THE FORTIETH
Seventieth birthdays tend to be grand affairs. At least in those families where birthdays are still affairs at all. Such was certainly the case in the family of Petr Vrána senior, Christian doctor, father of three sons.
‘That cursed, lucky seventy…’ Martin said to himself, searching among his clothes for a clean shirt. ‘…Seventy years lasted the Babylonian Captivity. Seventy years between each passing of Halley’s Comet — few they are who see it twice. Seventy times you’re supposed to forgive your brother,1 so me and Dad still have a nice stockpile left over. The Soviet Union lasted seventy years? Or no? More or less — and that union was supposed to be eternal. I’d be interested to learn how old Oedipus was; if he killed young, he might’ve lived to seventy. It’s doubtless old
