The night the bird visited them, they were eating a late supper on the balcony that overlooked the boulevard. The scene below was idyllic: a handsome avenue, wide in the way of the new city. The houses were tall and impressive; the lamps made the leaves on the young trees shimmer.
The husband glanced out over the darkening skyline and said, “The ghettos are all but vanished.”
His wife swallowed a grape that turned sour as she ate it. Washing her mouth with wine, she said, “No, they have only pushed the ghetto to other places. It is like grass that sends shoots under the soil. The gardeners rip it up in bits, but the runners are always slinking out into the dark, slipping along, over and under the worms.”
He frowned. “Poverty isn’t a weed, determined to survive.”
It brought her up and they were silent for a moment. …
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