I looked up, feigning confusion. "Recital?" I asked.Mom threw a couch pillow at me. "Don't be a brat. You know darned well you promised me last Christ...as that you would play for the Church." The Church?" I mused.Another pillow. "Father!" Mom cried.Dad looked up, first at Mom, then me, then back to Mom, then back into his book. "A duet, I believe, if my memory serves me right," he said.Mom and I looked at each other, mouths open, then at Dad, shocked by this indisputable evidence that he was. You can tell them not to smoke, which you can't do so easily with your boss." You enjoy working at the Brothel, don't you?" Enjoy isn't quite the right word. It's a job, like yours, and I hope I take a proper professional attitude towards it. I think though that it's rather devalued when people like Binta and Ferhana work there. It shouldn't be used as a prison. But the Brothel treats its staff pretty well: much better than it would do if it were not a government enterprise. Anyway, I wouldn't. More

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