“Chasing the Echoes of Home: A Journey Through Memory and Migration”
Ghys cocked an eyebrow. My mother’s knitting needles stopped clicking.
“He’s not a spy,” I protested. But how could I be sure? Ghyslain knew these things; it was his job.
My brother looked up from the bowl of Cornflakes he was eating at the dining room table. “Remember the Russian at the MAC House in Damascus?”
“Shut up,” I told him. Could Ginnie’s father be like that man in the United Nations officers’ lounge, pretending to be someone he wasn’t? The Russian attaché had claimed not to speak a word of English and made a show of not understanding anything on the menu. But later, Etienne and I had seen him read the Far Side cartoon strip pinned to the bulletin board and chuckle to himself.
Post Comment