I went back inside, unplugged the telephone, and took it out to the balcony with me. I brandished it like an athletic trophy, raising it overhead with both hands. "So, little airhead, do you or do you not get it?" Yes, she got it: a toothy smile lit her face like a flash of lightning, and she nodded affirmatively.
Fine. I now had permission to call her. Only I didn't know her number. I would have to find out using body language.
I went back to making complicated signs and gestures. Formulating the question wasn't easy, but she knew perfectly well what I needed to know. Naturally, as women will, she wanted to have a little fun with me.
She stretched the game out as long as possible. And, at last, she pretended to understand what had doubtless been clear from the beginning.
Using her forefinger, she drew hieroglyphs in the air. I realized she was drawing the numbers as she would read them, and that I would have to "decode" what I saw as if seeing them in a mirror. Thus I obtained the seven numbers that would put me in touch with my good-looking neighbor from across the way.
I was pleased as punch. I plugged in the phone and dialed. At the first ring, someone answered:
"Helloooowww!!" a deep male voice thundered in my ear.
Surprised, I hesitated.
"Who's there?" added the booming voice, with a touch of anger and impatience.
"Uh . . . " I mumbled, intimidated. "Is this 771 . . . ?
"Stronger, señor!" he interrupted, unbearably. "I can't hear nothing, señor! Who d'you want to talk to, señor?"
He said "stronger" instead of "louder," he said "I can't hear nothing" instead of "I can't hear anything" ; he said señor in the tone you use to call someone an idiot. Terrified, I stammered: