Quien Eres Tu?
He comes out of the bath. He’s 52 years old but feels more. His little daughters are sitting in front of the television, learning Spanish from video tapes, a set recommended by a top educational psychologist to boost their brain capacity a hundred times, and so expensive his wife’s parents had had to buy them.
“Hola Papa” says the 3 year old, “Tengo hambre. Me gustan las uvas.”
Her older sister doesn’t turn round.
“Y a mi me gustan las uvas” she adds, however.
On the screen a green monster drones on in a guttural snarl. Although the man has tried he has never been able to make out a word it says. Dressed in a T shirt and boxer shorts he looks in the mirror and wonders how he got so fat. In the kitchen his wife drinks coffee and orders shoes for him from a catalogue for a business trip he’s not really going on. I thought you could mow the lawn this morning she says, while it’s dry.
Outside, birds sing and hop doggedly round the small neat garden. He stabs the mower forward through tufts and channels. Above a mass of purple flowers he cannot name, grey chimney pots and clouds march on to the end of the world.
He thinks, as he does sometimes, of walking by the cold water of a sea loch. He thinks, as he does always, of an excuse to go for a drink. Back inside the house he treads on a small plastic toy which breaks in two. Carefully he puts it in his pocket and makes for the front door.
Quien eres tu?” his girls sing, crunching their grapes with perfect little white teeth,
“Quien eres tu?”