Socks and shoes were harder to find, and she ended up wearing men’s athletic tube socks and a pair of dust caked flip-flops that had sat forlornly in Locker 49 since 1978. “Holy shit!” Giggling and snickering was amplified by asbestos tiles and reverberated by metal desks. He rambled in an unfortunate monotone, the result of his innate fear of public speaking. When she told him that the natives called her The Dawn Pearl, his delight was unbounded. His large, coarse lips drew wider apart. Beautiful sculptures of sugar and almond paste decorated the long tables, delicate replicas of flowers and miniature animals, even a small Palazzo sculpted from cakes graced the table. Then she raised the glass nearer to her lips. Tears sprang to her eyes. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. He will be some time in this comatose state.
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