The streets were quiet, the houses like small palaces. There were gardens and trees. A snow-capped mountain formed a perfect backdrop. Shiny American and German cars purred around the streets. I felt sorry for Gertrude. Dented and dusty and with a cracked windscreen, she looked like a pensioner with broken glasses. The inside of the house was white; white walls, white marble floor, white ceiling fans twirling like dancers. It was cool and clean. Val’s father regarded us with distaste. Dolf looked terrible and he smelt worse. Even Val looked like he’d slept in his clothes for a week. There was only one question I had for Mr de Lacey. “Can I use the bathroom?” I looked at myself in the floor-length bathroom mirror. I’d seen glimpses of myself along the way in toilet mirrors, miniature images of me in photos, small oval sections of myself in rear-view mirrors. I hadn’t seen the life-sized whole of me for a while. Who was that in the mirror staring back at me—a gypsy, a tramp, a bag lady?
