31
Birth
London, February 1972
Marika was pacing up and down, having forgotten she was still holding the folded piece of paper in her one hand, when Mario came into the kitchen.
‘What’s the matter? Basta! Calmati!’ Mario said in exasperation. His affectionate use of Italian words to soothe her every time she worked herself up into such agitated state usually had an instant effect, but it didn’t do the trick this time.
‘From Magda’, she said pausing to look him in the eye and waving the piece of white paper. ‘I have made a mistake, Mario. I have made a mistake’, she repeated, and exhaled.
‘What does she say?’ Mario asked her in a touchy tone. ‘Does she accuse you of anything? You have to remember, you only did the best for her daughter. She came here in such a vulnerable state. If you
