things move around

Admiral Point twirls his moustache and allows a distant smile to prowl across his chops as he seats himself at the oval boardroom table. He doesn’t give a toss about the agenda, or the other non-execs stretching off to his port and starboard.

This is because Admiral Point has just ridden the elevator with a man who, simply from looking at his exquisite eggshell-blue eyes, he knows is the son he abandoned forty years ago in Guatemala, when he was a lusty young submariner and she bored with her station as diplomat’s wife. Somehow the encounter leaves the Admiral stirred, but not shaken. Rosemary, that was her name. Rosemary Manor. Admiral Point (ret.) slips into a tropical reverie of creamwhite thighs, starlit cuba libres, and stolen moments in the broad shade of a mango tree. ‘65, he thinks. ‘65, my finest year.

Of course there’s no question of saying anything. It’s a ridiculous situation. I don’t need a son now any more than I did then, and I doubt the acquisition of a(nother) father was uppermost in his mind this morning.

Meanwhile, the chairman drones. Or “El Presidente” as he’s called by the more obsequious junior execs.