Paul orders two cheese sandwiches, a bag of taco chips, and two Cokes from the good-looking Spanish teenager behind the snack bar, and he and Susan carry their goodies over to a table by the parking lot. When Paul takes off his sunglasses again, I see my poor nameless warrior peeking out from his eyes, just a flicker of dark eyes behind the pale blue. I know he sees me, too, floating disconsolately behind Susan’s stare. Are we both about to disappear inside these large doughy bodies? No, no! I feel myself flashing and sparking. I reach out — Susan reaches out — and touches Paul’s shoulder.

“Yusef,” Paul says. “For some reason that name flashed across my brain. Who’s Yusef?”

Susan reaches for her guidebook. “It says here that Yusef I was the Moorish ruler who began the Alhambra. But it’s a common name. Like Zara.”

“Zara?”

“It’s a pretty name. I just thought of it. Zara.” She smiles, and looks up at my tower in the distance.

I’m thrilled and hopeful. He’s told me his name. Is he Captain Yusef? Prince Yusef? It doesn’t matter. It’s true we won’t have any more nights in the gardens of Spain, but at least we’re going back to Minnesota together. And on those snowy Sundays in January, when the wind rattles the windows, and Paul and Susan are sitting around in bathrobes reading the newspaper and eating coffee cake, we’ll both be struggling valiantly to assert ourselves, finding ways to triumph over their dreary Midwesternism with our singing birds, marble esplanades, and gushing fountains.