Sentence the twohundredandthird
Dolores Rosenfeld enjoyed her victuals, had no time for the anodyne, lived under the spectre of her late father's brother Matyas and since 1956 suffered from aphephobia; Tam Gilbert knew all of this, he knew her entire history, was the only person in her present life who did – with the probable exception of MI5 and quite possibly Információs Hivatal, the Hungarian civilian Intelligence Agency (IH) which is involved in all non-military intelligence-gathering operations, primarily abroad; not that the 68 year old grandmother had any secrets which might still be of interest to these agencies, the secrets of a ten-year-old girl all having become redundant with the fall of Communism in Eastern Europe – and she knew that she could trust him, for goodness sake, they had been lovers for over 20 years, indeed, coming up for 25 now and after that time they had no secrets from each other; Tam had often invited Dolores to share his apartment in Ramsay Garden, but she felt that would be tempting fate: “if it ain't broke, don't fix it” was one of her mottoes and she had many, many mottoes, having
been given a dictionary of quotations on her tenth birthday by her Uncle Matyas, two days before her father and mother took her and little Istvan on a 'Mystery Tour' which only ended when they arrived in London a month later, to learn that their father, an Editor of the Party newspaper and a distinguished poet, had been declared an 'American Spy and Traitor to The People' by his own brother; Istvan (her father) died of cancer compounded by a broken heart and shattered spirit just three years later, her mother lasted another ten in the impersonal and lonely anonymity of London, a city 'with no soul, as she considered it; Istvan (her brother) is still working as a translator for the BBC in London where he lives with his wife, a Reform Rabbi and their three little boys, while she, 'call me Dolores, like they do in the stories' straight out of Dylan Thomas' 'Under Milkwood' (just ahead of Orson Wells Mercury Theatre broadcast of 'War of the Worlds') her favourite radio programme of all time, and she has heard many being, until her 65th birthday, a BBC Radio Scotland Editor and Producer, having been married twice: first, at 18 to 'A Shite! who left her after three years with two little girls, and five years later to 'a Saint' who died, like her father, of cancer, after 15 years of 'utter happiness'; two years later, at her younger daughter Carmelle's Wedding, she happened to get talking to an older man with the bearing of an ex-serviceman – he was an uncle of the Groom – and the talk between them flowed until three in the morning when she excused herself from his room in the Hotel and walked barefoot on the Singing Sands of Morar, where he found her an hour later, sitting on a
rock and smoking a Havana cigar; when she offered him one he said: “only if has been rolled on your bare thigh,” so she hoiked up her dress, rolled it between her legs, and handed it to him again; as he lit it he paraphrased Churchill: “a cigar is just a cigar, but a woman who can roll a Havana between he thighs is Smoking!” and he told her his name was Tam.
Dolores Rosenfeld enjoyed her victuals, had no time for the anodyne, lived under the spectre of her late father's brother Matyas and since 1956 suffered from aphephobia; Tam Gilbert knew all of this, he knew her entire history, was the only person in her present life who did – with the probable exception of MI5 and quite possibly Információs Hivatal, the Hungarian civilian Intelligence Agency (IH) which is involved in all non-military intelligence-gathering operations, primarily abroad; not that the 68 year old grandmother had any secrets which might still be of interest to these agencies, the secrets of a ten-year-old girl all having become redundant with the fall of Communism in Eastern Europe – and she knew that she could trust him, for goodness sake, they had been lovers for over 20 years, indeed, coming up for 25 now and after that time they had no secrets from each other; Tam had often invited Dolores to share his apartment in Ramsay Garden, but she felt that would be tempting fate: “if it ain't broke, don't fix it” was one of her mottoes and she had many, many mottoes, having
been given a dictionary of quotations on her tenth birthday by her Uncle Matyas, two days before her father and mother took her and little Istvan on a 'Mystery Tour' which only ended when they arrived in London a month later, to learn that their father, an Editor of the Party newspaper and a distinguished poet, had been declared an 'American Spy and Traitor to The People' by his own brother; Istvan (her father) died of cancer compounded by a broken heart and shattered spirit just three years later, her mother lasted another ten in the impersonal and lonely anonymity of London, a city 'with no soul, as she considered it; Istvan (her brother) is still working as a translator for the BBC in London where he lives with his wife, a Reform Rabbi and their three little boys, while she, 'call me Dolores, like they do in the stories' straight out of Dylan Thomas' 'Under Milkwood' (just ahead of Orson Wells Mercury Theatre broadcast of 'War of the Worlds') her favourite radio programme of all time, and she has heard many being, until her 65th birthday, a BBC Radio Scotland Editor and Producer, having been married twice: first, at 18 to 'A Shite! who left her after three years with two little girls, and five years later to 'a Saint' who died, like her father, of cancer, after 15 years of 'utter happiness'; two years later, at her younger daughter Carmelle's Wedding, she happened to get talking to an older man with the bearing of an ex-serviceman – he was an uncle of the Groom – and the talk between them flowed until three in the morning when she excused herself from his room in the Hotel and walked barefoot on the Singing Sands of Morar, where he found her an hour later, sitting on a
rock and smoking a Havana cigar; when she offered him one he said: “only if has been rolled on your bare thigh,” so she hoiked up her dress, rolled it between her legs, and handed it to him again; as he lit it he paraphrased Churchill: “a cigar is just a cigar, but a woman who can roll a Havana between he thighs is Smoking!” and he told her his name was Tam.
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