1:05:05 I rose from the high-chair with the paper from grandmother's orange grove in my hand. My bride! (Just look at her, at her fingers which have engulfed so many men, and guided them in between her lips.) She matches all my senses, I declared in...
A few days earlier Primera said to me that she did not particularly fancy having a psychic father, I recalled, and put the book away. As I walked down the stairs from the waiting room, I started to tremble, also very unsure about continuing to be a psychic. It felt like the steps were coming closer, enlarged and longer, while I sensed those fragile strings from the book, between parents and children. That was also, presumably, a key to solve the emotional concept of the task at hand. Only you have fingers like that, I thought as waves of longing, regret and self-reproach swept over me. Are you love, or just a bookworm in a corset?
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1:05:01
A serene looking, elegantly dressed woman kneels in front of a boy, hugging him in the doorway. Stephen stands behind her, the taxi disappearing through a fancy, suburban container landscape. The woman rises and looks up, over the boys head. There are some exchanges of glances suggesting unspoken problems in the realm of lost love, lost respect, lost faith. - Take good care of John, she says, noticing the smell of fresh barbers lotion from him. He hears a helicopter landing near by, and return her looks knowingly, but disappointed.
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1:05:02
- You should stay, he says, opening an old wound between them. The woman looking at the boy, carefully selecting her words. - You know I can't let father down. She kisses the boy on the chin. - I am like that boy, the narrator, whispers. Holding my mother, crying. Stephen kneels by the boy, gently untangle the woman from his grip. - We know the stakes, we know the sides we are on, there is no use in arguing now. Stephen nods, he tries to smile. - You are a professional, she says and takes a few steps towards the open door. The sound of thudding rotors in stand by mode.
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