Trafika Europe 4 - Armenian Rhapsody

paid by Paul. We have several problems. I’ll start with the least of them: we are looking for a new tenant.

The solution came one wonderful morning. I was draped across my father’s chest in my sling, listening to the Breakfast Symphony of kitchen noises being performed all around me in the gurgling of sink water, water boiling in the kettle, clatter of plates and cups, Cat Stevens’ Peace Train chugging away, riding on the edge of darkness in the radio to the accompaniment of Irene’s husky, melodious laaa-la-lala- laa (ride on the peace train) pa pa pa pa . Max washed the breakfast dishes while Paul took the whistling kettle off the burner to sterilise my bottles. Dangling there against his belly, blinking myopically up at his eyes, I balled my fists around a sunbeam that dropped through the strands of his dark hair. Irene, as usual, did nothing. She lolled on the sofa we had installed in our kitchen, rolled cigarettes and was the first to come up with a proposal.

“His name is Francesco. He works in the Venezia ice cream parlour and needs a place till December.”

“Forget it”, said Max. “You just want to get into bed with him.”

“Anyway, what are we supposed to do after December?” Paul asked.

58