We walked to and then across the playing-field, with me skipping along behind deliriously happy. The sun shone and macaws squawked in the monte behind us. The araguaney tree shading the steps from the parking lot was in flower, bright yellow in its glory against a sky of serene blue. All around us were the cries of the ubiquitous kiskadee, called the Cristofue here: it is a yellow-breasted flycatcher whose English and Spanish names both give an indication of its unmistakable three-syllable call: ‘Cris-to-fue ! Cris-to-fue!’ It would be very hot by the afternoon. We reached the far end of the field where the two men sat down on an improvised bench made from a fallen tree, in the lee of the escarpment behind us. They continued talking animatedly to each other, oblivious to my presence. I was quite happy to be ignored. I was one of them, suffused with a feeling of sublime well-being, a satisfaction at being there with them rather than at home with my mother and younger sisters. I was one with the Men.
A white goalpost lay on its side behind the bench. I walked back and forth along the goalpost’s three-sided length, balancing precariously with arms held out on either side, one foot placed carefully in front of the other, pretending that a misstep would be fatal, as there were, I told myself, sharks in the water on either side. As it was, my shadow, lying across this sea of grass, was in mortal peril from them. It was hard to concentrate simultaneously on the dialogue between my father and his friend, which I little understood at the time anyway, and on the sharks at my feet. I could not do both well, so I attended to the more obvious danger. I vividly recall the manly aromatic smell of pipe tobacco, the earnest tone of the conversation between the men leavened by a certain comradely banter, the younger man’s enthusiastic hand gestures, and his impeccable educated accent. When he winked at me, I knew I belonged. They were discussing earnestly what needed to be discussed, no doubt setting the world to rights, away from domestic drudgery and female fussing. Tamas Marek, (my father, alias Tommy Mason), who had always been, and remained, a remote, sternly austere presence in my life, a figure to be respected and obeyed rather than loved, had relaxed his severity of demeanour and permitted me to see him in casual adult conversation. I cherished my possession of that moment, and knew then that I would always remember it. There would never be another like it.
