Yesterday I went downtown to the Mexican Consulate. As soon as I
walked in, Tata-Nacho saw me, and this strange looking descendant of
Montezuma, in a musty office, showed me every possible attention. It
was not his fault that the acting consul sent me word that he was not
sure if he could give me a visé, or not, as Bolsheviks are not wanted
in Mexico! Think of Mexico becoming so respectable! I was asked to
return the next day for my answer. This morning, feeling disinclined
for a downtown journey on chance, I telephoned, demanding my visé by
post or my refusal by phone. “There are other places to go to for the
summer,” I explained, “and I don’t _have_ to go to Mexico!” The answer
was that everything was in order.
I dined on the Astor roof in Broadway with M., who sails for Europe in
the morning en route for Moscow. It is a delightfully planned place
such as I have never seen before, and mixed with our talk of Russia,
making a fitting background, “Macy’s” Scarlet Star, the communist
emblem, stood defiantly illuminated against the sky.