He was told I was not to be disturbed and she would inform me that he called.It was late evening before I hit the kitchen for much needed food and a very large mug of tea. I was part way through my second sandwich when Mirella appeared, not the easy going, ever smiling Mirella. The girl was pissed.Hands on hips, eyes flashing, and that aura some people have that makes me think of alarm bells, klaxons and air raid sirens.I’m British, I looked straight at her, took a sip of tea and waited. Most of the eruption was in Portuguese and all of it was delivered with lava like heat, it just poured out, not once did she pause for breath.My father often talked to me as we worked together in the butty boat, not the tech talk, although there was a lot of it, but other stuff, knowledge to be shared, wisdom he thought I should know. One of his maxims was that in the silence after an ultimatum, whoever speaks first loses. Mom told me never to fight wars I didn’t want to win.I sipped more tea.Mirella. But in fact, he had never once waited for her in bed, being occupied during the late hours, in his favorite chair, always reading the bible. She must, she thinks, get that part right… he had never awaited her. But what was his name? What was his name? Her husband’s name? A suppressed pain. Fear. There is something careless about this kind of forgetting, something unpardonable, a great guilt. Her husband, her master. His face has the quality of a blurred photograph, yet she remembers his rough hands. His rough, calloused hands on her soft breast. She shudders. Feeling foolish she starts through the alphabet, trying to associate a name with each letter: Albert, Benjamin, Charles, Donald… It feels as if every last cell of her brain was driven into illness. Her lack of memory fills her with silent dread. Not my mind, Dear god not my mind! She tries to compose herself. Ernest, Frank… Letter by letter she continues to analyze the sounds and impressions. What is this? Dear god. Dear.
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