.” He stared out across the dark ocean. “I guess the one thing I’ll never get used to in this climate is Christmas without snow, without cold weather, or the sound of sleighbells—”
“Sleighbells?” Da Silva eyed his friend sardonically. “Pardon me. Do you mean sleighbells on the radio or as background sound effects on television? Prerecorded?”
Wilson grinned. “Maybe I went too far in my enthusiasm. Anyway, you know what I mean.”
“I know what you think you mean,” Da Silva said equably. “But what you actually mean is that it couldn’t possibly seem like Christmas in a climate this comfortable, without slush, and wet feet, and a bad case of the sniffles—”
“That’s precisely what I don’t mean. I mean—”
Da Silva shook his head at his friend. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “you folks from the northern parts of the world should actually avoid cold weather like the plague. At this time of the year it seems to do something to your judgment. And that goes for Europeans, as well as Americans. Anyone from cold climates.” He shook his head again. “I suppose I’ve heard that same statement a hundred times or more from both American and European friends — usually in the same tragic tone of voice. It just doesn’t seem like Christmas in Brazil because there isn’t any snow.” His tone was light, but there was a touch of seriousness beneath it. “No snow, eh? You know, you people always relate everything exclusively to your own limited experience, and if something doesn’t fall into the proper slot, you automatically reject it. Like an idiot I.B.M. machine.”
Wilson stared at him. “I gather that’s supposed to mean something?”
“It means this.” Da Silva smiled faintly and twisted his cognac glass, watching the damp trails it left on the table. His eyes came up. “As I recall, the weather at Bethlehem on that fateful day when our Lord was born was remarkably free from snow. That part of the world usually was and is. And the pictures I’ve seen of the shepherds watching the great star in the distance usually had groves of palm trees in them for background. Actually, the weather at the time and place of Jesus’ birth was probably a lot more like ours than it ever was like yours.” His smile broadened as a thought struck him. “I can picture Three Wise Americans approaching the manger on that fantastic day, and then one of them rears back suspiciously, shaking his head. ‘There’s something very wrong here,’ he says to the other two. ‘It’s quite doubtful if this is the true Messiah at all. No snow.’”
Wilson laughed in delight. “I should have learned long ago never to argue with you,” he said, and raised his glass in a gesture of a toast. “Well, here’s to no snow.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Da Silva agreed pleasantly, and completed his drink. He set his glass on the table, glanced at his watch, and frowned. “I know she’s a woman and all that, and I don’t want to be curious, but just where is that hotel of your girlfriend’s? In São Paulo?”
Wilson’s smile faded; his eyes went to his own watch and then raised, worried. “You’re right. She’s staying at the Miracopa, and that certainly isn’t very far. She should have been here long ago. I’ll call her hotel again; maybe she went back for something.”
He came to his feet and purposefully strode into the bar. Da Silva leaned back, relaxing, enjoying the night. He lit a cigarette and drew on it deeply, and then reached over, drawing the bottle to him, pouring himself another drink. If Wilson had been stood up — and such things had been known to have happened to people — then he would have done much better to have stayed home and got some sleep. Not that it hadn’t been good to see his old friend and straighten him out on Christmas without snow and not that the cognac at Mario’s wasn’t always worth a visit, but the thought of listening to love betrayed for an hour or more over a steak — even one of Mario’s steaks — was not his notion of how to enjoy a meal. He set his glass down and was in the midst of a prodigious yawn when Wilson came out of the bar, his jaw set dangerously.
“Zé! Let’s go! I’ve already signed the tab inside!”