Carl, right now, is opening his laptop. He turns it on, then waits. No one seems to have anything to say right now, so we all sit quietly, waiting for the computer to start. The golden lozenges of evening sunlight have shrunk and become like misshapen coppery discs adorning the floor and the wall. i have been quietly watching Francoise, who so far hasn't said anything, but nonetheless leans forward, fascinated and intrigued by the unfolding drama. i am just relishing on his behalf a little sweet wave of schadenfreude for the racial rudeness that Carol was subjecting him to earlier today. She is a brilliant pianist, but even, maybe especially, her ass must also be kicked sometimes.
"Here it is", Carl says. "First, to give you all a bit of background, I came across this interview while I was researching British tabloids while coming up with ideas for the magazine I was launching. It was then a very recent interview with Tina Barlow-mead. A local journalist was, evidently, doing a series of sibling of famous Brits. Looks like she landed a marlin.
"What is the date of the interview", carol says with studied patience.
"February 11, 2010. It didn't seem to get a lot of publicity since everyone was talking about the Winter Olympics that were then taking place here."
"Here that's all they were talking about", says Aaron, rolling his eyes. "I was part of the resistance."
"You were marching in a, what is the word, Aaron for manifestación?" says Jesús.
"Demonstration", Aaron syas. Yes, we can talk about it tomorrow if you want. Right now it's carol's time."
"Oh, but now you have me wondering", says Carol.
"Later", Melissa says sharply.
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