I wanted to run to my father, my short legs began to, but I hesitated, halted in mid-run, an indescribable crowd, waiting, coming, going, who were all these people interrupting the reverie, between him and me were bouquets of balloons, of flowers, so many faces disappointed that those of us coming out of customs were not their loved ones, accusing looks, knots of people gathered behind the barriers, my father among them but separate. The accompanying stewardess asked if I knew which one he was, I nodded, of course I did, I had memorized every feature of his beautiful face, the handsomest man in the universe, I pointed to him, while he looked at the Polaroid in his hand to make sure before bathing me with a gracious smile. He wore white like me, a fine linen suit and a pale lavender shirt, a movie star to my eyes, and a crocodile belt of the same color as the shirt, not only was he the most dashing man in the entire airport hall, he had the lightest skin of all, the stewardess offered him my paltriness and her most seductive smile, Take him, she wished to say, though I am more worthy.
What do You think about The Angel Of History (2016)?
