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The stranger's steady stream of language ceases. He looks at the man, then the woman. Then, as if realizing what he has done, he scratches at his beard, abashed. He then says three words that the woman recognizes immediately: I am sorry. It's all right, she says. The stranger nods. He turns around, facing the lake, and holds his stick out, as if saluting it. Then with a clock-wise motion he swings the stick around, completing the first set of a movement, his free arm held out as balance and artistic counterpoint, and with a quick pivot on his heel he has turned ninety degrees and he is repeating the movement, once for all four directions. She has seen these movements before in the city parks, the old people and their  |
early morning exercise, but this stranger has force behind them, and for the first time she sees how they could be used to hurt, or kill. What was he talking about? her companion asks. She shakes her head in frustration. I can't get a lot of it -- this is his hometown, he lives here now, he's meeting someone here -- or maybe he met someone here. This language isn't specific on the tenses. The stranger has completed his forms and he gestures towards the fire. Spits have been mounted, meat impaled on the sticks. With a glance at the stranger for confirmation -- he nods -- she grabs one of the sticks, blows at the meat experimentally, and bites into it. She has no idea  |
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