Marianne’s father sat cross-legged at the center of the blanket. He had a pockmarked face that showed traces of faded handsomeness, like Richard Burton, and a waist-length grey braid. A man I had never seen before sat next to him, smaller, older, same flannel shirt, same braid. This man had a feather fan. Marianne’s father motioned for me to sit next to them. Then there was smoke and the two men sang in Navajo, but they did not sing the same words. The man switched the feather fan occasionally from one hand to another.
