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to her.
    I do not have my mother.
    Yes, it is hers, if your family returns home one day from this place, it is your treasure, take it to her.
    More hatred now and moving from me he retreated to a stance nearby the parking area, seeking a proper customer but away from the coaches, foreign people. Once there he stared to me, no hate now
but with interest perhaps that I could play such a trick, a foreigner yet not a foreigner. If a tourist to this country, what, he did not know. I saw him now talking to one very old man who carried
silk scarves and cloths in the crooks of both elbows, layers and layers, tied round the upper arms. His white hair in patches, standing upright. It was amusing to see. Perhaps the boy’s
grandfather, great-grandfather, perhaps, too old for the grandfather, and now examining the brush, holding it, peering to it. But they did not know the value of the brush, yet such a brush would
have been worth money, property of their family, not stolen, not by them.
    How could I be contemptuous of these people? It was not possible.
    There was a place to sit.
    I did not see them walking from that area. I was by now close to the water’s edge and the designated building was nearby.
    Across the estuary dwellings were there, huddled together, yes, layers of them, one above and another and another, so on. Lines of clothes hanging to dry, I could see people moving, women, their
backs to the water. But they will see the boats and wonder. Where do these boats sail, are they leaving the country. To which land do they sail. Who is aboard. Who gives these men such good work.
Their uncles perhaps are employed in the offices of government, but our men do not get such work, our fathers were honest men, now dead, early, yes, the honest will die young. The angry are killed,
the impatient are not always the angry, but they also are killed. The sarcastic can survive, they do survive, sarcasm continues, but now it is only from bitterness. The women see the men, they will
wonder, and of their husbands who are bitter, bitter only to them, to the children they are silent.
    The women seeing the boats, smelling the faraway lands, the freedoms. He is bitter only to me. But the bitterness smothers her and will smother the children. Where does this bitterness come
from, as a girl she loved him, an adventurous boy, the life to come. Now nothing, she hangs the washed clothes, seeing the boats.
    It was now cold here sitting on the stone dyke. I lifted the bag to my shoulder, walking down from there and to the side, a street up a street, returning, another street, returning. I was
meeting the woman. The time approached. I passed along to the row of restaurants, some open to the water, and so to the one chosen. Inside tables were on a raised platform and I could gaze out upon
the estuary and watch the water-vehicles. Who could call these ships. I could not. This town was an amusement. Yet local people so boasted, calling them so, these water-vehicles, not even boats.
For those who have travelled it was an amusement, certainly.
    A large restaurant, many tables, all empty but one for the waiters, seated together, to the side of the kitchen door. It was too soon for food. They were dressed in formal outfit, white shirts
black trousers, hardly talking but yawning, recovering from sleep, now thoughts of these long long hours, death of their mind, staring upwards to the television. Its volume was turned low. I could
not hear it but could see it, football match, European, perhaps South American, low voices of the commentators. What might the day bring. Evening. But might it offer some event, other event. Was it
possible. So far it brought forth myself only and I was not wanted. I was an irritant. Yet was an interest, if I might choose the table, how selection occurred, if the table makes the decision, who
lays the table with such artistry, I choose this not this. Where I sat down, between kitchen and entranceway. But why on that side