Manhattan Island, Ireland, The British Isles, The Falkland Islands...
"The War", available at Amazon.com.
“Why not just push the Brits back into the sea?” Martin said, holding an empty fork over his dinner plate.
His cousin Romero Heflin shoved the ravioli about his plate with so little enthusiasm that the ravioli itself appeared to have paled. A sickly little packet dripping with yellowing cream. His cheeks had become flushed. Romero dressed with delicate care, so that his black suit, black vest, white shirt and blood-red tie appeared made of smooth-glazed porcelain. Each strand of his composed hair was oiled in place, so that his head looked to have been enameled. His fingers gripped the fork with delicacy. They too appeared sculpted, the nails trimmed, the skin unmarred.
Martin’s own fingers...thick, even swollen-appearing, as though they had many times been bruised and abraded, with a few broken nails...embarrassed him. He studied them a moment, unsettled by Romero’s lack of a reply. He worried that the Argentine, with his imperfect English, had not understood the question.
Romero laid the fork on the plate in a small puddle of sauce. He sighed, folding his hands on his lap.
“I think...” He exuded personal grief. “...that the English are our salvation.”
Martin’s lips tightened.
“That they will save us,” Romero continued.
Martin leaned forward over his own plate of food. He wanted to take the lapels of Romero’s banker’s suit between his hands, to pummel him. But he remained seated.
Romero looked up from his glass. “My family, I mean.”
Causes Terence Clarke Supports