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Those ignorant fuckwits! Assholes!” The English equivalents will reveal Mr. “Bastards!” The radio droned on about the triumphs of our Communist party, about the bountiful harvest, about the imminent NATO invasion (it was *always* imminent) “Fuckers.

At noon and at seven in the evening, the radio was turned on for the news and that was when Mr. He spent his days sitting at the large kitchen window, mostly in silence. On very cold days, he would add a woolen scarf to his toggery. He wore slippers and pajama pants all day with a moth eaten sweater on top. He never left the house, certainly not alone.

He was blind, at least legally blind, because when he indulged in a game of “mariash” *, using me as his trick whisperer, he would sometimes snort: “Shut up, I know what card to play”. He looked about seventy years old, always had a week’s growth of dirty beard with yesterday’s crumbs peeking through the grey.