Manchurian Books

My uncle's face appeared above a card of infant's comforters in the
glass pane of the door. I perceived his eyes were brown, and that his
glasses creased his nose. It was manifest he did not know us from Adam.
A stare of scrutiny allowed an expression of commercial deference to
appear in front of it, and my uncle flung open the door.
"You don't know me?" panted my mother.
My uncle would not own he did not, but his curiosity was manifest. My
mother sat down on one of the little chairs before the soap and patent
medicine-piled counter, and her lips opened and closed.
"A glass of water, madam," said my uncle, waved his hand in a sort of
curve and shot away.
My mother drank the water and spoke. "That boy," she said, "takes after
his father. He grows more like him every day.... And so I have brought
him to you."
"His father, madam?"
"George."
For a moment the chemist was still at a loss. He stood behind the
counter with the glass my mother had returned to him in his hand. Then
comprehension grew.
"By Gosh!" he said.


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