I say, making the introductions. “She's very dark.” “My parents were born in India,” explains Ali. “Hmmmphf!” I don't know why parents must embarrass their children. Maybe it's punishment for the mewling and puking and nights of broken sleep. “Where is the envelope, Daj?” “No, you talk to me first. You're going to take it and run away—just like last time.” She turns to a group of elderly residents. “This is my son, Yanko! Yes, he's the policeman. The one who never comes to see me.” I feel my cheeks redden. Daj didn't just steal a Jewish woman's name—she adopted a whole demeanor. “What do you mean, I ran away last time?” She turns to Ali. “You see he never listens. Not even as a baby. Head ful of fluff.” “When was I here last?” “See! You've forgotten. It's been so long. Luke doesn't forget. Luke looks after me.” “Luke is dead, Daj. What day did I come?” “Hmmphf! It was a Sunday. You had the newspapers and you were waiting for a cal .” “How do you know?”
