I reread An Imperial Affliction until Mom woke up and rolled over toward me around six.
She nuzzled her head against my shoulder, which felt uncomfortable and vaguely Augustinian.
The hotel brought a breakfast to our room that, much to my delight, featured deli meat among many other denials of American breakfast constructions.
The dress I’d planned to wear to meet Peter Van Houten had been moved up in the rotation for the Oranjee dinner,
so after I showered and got my hair to lie halfway flat, I spent like thirty minutes debating with Mom the various benefits and drawbacks
of the available outfits before deciding to dress as much like Anna in AIA as possible:
Chuck Taylors and dark jeans like she always wore, and a light blue T-shirt.
The shirt was a screen print of a famous Surrealist artwork by René Magritte in which he drew a pipe
and then beneath it wrote in cursive Ceci n’est pas une pipe. (“This is not a pipe.”)
“I just don’t get that shirt,” Mom said. “Peter Van Houten will get it, trust me. There are like seven thousand Magritte references in An Imperial Affliction.”
“But it is a pipe.” “No, it’s not,” I said. “It’s a drawing of a pipe. Get it? All representations of a thing are inherently abstract. It’s very clever.”
“How did you get so grown up that you understand things that confuse your ancient mother?” Mom asked.
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