Words Matter

 

Not long ago my daughter wrote to me: “Don’t forget that the words you say have a particular power to hurt me or make me feel good.” So I took note: even if we don’t like to admit it, mother’s words matter.

 

My mother was a good person, not perfect but a good person. Despite that she referred to my father’s sisters as snakes. He had three sisters: one of them was kind and two of them The Snakes. I’ve spent years listening to sentences like: “Well, let’s face The Snakes!” or “What did The Snakes of your aunts told you?”

 

Nowadays people think I should forget. Maybe I should, but then words matter and mother’s words matter even more. When I was young I just thought that she didn’t like their personalities. My mother was a straightforward person. Sometimes her frontal way of communicating surprised people. On the contrary, my snake aunts were all smiles and kind words and after, privately, especially between the two of them, they said precisely the opposite. I really thought it was a question of different characters, but I had eyes and ears, I grow up and understood. The Snakes had bitten my mother.

 

Because of my sister’s anaemia, we left the island were we spent nearly 3 years. Despite doctors’ opinions, our return to Portugal was fiercely negotiated. My mother had a dream for us. In it my sister was a ballerina and I was some expert in French language or close. I am not sure what she really wanted for me, but involved a known French college. She needed the big city in order to fulfill her dream. You know, ballet classes and French college.

 

My father was supportive until The Snakes told him: “How come you let your wife live alone in the big city? It’s not proper. People will talk.” Instead of big city and big dreams, my mother had to content with small town, local colleges. I suppose that our life is nor better or worse because of that. Just different. They had a decisive role in changing it. I am not bitter about it and if I were it wouldn’t be because of that.

 

I just cannot ignore that they cut my mother’s dream short. Dreams shouldn’t die like that. I cannot forget her fight for the right to dream. It took her almost eight years and 3 houses, each one further and further away from The Snakes. From my grandmother’s house, which I clearly remember displayed number 13, to the house were she had the happiest time of her live, there’s a road called Freedom.

Circus and Us

 

We all have done something foolishly wrong during childhood, something grown-ups insist in bringing up into conversation over and over, something proving that we are not the angels we seem to be.

 

I took some money from my grandmother and went to the circus alone. I was nine. The money was over the table, the circus was visible from our windows and all kind of inviting sounds invaded the house from wee hours until I went to sleep with my mind set on lions, elephants and flying trapezes. Money, the bright colors and insistent sounds were too close. They conspired against me.

 

Making it short, when I surfaced two hours later I was received by a group of enraged aunts and grandmother, who punished me with a slap strong enough to mark my already enthusiasm reddish face. That slap inaugurated a period of a tense relationship between my mother and grandmother that lasted until they died.

 

My mother, a lot more liberal than my grandmother, never let me stay alone at my granny’s again. I knew I had been a bad girl, but I was also hurt because of such hate-charged reception. I almost forgot about it, because children usually (thankfully) easily forget adults’ insane moments.

 

It was only years later that I understood their extreme reaction. My father had run away with a circus at 10 and only returned home four years later. Someone from the circus heard him play music, he lied that he was alone in the world and the invitation to go along was automatically popped and accepted. Apart from running away, I don’t really know much details of my father’s circus adventure. It made my grandmother and aunts’ fury a lot more comprehensible, though.

 

I share with my father a circus history, his a lot more radical than mine. Sometimes I wonder if he ever regretted coming back home or if he was also greeted with a vigorous slap. And now that he is strapped down to an hospital bed, so that he doesn’t run away or hurts himself trying to get rid of the tubes maintaining him alive, I might as well be the only one still insisting that he is lucid when he talks about circus, either in his nightmares or his dreams.

Sometimes Rivers Don’t Have Borders

 

I shall never ever hear his voice
Astonish with his endless humour
Ah, big-belly! Little-monkey?

 

I got tired of unmistakable signs
I knew, but refused to read
A dead spider in my teacup
The impulse to write about him

 

I watched the time in dismay: 11:11
All so parallel and I so impotently
oblique

 

Shoulders where to cry become scarce
And if I cry is out of fear that without him
Nothing shall ever be the same
Gone the sortilege, the games
the laughs?

 

We shall sleep summers and winters
Against the walls where people of love die
(Grand passions, fragile lungs!)

 

And I thought this river had
Only a border to haunt me down.

Testing the Stars

 

I don’t read my horoscope as a rule. It just happens from time to time, like two or three times a year. Maybe I should pay even less attention to astrology, since it frequently predicts doubtful things.

 

Days ago I read the following weekly forecast and decided to put it to test: “No new year languishing for you. The career is up and running, and there are ladders to climb. Even more interesting is that Venus, the planet of love, shifts over to your neck of the woods on Tuesday, bringing a new love or fascinating encounter. If you’re interested, grab the moment. It won’t be around for long. Oh, and if you want money, ask. There’s plenty about.”

 

“No new year languishing for you.” – This one feels true. It has been so busy that I might as well be the only human being who doesn’t have a new year good intentions list.

 

“The career is up and running, and there are ladders to climb.” – Yep! Things have been happening faster than usual and I do believe that somewhere there must exist ladders to climb, if only I was inclined towards climbing any.

 

“Even more interesting is that Venus, the planet of love, shifts over to your neck of the woods on Tuesday, bringing a new love or fascinating encounter. If you’re interested, grab the moment. It won’t be around for long.” – That sounds special enough to justify the use of words like interesting and fascinating! I was very alert during Tuesday and I really met a few new faces, but I hardly can identify any of them with a new love or even fascination.

 

First I interviewed a new graphic designer. Nice guy, but so distant from what the stars promise. It had to be someone else. There’s a second graphic designer I didn’t meet personally yet, but after talking with him over the phone I have serious reticences. During the afternoon I met a third new face to discuss house renovations. That meeting was so long that I missed the opportunity to go to the only place where the possibility of meeting someone fascinating was stronger. I ended up thinking that opportunities might be out there, but for unexpected reasons we just miss them.

 

“Oh, and if you want money, ask. There’s plenty about.” – That checks. I asked money for other people working with me and the answer has been very positive. I even received money without asking.

 

I would be surprised if that prediction was entirely correct. Lucky in love and money? Never heard. Anyway, I have to confess that I had some fun. If it wasn’t for the stars I wouldn’t be aware of how many new people I meet during an average working day. Fascinating? Maybe the astrologer has a different conception in terms of what fascinating is.

Making Waves

As soon as JP arrived, nearly a week ago, he has been making waves. Some of them, like girlfriend’s matters, signal stormy weather. Thankfully, most of them are very favourable, like, for instance, daily spearfishing with a South African colleague or planning three consecutive weekends by the sea: 1) Ponta Torres, on the south extreme of Inhaca Island. 2) A new beach lodge in Macaneta. 3) A weekend at a friend’s house, also in Inhaca.

So far, Ponta Torres was good. We got some wind during the boat trip to the cozy bay where Navegador anchored. I was immersed in water for so long that, five hours after returning, I was still suffering from wrinkled tips of fingers. While I played with small fish, JP decided to ride the open sea with girlfriend. She fell asleep inside the boat, while waiting for JP’s return. It was just pure chance that the first 15kg barracuda missed her face. Other and other followed. Girlfriend got sick with waves, blood and smell. Back to base.

Still, JP wanted to dive with us. He took us to a place he calls “nursery”. It used to be full of nice, colourful, middle sized fish, a protected place for them to breed and grow. Diving with JP? Girlfriend was sick, remember? And I had SP 70 on, making my eyes burn. Besides, even with valid eyes, none of us could see more than a handful of sardine-sized fish: black, blue or with stripes. JP dived once and disappeared. Girlfriend was nowhere to be seen too. I found them near the distant boat. I stayed for a while observing and photographing the coral reef, an impressive grayish mass, looking much more alive and unattractive than the images we usually watch on television.

The coral reef is 10 meters deep down, but there are places where it goes deeper than that and places where it raises, like a somber grey building I can touch. Normally, I should only feel impressed, but since the Ponta do Ouro recent incident (read comment), not a bit far from where I usually snorkel, I have to be careful. The rest ran smoothly. Nice lunch. Usual sunburn. Fast, trouble free return trip. All in all, it was a good wave.

Pink Spot – A Christmas Story

I didn’t sleep on the 25th of December, not because of the previous night excitement or any particular present received. The motive of my insomnia was quite trivial: a television channel was showing home makeover programs and I lost all track of time.

That same night Paul had insomnia too. He kept complaining about the noise of some neighbourhood dog. I didn’t pay him much attention because: 1) I was focused on what I was watching. 2) I couldn’t hear any barking or howling, as sometimes happens.

When I was about to shut my eyes, diving into the black hole of sleep, I heard a pungent cry. It seemed a bit far from the usual morning noises of resident guards and birds. It happened in that precise moment when we still have one foot on terra firma and the other well deep in the hole.

As usual, I could only formulate a coherent line of thought when I woke up the next morning (better read afternoon): a) There was a dog after all. b) That dog was in deep pain, since that wasn’t the occasional wining coming from distant backyards. c) I should have done something about it, like sending my guard to investigate where the cry was coming from. Despite those thoughts, I went through the day forgetting the incident. But the moment I confronted the night guard, he inexplicably said he couldn’t hear any dog.

Two days went by and I found myself walking my dogs. Keket showed a sudden interest in a tree that stands alone in one of the green spaces we daily cross. I just let her approach a little, enough to recognize the shape of a dog lying on the grass. It was just an instant. I remarked the white brown-patched fur with a pink spot in the middle of the right side, the exposed one. It’s interesting how we notice details when we are trying to avoid facing the main aspects of a situation.

I dragged Keket out and signaled my guard to avoid the green. I was trying to avoid disturbing the prostrated dog, at the same time protecting my own. I just couldn’t tell if that dog was still alive, but my guard told in a hopeless manner: “That dog is dying! It’s going to end pretty soon. Bad! Really bad!”

It was very sad. I knew hundreds of people would pass by and no one would do a thing about it. During the trajectory back home I was reflecting about our role in Pink Spot’s fate. A dog crying during two or three days in our neighborhood and nobody cared. The irony that led her to that small stretch of green, stuck between the Presidency and the head of Parliament’s official residence. If Pink Spot had complaints, and no doubt she had, I am sure she intended to present them to the higher levels. I suppose nobody heard her.

In reality, the only one who had listened was half sleeping. Even so, I knew that the last cry of that night wasn’t accidental the moment I saw her very quiet against the green grass. So I had to act, even believing that it was too late to act. Helpless.

My first call confirmed what I already suspected. Vets were out of town. Nonetheless, I got the contact number of a lady who might help as she is actually organizing the first animal protection society here. I briefly explained the situation and felt really bad when she said she couldn’t be of much help since she was out of the country. She gave me numbers I kept trying. I only got silence or fax signals. Really helpless.

The last thing I did was informing my second contact that my démarches were fruitless. From that moment on I stopped. I wasn’t happy or conformed, but I stopped. I knew I should have done more, but in my heart I truly believed that she was dead or about to die, and any clumsy interference would make her suffer even more.

From Sunday on I changed my walk routine to avoid that square of grass where, in my mind, the lifeless body still laid. I know this town. Hundreds and hundreds would walk through without bothering. Dead or alive. The subjacent thought always present: “If life is so hard for us, why should we care about others?” Indifference. As if indifference was a quick fix for social problems.

On the afternoon of the last day of 2009 I received a message from the lady I communicated with for a good part of Sunday afternoon. It said:

“Hello. Thought u might like 2 know that the dog u phoned about on Sun is doing well. She had a fractured leg and her uterus was damaged. She has been taken into a caring home and they will continue with her treatment. So 4 her will b a happy new year…”

How to describe my happiness? I avidly wanted to know more. I was further informed that one of their volunteers in Maputo managed to rescue her the next day and get her to a vet. That same volunteer decided to keep Pink Spot. So it all worked out pretty well.

Knowing a part of the story that nobody else knows, I was amazed by this little being’s resilience. Above all I was (I am) amazed how by doing so little for someone we can feel so good. Just a phone call saved Pink Spot’s life and knowing that she is alive and cared for became the best present I have ever received.

Life Turbulence…

Expected Turbulence
Our recent interlude in Europe was as turbulent as our flight back to Mozambique. In reality, if I had other expectations than meeting people I just can see from time to time I would end up very disappointed. I wasn’t exceptionally disappointed. I am getting used to return from Portugal somehow disappointed and this is a tale about my disappointment.

Old People
I heard that 2009 was the first year the Portuguese population growth was zero. Old people are getting older very fast, and a good amount of youngsters look far too old for their age. I have to say that I might be under the influence of my father’s fragile health and the constant cough and whining of so many other people I met.

Cold Places

The places I visited seem to be frozen in time, though it might be just the winter stigma making me feel that nothing has changed in two years time. I realized the weather was being gentle, but people dressed heavily. I think they become careful because of flu and colds. Two consecutive days wearing short sleeves cost me two consecutive days of bad cold.

Half Economy
I don’t believe people are living better than two years ago. If I had any doubts, I just had to listen carefully. A taxi driver put it into a simple equation: “Once we lived with 8, suddenly we found ourselves living with 80 and now we had to settle for 40. It’s not easy to live with half that we had before.” In short, money is also frozen to a temperature far from a satisfactory level.

Strange Food
Regarding food, I just confirmed what I already knew. I don’t know how to eat and what to eat in Europe. First I eat too much, despite disliking what I eat. I believe I use food to face the change from hot to cold. The second phase I cut food and go for fruit until I discover that even fruit is not recommendable. We are used to fresh fruit. Even under 40ºC I keep it out of the refrigerator for weeks. In Portugal, it takes just two days to rotten most. Maybe eating seasonal, but that takes discovering which and where to get it. The last phase I turn to pastry and happily get fat. (Ah, those nightmarish cheese tartlets and babas au rum!) Well, better fat than seriously dizzy as I was last time. I escaped. Paul didn’t. He was so sick we had to postpone our flight back.

Different Love

We all love differently, but in the end we all follow patterns established long ago. When it’s a fresh relationship it all seems nice and possible. If we attentively look, we can see a whirlpool of feelings, some nicer than others, where we clearly identify love. With time those nice feelings became less visible and what remains is the way people live together. If equilibrium is not reached, the result of those first years of coexistence is usually the submission of one part to the other. I have been close to many couples with submissive wives or husbands. I cared a lot about some of them. It left me a deep bitter feeling I wasn’t automatically aware. I suspect that religion teaches submission and resignation, and that’s one of the reasons I cannot stand religious talk. Religious discourse and some literature empathize those two qualities that are completely eek to me. Lately I’ve been realizing that I would never be capable of abdicating just because of love. Abdicating of contact with people I care about, of dreams that are only mine or of things that I really want. That is out of the question. I am incapable of doing it and it’s difficult for me to accept other people behaving like that. It’s repulsive to me. Losing something that is dear to me because of love is a lost cause from the start. I can only regard, explain and justify love if there’s only good coming out of it. If it’s not like that, better live alone, better never experience love at all.

Shopping Safari

When I travel I became a little too focused in shopping. I don’t worry though, because I never shop at home. Do you know any modern woman capable of spending 2 or 3 months without visiting a shopping mall? That’s me. No wonder I shop when I found myself in a different place. But I felt lost in terms of shopping. Only the last days I realized what I should have done. I wasted money and time. I bought things that I shall never wear. They are too heavy for this climate. In reality, my shopping list included a new computer and a little more. I was advised not to buy it, so I just threw that money away.

Glad to Be Here

I am not sure if this overwhelming sensation of relieve is related with the strong blow that almost divided our plane in half or any other reason pointed above. I just know that is good to be back. To resume a life worth to be called life, I am engaging in dance again. When I was in Europe I went to a hairdresser where the lady blow-drying my hair had to low down the chair where I sat, with the argument that I was taller than her average clientele. I answered it could be the posture due to the gym. She remarked: “Curiously, when I saw you coming in I thought about dance.” From that moment on I knew I would be back to my former dance routines.

Mild Turbulence?

It’s too early to be up, but that’s how it is travelling nowadays: up at 5, airport a little before 7 and wait. It’s almost 11am when finally our expectative ends. One cannot imagine a real reason to wake up four hours before the flight, plus two of delay.

It could be our rush to be back. It could be a certain notion that European fair weather in December doesn’t last forever. It could be the time needed for this and that. Actually, we were one of the firsts to check in. We had time for a quiet breakfast with family and then it was chaos.

The queue for the security control is long, but seems to flow fast. It stops here and there, now and then, while people behind rush for a faster post control. I can see the difference between people used and less used to fly. We are a good example of that. Behind me is a lady who almost strips from head to toes. She doesn’t want to stop the sheep-like flow for sure. She puts belt, shoes and all her belongs over a suitcase next to her. I signal to Paul: “Are they this serious?”

The question is that we leave Mozambique in a way and expect to return the same way. No way. Paul suddenly remembers that he carries two new knives for his collection and I remember my nail set. Paul goes back to send those objects by a secure system and I step away. Many other sheep after, I am back to the line. Another lady follows me. While I help Paul to place our hand luggage on the moving platform, I cannot help noticing the way she bites her nails. Isn’t she exaggerating? It cannot be so bad! But it is.

In front of Paul, a gentleman and a Brazilian security move forwards. The alarm sounds. That same Brazilian asks to another Brazilian next to us: “What was that?” “That was that animal there…”, pointing to a man who had just crossed to the other side. I could not believe he said that. But he did. We heard him clearly. The man he was referring to had just had problems because of a computer and now it was his belt.

We are okay, but our hand luggage is not. “Too many liquids!” they say. We were asked by too many Brazilian-speaking individuals to open our luggage over one of the checking tables. In the end, from Paul’s they only got a small shaving-foam can. It seemed small before. Now, standing impressively blue against the white Formica, it looks like a terrible weapon.

They start to take object after object from my vanity case. I feel guilty like hell. It’s perfume, contact lenses liquids and a few more I cannot remember. How upsetting is to see strange people going through our stuff! And in the end for what? The sizes were all okay, not exceeding the allowed 150ml. They only got my face cleaning foam. I was aware of size, but I also knew it had less than 50% of the content. So, it should be okay. No way. I concluded it’s not the content that matters, but something else.

As explanations like how difficult it is to get some products in Mozambique couldn’t move Brazilian hearts, I negotiated another solution. Paul bought a box with small plastic bags to where I could squeeze a bit of foam, so that I could wash my face for the next few days. How wonderful! The rest of the objects were allowed after tightly closed in a second plastic bag. During this operation they discovered a nail file that accidentally had fallen from the set already dispatched. Bye-bye, nail file!

Maybe there’s another reason to arrive at seven: they want us to take a nice walk through the airport! It’s an hour or so (depending of the sheep speed) to the embarking gate. I suppose it’s the African thing. A colonial posture? Though, it’s curious to notice that the majority were tourists identified by the name of well-known travelling agencies. Good for Mozambique. Bad for tourists. Not to say that the above “animal”, curiously too, wasn’t African and spoke good English. At least he didn’t seemed to be South African, so I concluded he wasn’t African.

Here I should speak about eek flight food, but it’s already long and I have to be selective. So I hop to the mild turbulence. We were at less than two hours from our destiny when I was awoken by an awful sensation and hair-raising screams. Before that I had watched three movies and was almost done with the fourth when I fell asleep. Thanks to that I avoided the worst moment. Later Paul said the plane was severely catapulted up and forward, with no previous warning. Only within a distance of hours, we lived the same described here, though we calculated in half the duration of the incident. It’s so strong, so fast and so powerful that we immediately realize that the plane is no longer under control, moving the normal way, with the normal speed and to the normal direction, and we are about to die.

So I woke up with the screams. Paul said they came mainly from the crew, a lady caught inside the toilet and another lady sitting near us, who cried all the way and had to be assisted during the landing. The amazing thing is that at the moment we were still badly shaken and I opened my eyes, I have done something I wouldn’t if I had a complete notion of what was going on: I opened the small window next to me and I saw the most beautiful and frightening thing I have ever seen and hopefully shall ever see. A thunder light had involved the plane, which was glowing in the middle of the dark night. It was a vision of seconds I shall never be able to put adequately in words, except for saying that it was pretty scary.

As for danger, I had only a really notion of it when we landed and a member of the crew said that, in many years of flying, she had never faced such situation and that it had been bad because of the lady inside the toilet and “the colleagues who had been thrown away, fallen and hurt. She also said it seemed the longest flight after the incident. Longest and scariest, obviously. After landing, the crying lady asked to the element of the crew, with the assertiveness of someone who doesn’t keep things inside herself: “The plane could have fallen!”

The same idea crossed my mind. Instead of tears, I started a new movie, about a guy who falls badly for a girl, and I had enough spirit to notice the moment he falls for her. It was when she quotes a passage of The Smiths’ lyrics. Besides, the audio offered an all The Smiths channel. It felt opportune. It felt strange. I just couldn’t understand if it was a good or a bad sign. In the end, it was just a sign and a way to get me through the rest of the flight.

It was a long, difficult hour before land. We didn’t suffer other major turbulence, but we could feel the tense way the plane was driven. Paul had skipped one detail: we were inside the same plane that went down half way to Brazil. He knew I would never travel in it without a fight, mainly after a change of our scheduled departure. He said we had just faced the same situation, but our pilot didn’t panic or disconnect the autopilot. I believe in the effectiveness of a five computers ruled plane, but I have serious doubts about the panic part. Believe me when I say that before, during or after the ordeal no one from the crew spoke a single word, gave a simple explanation or whatsoever. I believe that’s why some didn’t cheer (after landing the pilot got a standing ovation, out of pure relief) and even left the airport complaining: “They didn’t say a word before or after. They should say sorry, at least.” The next day this episode was reported as “mild turbulence”.

Portrait of a “Powerful Lady”

I am forced to acknowledge the existence of a “powerful lady” every time I visit a local office. I arrive and instantly face this harsh reality: twenty people have to be attended before it’s my turn. Do you think I wait? Never. Public services should not be like this. People are left with two options only: 1) Submission. 2) Resourcefulness.

I am glad I know someone there making it easy for me. I go straight to her and ask: “I have to be somewhere else in minutes. Can’t you help me in this?” She is really nice. In a few minutes she solves my problem. Sometimes it’s over, but most of the times she sends me to another desk where I have to pay for the document in question. I sit and wait. And wait. And wait.

I check how long people have to wait in the section I have just left. It takes between 15 to 30 minutes for each people, so the average time for someone to make it through the first stage is 22.5 minutes. Multiply time by the 20 people in line and you realize that I have just earned 450 minutes, more than 7 hours. A really feat!

That’s when I start to ask myself: “If I have just escaped the worst, why on earth am I the only one waiting in front of a desk where I am just supposed to pay for a service rented to me?”

I get up and ask to the lady sitting behind that desk: “Does it take long?” I know her. It’s always the same lady. I think she glued to that chair years ago and nobody could remove her from there ever since. She asks me to sit and wait, expecting an obedient reaction. My role is turning around and returning to the chair right in front of her, where I cannot stop wondering how a simple electronic receipt takes ages to be issued.

If you dare to address her again with any other question, she is going to explode and you are in trouble. How do I know it? I once politely informed her I was in a bit of a hurry. Her reaction was like an African storm. I cannot repeat you all she angrily said, but you might guess. She easily frees all the anger she keeps inside. It’s not pretty, I can tell you.

I sat in front of her days ago. It all happened the way I described. Without even sitting, I went to her desk and asked if my document was ready to be paid and collected. “Wait”, she indifferently replied. I sat and started to wonder what on earth was I waiting for, being the only one sitting there.

When I was about to approach her, interested in knowing the motives of such wait, I remembered. I realized she was only expecting my protest to explode. Instead, I turned around and left. At the door I asked the officer standing there: “I left a document to be paid and collected. Can I send someone for it later?” Of course, I could. I sighed and ran away from there. Just for a few moments, while I sat in front of that desk, my heart beat stronger in rebellion. The difference is that this time I won. She couldn’t explode. She couldn’t make me patiently wait either. And I understood she is powerless against me.

(I bet you know a couple of “powerful” ladies too…)

On Neighbours, Dogs and Pâtés

By the time you read this I must be somewhere in Europe. I should worry about winter, but local weather decided to play with us and changed drastically. It’s the first time ever we see such thing: a cold mid November!

Well, my European program is not totally worry free. I worry, for instance, about food. I am all good intentions, but, as soon as I arrive, my food routines are upside down.

I am suspicious about European food. Paul says the food chain is a mess. You can never be sure of what you eat, even when you pay a lot to be sure. I know that from experience. I was invited to an extremely good restaurant, the kind attracting people from various countries. Food was really exquisite. Service was superb. The next day I was extremely sick.

I also remember a story involving another extraordinary restaurant, whose owner was not only a charismatic chef but also a friendly man who used to feed his neighbour’s dog with the restaurant leftovers. The dog died too soon. The owner, in grief, accused the chef of killing his dog with pâtés and fillet mignon. Friendship was over.

All that is making me wonder what shall I eat over the next couple of weeks? The answer is shrouded in mystery.