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A conversation between father and daughter.
"Milestones," the older woman finds her word, "they need milestones. To tell life so it doesn't just pass. Our daughter cannot make up her mind about her boyfriend. He wants to get married. She doesn't know."
Pauline pauses to assume a gruff male voice.
"What's there not to know? You like a person or you don't. It's simple!" she winks at you as if you are in cahoots in her imitation of Bernhard, who has returned with three cups of coffee.
"It's not just about love. People break up because they come to know each other's weaknesses," Pauline turns to the man as he hands out the cups, "Isn't that so, Bernhard?"
"No, no," he shakes his head. A small smile of reconciliation moderates the stern lines that descend down his face.
"People stay together because they learn each other's vanities."
The train pulls up at the station and Bernhard insists on pulling your bag off the rack and carrying it to the door. You wave to them from the platform. Pauline waves back, then sticks her head out and misquotes John Lennon, "Remember, life is what passes you by when you are busy making other plans!"
It's another hot summer day. The heat bounces off the walls, sending you zigzagging down the sidewalk, seeking the scattered shadows of trees and awnings, dragging your bag behind you. While you walk, you think back to Pauline and Bernhard, and their daughter. It had taken all your diplomatic skill to disguise your suspicion that your view might be more in line with Bernhard's. Now, as you walk home, you wonder what I might say about the matter.
You have a good guess. I would be the Pauline to your Bernhard.
But that would be wrong too, for you do not live by milestones.
--- x ---
It is a little before sunrise when I wake up in a sweat to the sound of muezzins wailing to their God, each one inheriting the dying strains of his predecessor, dispatching the laments heavenward with renewed vigour. To the non-believer that I am, their sonorous but doleful chant seems to fill the predawn air with the intimation of an execution. Beware, they appear to warn, to my ignorant ears, it could be you. But is irrelevance any better than a brisk execution?
Women live forever. The life of men ends at around thirty. There is a species of fish, you once told me, in which the male attaches to the female and over time disintegrates until nothing remains of him but a sac of sperm that the female harvests on a periodic basis to fertilise her eggs. Evolution, I am pleased to learn, occasionally employs Ockham's Razor with a wicked sense of humour.
I open the window and the cold, moist air from outside flows into the room. You stir and I listen for the insincere crossness of your voice asking me to get back to bed. But when you do speak, you catch me by surprise.
"I want to have a baby."
My room is on the fourth floor of a walkup in the old town. In winter, there is an occasional clanging that rises up the floors and within the walls, perhaps from the pipes that bring the hot water to the radiators. The sound offers me a distraction and I seize upon it. As I place my hand on the radiator in an attempt at naive diagnosis, I can sense you smiling in the darkness; smiling at my confusion.
"Come back here and make yourself useful. Chop chop!"
Your giggles draw me in and I sit by you at the edge of the bed.
"A baby!" I remonstrate, attempting to mimic the tone and words you use when you try to impose seriousness on our conversations, "That's very impractical, don't you think? Creating a dependent being and then tending to it as penance?"
"No way!" your hand reaches up to mess with my hair, "Don't you know that the hen is an egg's way of making another egg? It is very practical to fulfil my biological obligation, and clearly you have shown some fitness in surviving this long."
An orange glow spreads across the room announcing dawn. I lean down burying my face in your hair, and your hands slide down my neck to lock your arms protectively around my shoulder.
"Let's get coffee," you whisper, then gently push me off of yo