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…
