Wednesday, March 2, 2011
She was at the most three feet tall, and looked down on me from a granite mound that slowly revolved, like a mystic in a cake display. In the dim outdoor light, I could see only the whites of her eyes. Her face was framed by a delicate white cloth. She seemed young and old, and in her I sensed both malice and good will. My fate would be her decision. Then the scene shifted, and I found myself sitting beside him at a table in a busy restaurant. She was a now a young man from India, fingering, at every word, a long black goatee. Along one side of the table were three dark rugged men in suits — thugs, I thought, mindless petty assistants. The restaurant was missing one wall. From the open side, there arrived a flat transport, pulled by a little airport tractor. It was carrying new books. The books were shiny and black, and not the ones he had expected. This upset him. While he and his men were distracted, I slipped outside. And there, beyond the shade of the north wall, my wife was waiting for me in an open field.