God Is in the Details

The sign says the next ferry will leave Staten Island at 6:20.
Matt says, “There’s so much to do when we get home.”
“Hey, we don’t have to worry about that until Thursday,” Alejandro says.
“I was talking about my apartment, not Mexico. Since we’ve been up here, it’s a mess.”
“Ay, you worry too much. There’s time enough to straighten up everything.”
A shabbily dressed woman, hair unkempt, standing at a phone kiosk about ten feet away suddenly, repeatedly slams the receiver against the phone. Bang, bang, bang. She tosses the receiver and leaves it dangling.
Somewhere a child is calling “Mama, mama,” or could that be a voice coming from the telephone?
A man is holding a black book from which he’s reading aloud, "At that time many will fall away and will betray one another and hate one another."
The woman retrieves her two shopping bags from where she’d left them at the end of the bench on which Matt and Alejandro are sitting.
“You know it’s true,” she says, looking at Matt.
“Don’t start with me, lady,” he says.
“Matt, she’s obviously upset about something,” Alejandro says. “What’s the matter, señora?”
“Fuck you,” she says, “Why don’t you go back to Puerto Rico where you came from?” She walks away from them but keeps looking over her shoulder as if she is afraid they might follow.
“Hey, I’m Mexican,” Alejandro calls out.
Matt says, “When you’ve been here enough times and seen enough things, you’ll know better than to try to help one of these crazies.”
The man with the book continues reading aloud, "For if we go on sinning willfully after receiving the knowledge of the truth..."
The woman drops her bags and pulls out newspaper sheets. She crumples them and throws them at the man with the book.
Unfazed, he continues preaching salvation, "...there no longer remains a sacrifice for sins, but a terrifying expectation of judgement and the fury of a fire which will consume the adversaries."
“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” she shouts at him, “Shut up and go to hell.”
Matt says, “You know you left a sinkful of dishes last night and your clothes are all over my apartment. I’m thinking we should have stayed at a hotel.”
“Ay, ay, ay. I’ll wash the dishes and pick my things up. What’s up with you?”
The woman, still shouting and accosting the preacher, has drawn the attention of a policeman.
“C’mon, lady, knock it off,” he says. “Let’s go and leave the nice man alone.”
“But he keeps talking that Jesus shit,” she protests.
The policeman reaches for her elbow.
“Don’t touch me,” she wails, “Don’t fuckin’ touch me.”
“All right then, move it along. You too,” he says to the preacher. “Take it somewhere else.”
The man starts walking. Without looking in his book, he continues “For it would be better for them not to have known the way of righteousness, than having known it, to turn away..."
The big doors slide open. Before everyone has come off the ferry, the waiting people start rushing through the exiting crowd, to board.
"It has happened to them according to the true proverb, ‘A dog returns to its own vomit,’ and, ‘A sow, after washing, returns to wallowing in the mire.’"
“Time to go,” Matt says.
As they pass the phone kiosk, Alejandro takes the dangling receiver and puts it to his ear. “Hello,” he says, “Hello?” He shakes his head then puts the receiver back in the cradle.

Vibration

“Teacher, did you feel the earthquake,” one of them asks as they enter the room.

Yes, I think, that would be your first question. Yes, I felt my house and my bed trembling at 4:59 this morning as I was making love to my wife and something terrible happened. I felt it as I was having my cutomary breakfast of chicken broth, lemonade and a banana. No, I slept through it. I have a hangover and I thought it was happening inside my head. Five or six different scenarios race through my mind, but they all sound like excuses. This particular tremor is one that will stay with me forever.

“No, I didn’t feel it,” I say, “When was it?”

David, the one who had asked, says, “Huh?” He’s told me that sometimes I speak too rapidly in English. Three or four in the back who have heard my response start speaking.

“This morning at about five o’clock.”

“It was a strong one. Probably about four point five.”

“It was in Oaxaca, but we could feel it here in Chiapas.”

“I was sleeping,” I say, “I didn’t feel this one.” This was the third tremor I’ve experienced since I began my stay here in Tuxtla Gutiérrez. The first was on an afternoon while I was drinking with some friends in Chiapa de Corso. It was momentary and mild. We laughed about it and blamed it on the beer and bad botanas. The second occurred while I was at home alone sitting in front of my laptop and preparing exams for the second parcial. Aura was at the Secondaria teaching her history class. She called me on my cellphone while I was standing outside the house and smoking a cigarette. She said she tried calling me on the regular phone but I didn’t hear it ringing. I remembered she had told me the first thing to do when you feel the vibrations is to get out of the building and wait until it passes. But this morning’s tremor was the strongest.

“Oh, teacher,” David says, “You must have felt it in a dream.”

In my dream I was being entertained by my Three Fates. Tania, Ileana and Nathalie. They were not seventeen year old prepa students in this English class. They were women and they knew how to accommodate the ugly American so he didn’t feel like an interloper. The three of them always did everything together and so their actions fed off each other, but Nathalie was the one with the eyes, deep, penetrating soulful brown eyes.

The students are looking at me as if I am lost. They seem eager to help me find my way back to reality.

They notice I have the laptop with me. “Are we going to see a movie today, teacher?”

“No, not today,” I say, “We have to finish Unit Twelve.”

“Oh, teacher, no.” Groans.

It’s the end of the semester. Nobody wants to work.

Nathalie is filing her nails and she looks at me without moving her head so that those eyes are looking upward in a way that says she knows. She knows.

What am I going to do?

“Open your books to page one oh two.”

“Is that one or two?” somebody asks.

“One hundred and two,” I say.

“Teacher, you didn’t take the asistence.”

“I’m here,” David says, as he always does. “Presente.”

I’m losing them again.

Tania whispers something to Ileana. Nathalie still filing nails, nods agreement. She knows.

“Come on,” I say, “We’ve got a lot of things to do today. There’s more material to cover before the final exam.”

“We can study the last unit at home,” someone says and two of the students start mock-fighting.

“Hey, come on,” I say, but it’s hopeless. They’re on their own time now.

“Teacher,” Ileana asks, “Do they have earthquakes in New York? Did you ever feel the ground shaking?”

“There may have been,” I say, “But I never felt one.”

I think of still mornings in bed back home. Before coming to all this. Before Mexico. Before teaching. Before Aura. I lived alone but I was bored. It was noisy in the streets but tranquil inside my overpriced, underfurnished apartment. At times too tranquil. I longed for change. And now my situation is about as different as it could be.

I think about this morning when I woke, stiff from my dream, feeling guilty with Aura lying beside me. I kissed her and she responded. I entered her and she was ready. She almost pushed the Three Fates out of my mind as I made love to her, trying to see it as only to her and no other. I felt giddy with accomplishment and on the edge of satisfaction when the room and everything in it started to tremble just a little. Aura was about to cry out something and I put my hand over her mouth. I came into her and couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. I was trembling, eyes closed, in a torpid dream state for several moments after everything else had stopped moving. Including Aura. When I came to and rolled off her she lay motionless with a look of panic frozen on her face.

I didn’t know what to do.

I sat at our breakfast table for a half hour and smoked three cigarettes. Words like extranjero and interloper and coward and unfaithful were flashing unconnected through my mind.

Without realizing, I dressed and came to school this morning.

I am thinking about finding Aura's lifeless body still lying there when I leave the school this afternoon.

Commuters' Rage

It used to be a long comfortable commute on the train from Westchester down to her job on Wall Street during which Alison immersed herself in books from the bestseller list. "I can never find time to read evenings or on weekends, so I always read on the way to work," she told her friend Macy once, before Macy married and moved to an island off the coast of South Carolina. They still compared notes on the latest bestsellers, but not as often. Alison found little time to write letters or e-mail with all the work she brought home to do in the evenings and over weekends. There were so many details. She had to be careful not to leave anything out.
One day, a man ran through the train shooting at people indiscriminately. Alison, looked up from her book at the sound of the first shot and for an elongated moment she could not comprehend what was happening. Then she was hit in the shoulder by one of the bullets, just inches from her heart.
She spent her long recuperation reading accounts of the man's life. Various newspapers told how he had been arrested on burglary and assault charges several times, but had served only two years in prison. He was the son of a teen-aged unwed mother who had died early of a drug overdose. He had been raised by his grandmother who could not understand where he had gone wrong. He was always a good child. She had three other daughters. Each had several children. None had turned out like Vaco. "Vaco's cousins cannot understand this tragedy either," the grandmother said. A photograph showed her crying, next to a photograph of Vaco, with his arm reaching forward, as if to block the photographer's view. From what Alison could see of his face in that picture, he appeared to be smiling. In another, he had a glazed look in his eyes. His defense attorney said Vaco was filled with an uncontrollable rage against society. This rage anesthetized him to the wrongs he commited. The attorney argued, under the powerful grip of such rage, a person, surely, cannot be held completely accountable for how he reacts to the society he feels has wronged him.
Details of Vaco's life filled newspapers for many weeks. Alison read them all. She had plenty of time in her hospital bed and later at home. There was very little written about the sixteen people who were hurt or the man who was killed on the train that day. When she mentioned this to Macy during a phone conversation, Macy said the victims' stories would be related in the soon to be published book about commuters' rage. Alison told her nobody had interviewed her for such a book, and that she thought that was a callous thing to say. After hanging up, she thought it might be a long time before she could speak to Macy again.
Alison went back to work eventually. She still commutes from Westchester, but these days, she never reads on trains no matter how long the ride is.

Panic on the Comeback Trail

Britney, once again on the comeback trail, was attempting to portray Gertrude Quintanilla in a bio-pic with music. Her agent had advised her that if she pulled this one off, she would probably be back in place and not have to worry about her future as an actress.

Gertrude was an English teacher with a method. What she would do is begin her lesson with excess clothing on and casualy remove one item as she presented each grammar point until midway through the lesson she was standing in front of her group in hot pants and a halter. She would then proceed to redress, but her art was in being able to keep the students’ attention while she did so. She knew of no ecdysiast who had followed a strip act by putting on clothes, and in any case, she did not bump and grind in an erotic manner. She was teaching.
She didn’t do her “act” during every lesson. It was always an impromptu thing. So her students, mostly young males, never knew what to expect. Thus, they filled her classes hoping any day would be their lucky day. The price they had to pay was learning. Her exams were extremely detailed and difficult to pass if the topics had not been studied.
And she never stripped on exam days.
She had other “revolutionary” methods that fairly guaranteed a high success rate, but the clothing thing was what she had become known for.

Britney called her current paramour Ryan because he looked like either Ryan Gosling or Ryan Phillipe. She could never remember which one it was actually, but he didn’t seem to mind her nicknaming him because he claimed he wasn’t very attached to his given-name which was Oliver.

Gertrude, now over fifty and no longer in the physical condition to teach using her method, had turned to writing; novels mostly, which sold relatively well, but it was her memoirs that provided the means by which she was able to retire from teaching. She was still quite attractive, and had bridled on first learning that Britney was going to portray her, but could not say much because she had sold the rights to her story. In any case, her initial dissatisfaction had lessened when she took to visiting the set and conversed with Britney. She was so malleable and graciously accepted suggestions on how best to play the character, for that was, after all, what Gertrude had made herself, a character.

Britney, on the other hand, never saw herself as a character. The papparazzi blitz had long ago ended. Her last few concerts had garnered little praise and less revenue than she had been able to achieve in her prime. Her hair had not grown back so luxuriously after her breakdown stage, and she had taken to wearing wigs. She was always careful to wear underwear these days, even under slacks and bathing attire, though without the surprise photos being snapped it did not seem entirely necessary. There were the children to consider. That was why she took such precaution. Her most enjoyable activity over the last few months was when Ryan took her and the kids somewhere for a day’s outing. These had continued until the movie crew went on location to film Gertrude’s after-teaching life.

Gertrude had accompanied the family on several outings and surprised Britney when she offered to watch the children for the three weeks she would be off filming. Ryan had meetings to attend in Seattle and Portland, and would then join Britney in Texas when those had wrapped up.

Britney sat now in her trailer. She was drinking mineral water and lightly massaging the abdomen of a pet white rat, which lay on its back submitting to her ministrations. The rat had had its tail clipped and resembled a hamster, but the thought passed Britney’s mind that it was still a rat. She worried that at any moment it might suddenly become moody and bite her. The massage was a trust building exercise for both parties. When her cell phone rang, it startled Britney and her longish nails grazed the rat’s belly. Then it did snap at her hand, but she had moved too quickly. Disappointed, the rat scurried away and ran under an endtable. It was watching her in what she considered a sinister fashion as she spoke on the phone.

Gertrude asked how the filming was going and said she anticipated Britney’s return. The children, while she loved them dearly, were quite a handful, and she wasn’t getting any writing done. Having been a teacher, she had assumed she could easily manage youngsters, but perhaps she had misjudged her enthusiasm.

Britney, at a loss for words, looked at the rat, and suddenly panicked. She felt she must stay on the phone, for as long as she did so, she was safe. The rat would maintain its present size and not attack. Where was Ryan when she really needed him? She must say something to maintain her connection with Gertrude. Something. Anything.
So she said, “We’ll be wrapping a little earlier than expected. It seems the producers are looking over their budget and feel money would be better spent on the musical numbers. We still have two more to do, and they can be filmed back in L.A. But Gert, there’s something I wanted to ask you. I didn’t think of it as a problem until I saw it in the script. They have you in a relationship with a much younger former student after your first book was written. How did you go about that? I mean, was that something like a mid-life crisis?”

Gertrude responded, “You said you’d read my book. Do you remember any part about an affair with an ex-student?”

“No, well, I, that’s why I’m asking I guess.”

“That never happened. Sweetie, you didn’t actually read the book, did you?”

“Oh, Gert, I’m sorry. I’m dyslexic and have trouble reading. I didn’t want you to think I was stupid. I knew you didn’t really want me to play you in this movie, and I wanted you to believe I could do it.”

“I wish you had at least listened to an audio version. If you had, you’d know the one thing I value above all else is honesty.”

“I’m so sorry. I never meant to…You see, this rat is crouching here ready to pounce on me, and I…”

“Well, at least you’re honest with yourself,” Gertrude said. “Listen, dear, I have to go. The children are making a lot of noise up in my bedroom and I have to go investigate. Hurry home, won’t you?”

“Wait. Please don’t hang…” Britney said, but it was too late. Gertrude had disconnected. Britney, maintaining eye contact with the rat, quickly dialled Ryan’s number, but it rang several times and then his message came on. She pretended he had answered anyway, and preceded to make light conversation in her most controlled voice. She didn’t consider herself a great actress, but she had taken several lessons, and she remembered a few things. She just wished the director would call, “Cut.” sooner rather than later. She wanted the rest of the crew to return to the set. Those were always the best moments of the day.

Descending and Rising Damp

On a Wednesday evening at his dining room table in a rented house in Tuxtla Gutiérrez, Michael took his Palm and portable keyboard out of his black school bag.

Something was wrong with the keyboard because no matter what he tried, including replacing the batteries, he couldn't get it to work.

He was feeling old and tired from too long summer hours in classes; parts of his body were aching and the keyboard problem just added to his frustration, which had arisen from his not having completed, nor yet started, his students' third partial reports.

He decided to go online with his laptop and see if he could find a solution on the Palm site.

As he started to go upstairs to get his laptop, he discovered there was water all over the living room floor, water that had run down the stairs due to flooding on the upper floor.

He mopped up most of the water, but by the time he was finished he felt as if it had seeped into his bones, and rather than retrieve the laptop from the upstairs closet, he tried once again to get the keyboard and Palm to work.

He smelled the dankness in the air and it made him think a miasma had settled on his house causing everything to react erratically including his usually reliable little keyboard.

Lighting a cigarette added to the stale barroom ambiance, but in that moment it was all he could think of doing-to smoke and reflect on life's vicissitudes.

He could replace the keyboard if it truly wouldn't come back to action, if he responded to the General Director's request for particular English lessons, which would mean extra money.

Yes, that was how he would resolve his problem by taking on more work, which would leave him too tired to enjoy the use of his electronic toy, but also keep him out of the house for a greater part of his days.

He lit another cigarette, gulped some Light Coke directly from the two-liter bottle, noted it was half-past midnight and there were still the reports to write up and he pretended the wetness didn't bother him.

One Day

One day is just like the next. It all averages out. The action is in the minutes.
Take a moment to relax. Have a cup of tea, or coffee if you prefer. Have a biscuit.
Call a friend.
Write in a diary. Don't lose any of those precious moments. Time has a way of eliding their significance.
One day everything will be right, or it may never be. One day never comes. It never happens. You can only concentrate on the moment. Maybe tomorrow you'll take care of it. It happened yesterday. Today's the day. Can you? Did it? Is it, really? The whole day? Or just in the space of an hour?
Have you ever planned and prepared a sumptuous meal? The shopping for it, especially if it contains exotic ingredients, could take a while. The cooking may take more than an hour or two or even longer. Maybe you'll share a nice bottle of wine with your spouse or whoever it is you plan to share this meal with.Oh, it's going to be a glorious repast! You even light candles.You sit down at the table. Spread your napkins in your laps and raise your glasses in a toast. Then dig in. Delicious! And before you know it, one of you turns to the other and remarks, "Oh, all that work, and it's all finished." The essence of that meal was that one moment when you swallowed that last forkful. It may have taken hours to prepare, but it was all building to that point where you had ingested all. That final moment was the meal.
One day is a collection of moments. One day is a formless thing only given some shape by collecting the memory of those moments.
In the Disney movie version of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (I hate that description, but more of that at another time), Snow sings, "One day, my prince will come..." One day, at one particular moment, he will arrive and lift her heart to heights of rapture previously only imagined, but what of the day after he comes? That rapturous moment will become old news, no news. Memories never hold as much emotion as the moments they recall. That only happens in the movies where the moments can be played over and over again as real (or cinematic, if you will) as the first time they occur, and think of this, the first time you see it, you're only seeing the image of something that happened for real on a sound stage months or even years ago. So not even your first time is the real thing for the participants. Even if a tear comes to your eye because you are moved so deeply -- it's their memory, not yours. But it evokes a moment you have experienced. A moment only.
The moment you learned whether it was a boy or a girl, or twins.
The moment you passed and could proceed to the next step.
The moment you said, "I do." The very essence of your wedding day.
The moment you realized you didn't.
The moment you were given praise for a job well done.
Childhood moments of gratification. All those moments gathered together in big bundles of hours. Those were the days.
Can't I get a moment's peace? One day you will have endless peace.
One day, but hopefully not today.

Another Fork

Well, here I am sitting alone once again, and why is that, because I am unsociable, hard-nosed, inflexible, or because I am in the wrong setting? Mostly, I think the latter. I don’t belong here with these people. I have decided to go home, and will do so as soon as I can tie up loose ends.
This was an adventure that turned out badly. I got away from drugs, and temptation, and sadness, only to land in alcohol, tobacco, and frustration. I was alone, but now am more alone than ever—disconnected by the language and the lack of interesting things to do. I feel so uncomfortable.
For an ill-paying job that has only moments of brightness, I exhaust myself trying to do my best, but because it is not my calling, I am spending hours in producing nothing. Sometimes I want to bang my head on a wall and lie down to die. The alternative is to travel, but I really cannot afford that and would soon be broke. I have painted myself into a corner.
The guilt is mine. I haven’t tried hard enough to overlook those things that bother me. But it must also be shared with one who met me with a sweet and enthusiastic disposition, who has now fallen back on old familiar ways through, I think, resentment and laziness—resentment due to my actions (or inactivity)—laziness because it is in one’s nature to resort to the familiar when frustrated. That is why I must go home. I am not close to the familiar here, and thus cannot resort to anything. The groundings of my life are far away.
I met a sad man in my travels who said I must learn acceptance, but in his eyes I saw disappointment. How can the teacher impart a wisdom in which he does not believe? How can one wear a smile over anger that shows through?
Today, at this moment, I hate it here, and I despise myself for weakly, resignedly, putting myself in this position. Once, I cried in sadness and thought my decision was inevitable. Now, I see it was only a fork in the road. Had I been prescient, I would have realized I had been given a sign which required more weighing, but I was tired and chose too quickly. In a strange church, I prayed for guidance and thought my prayers went unanswered. I didn’t realize the list of supplicants was long. Now the sign has been delivered. The road was a circle and I am back at the fork.
This time I must make the right choice. I hope those I left behind will have me back.

Temporary Situation

Where am I now, at mid-century? In a place that on the surface feels comfortable though untidy. Peripheral vision, however, shows me this is a temporary situation. It must be. I have duties and obligations in other places which sooner or later must be addressed.
My days are apportioned with a modicum of energy. When that flags during the early evening hours, a depression comes upon me which I find difficult to override. Now, my current situation is not one I could have foreseen three and a half years ago. At the end of the last century, I would have believed life as it was would continue thus for a good many years, but everything changed the following spring. Fate had disappointments and surprises in store for me, few in which I thought to take a proactive role. Some in which I could not have done. And in those I believed I did, turns have led me here.
A dark April, my birth month, was succeeded by seasons of mental torment. Then I sought no direction, only release. The year turned and I discovered a new path, one I had never expected. I put on my walking shoes and tread, not lightly, but wholeheartedly in the belief that I was no longer a solitary wanderer, but had someone with whom to learn how to overcome wounding memory. This, in all honesty, was the truth. Now, I can say that. However, as time passed all I allowed to change was my base of operations. I brought my old personality with me into this new life. That was both probably unavoidable and certainly detrimental to effecting the change. If I had a hard time adjusting, it was because I made it so. I embarked on a new lifestyle and a new career; I met new friends—but still I am trying to recognize these in the light of my previous life. The results are disappointing, but like bad psychiatry, perceiving my dilemma is not helping me to change my outlook.
Still, the evening downturns arrive and take hold.
When judged on its own merits, life here in Chiapas is not so bad, and as John used to say, I am crying with egg in my beer, but when I recall my life in New York, the current scene comes up wanting, and I cannot forget he was also fond of relating the tale of the worm in the horseradish. Of course, I must also remind myself that that New York life I recall has moved into the realm of history and may no longer be attainable. It could be that that was my destiny all along—to replace my dreamed of, fictional, past with my lived past.
The scenario, then, is you cannot remember a life you did not live, but only read about, with veracity, but you can with that which was real for you as an individual, and be thankful that you were able to live it so. Many people, through circumstances, do not get to experience what you did, or they die too young to build such a packed storehouse of memories. Then again, many people, probably the smartest, do not rely on memory at all to verify their existence. I envy those who can truly enjoy their present moments to the extent that previous unhappiness holds no sway. Álvaro always tells me to calm down.
“Why do you always upset yourself?” he asks. “Live the moment.” You cannot change the future, nor the past, for that matter, but it is so hard to relax into that advice. I have never been able to do it. John used to tell me that also, so I guess it’s a chronic inability. With all I have done, however, and all that I may yet do—that anyone would be glad to experience—I feel unable to lift this veil of ennui.
My greatest fear is that someday I will die a sad person without justification.

The One After the 8:12

Overweight, balding, a bearded father is standing at the bus stop with two young daughters, perhaps seven- and eight-year-olds, both extremely thin and waiflike, blond. The seven-year old stares unmovingly at a woman who is shabbily dressed, looking homeless, who is wiping a window on the lobby door of an apartment building. The child stares and stares at the woman while the other sister is oblivious to her surroundings, skipping in place while holding daddy’s hand. As the bus pulls in to the stop, the seven-year old lightly punches her father in his big soft stomach and then hugs his waist. He disentangles himself from them as he leads them to the bus doors. The girl looks back for the woman, but does not see her.
On the bus, there are five other parents taking their five children to school. The windows having been left opened, allow bits of conversation to be heard on the street. The parents have kid names such as Jody and Buffy. The kids have adult names like Laura and Fergus. Also their conversations reflect their names. The parents’ interests seem innocuous, while the children appear to be speaking of serious subjects. And these children seem younger than both the girls who just boarded.
As the bus finally pulls away, the woman, belying her appearance, stands with a container of steaming coffee from Starbuck's. Holding the container with both hands, she watches the bus take off on its uptown route. The school is off of Third Avenue in the thirties. She used to take her own child on the next bus after this one when she was working in midtown a number of years ago. Some situations never change or do but only imperceptively.
Her bus should be coming shortly. More parents and children are gathering, though less than regularly wait for the 8:12.
The coffee has cooled enough to drink but it leaves a terrible aftertaste and so the woman never finishes it. It’s that way with many things. She finds she rarely finishes anything.

Stuck on 17

The sound of the creaky doors sliding open woke Miranda, but the view through them was enough to convince her she was still asleep and dreaming. She could see a barren hallway with a decor, if one could call it that, which appeared older than the lobby.
Apparently, the car was still stuck on 17, but at least they could get out. She tapped Richard's shoulder, and he woke with a start.
"Time for work already?" he asked.
She pointed to the open hallway.
"Damn," he said, rubbing his eyes. "I thought I had dreamt this."