AFTER A NUMBER OF COMPLICATIONS

After a number of complications, says Louis, he was born. But his mother never made it. She pointed at her belly at one stage in a stabbing motion, while he was still inside her, waiting to get out into the sultry air of an Indian summer evening. He speaks about this as if he clearly remembers it all unfolding, almost as if it all took place a week or two earlier. Almost as if he were a witness to his own birth. He mentions some details of the funeral arrangements afterwards, the sweet smelling breasts of his aunt - his mother's younger sister - a month shy of her nineteenth birthday, who held him close throughout the proceedings, which Louis was more than grateful for, having done his utmost to avoid the clutches of the other wailing mourners, especially one uncle in particular, who reeked of whiskey, cigarettes, cabbage, and boiled pig. His father and his older sister were sitting nearby on a couch, meekly accepting offers of condolence from the train of folk passing through the house ... Then I have a little difficulty keeping up, the speed of Louis' speech increases, and he also throws in a few sentences of French, peppered with phrases of slang to which I'm unfamiliar. But it does seem that his sister was quite a few years older than him, perhaps on the verge of womanhood. She may also have had a different mother, it's hard to say exactly. He then remembers a day by the river, and what sounds like an underwater swimming race, in which his sister participated. He says he can see his father, even now, standing on the riverbank, waiting for her to emerge from the depths with an enormous fluffy towel at the ready. But she's never seen again, and neither soon is his father. But no sore feelings, papa, I pray at least you found some peace.