Hank turned. She was somewhere in her late twenties, he estimated. And
if her clothes, voice and appearance were any criterion he'd put her
in the middle-middle class with a bachelor's degree in something or
other, unmarried and with the aggressiveness he didn't like in
American girls after living the better part of eight years in Latin
countries.
On top of that she was one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen, in
a quick, red headed, almost puckish sort of way.
Hank tried to keep from displaying his admiration too openly.
"American?" he said.
"That's right." She took in his five-foot ten, his not quite ruffled
hair, his worried eyes behind their rimless lenses, darkish tinted for
the Peruvian sun. She evidently gave him up as not worth the effort
and turned to the fright behind the counter.
"I came to pick up my tickets."
"Oh, yes, Miss...."
"Moore."
The fright fiddled with the papers on an untidy heap before her. "Oh,
yes. Miss Charity Moore."
"Charity?" Hank said.
She turned to him. "Do you mind? I have two sisters named Honor and
Hope. My people were the Seventh Day Adventists. It wasn't my fault."
Her voice was pleasant--but nature had granted that; it wasn't
particularly friendly--through her own inclinations.
Hank cleared his throat and went back to his forms. The visa
questionnaire was in both Russian and English. The first line wanted,
_Surname, first name and patronymic_.
To get the conversation going again, Hank said, "What does patronymic
mean?"
Charity Moore looked up from her own business and said, less
antagonism in her voice, "That's the name you inherited from your
father."
"Of course, thanks." He went back to his forms. Under _what type of
work do you do_, Hank wrote, _Capitalist in a small sort of way. Auto
Agency owner._
He took the forms back to the counter with his passport. Charity Moore
was putting her tickets, suitcase labels and a sheaf of tour
instructions into her pocketbook.
Hank said, "Look, we're going to be on a tour together, what do you
say to a drink?"