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by Lucia Nevai
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by Lucia Nevai

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Overview

You won't find storybook families in these twelve wonderfully daring stories by Lucia Nevai. Over and over, Nevai's characters, from an urbane ex-hippie in Manhattan to a disabled war veteran in rural Louisiana, miss in their attempts to connect with the people they love most. But in the midst of all the missed connections, something remarkable (and often very funny) happens. In the tradition of Amy Bloom, Ellen Gilchrist, and Francine Prose, Nevai brings us unforgettable families in twelve versions of "normal" that we can all recognize. "Skewed and shrewd, Ms. Nevai makes a delightful tour guide to the fallout of the nuclear family."—The New York Times Book Review; "A writer of uncommon potency and reach."—Publishers Weekly, starred; "Nevai is a real talent with a ready wit and a steady gaze."—Kirkus Reviews.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781565121584
Publisher: Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
Publication date: 01/04/1997
Pages: 236
Product dimensions: 5.26(w) x 7.24(h) x 0.80(d)

About the Author

Lucia Nevai, who was born and raised in Iowa, now makes her home on Manhattan's Upper West Side where she works in the production and distribution of educational television videos. She has published stories in many leading magazines, including The New Yorker, and is a recipient of the Iowa Short Fiction Award and the PEN Syndicated Fiction Award.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

Monsieur Alle

Howie watched nervously as Glenda arranged his Crab and Ginger Egg Rolls on the stoneware platter. For color, she added a garnish of crisp, carved radish roses. Howie had shaved. He'd washed his hair--piles of wet curly silver hair fell over his forehead and ears. He'd put on a clean blue oxford cloth shirt. His shoulders were rounded from years of sitting hunched over at his desk writing wildlife documentaries. Howie was finally forty-five--his oversensitive morose expression had had the effect of making him look forty-five since nursery school. "Is there anything funny about this yet?" Howie asked.

"Not funny ha-ha," Glenda said. They sat down in the huge leather Guatemalan club chairs and put their feet up on the matching ottomans. For the third time in as many weeks, they awaited Monsieur Alle, the child abuse investigator from the New York City Department of Special Services for Children.

Glenda's black cotton Chinese slippers peeked out from under the billowing yardage of a long batik dress, dyed with shades of purple and blue so enchanting, they managed to whisper of South Seas sunsets and turquoise oceans even here at Seventy-fourth and Broadway on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. At thirty-nine, Glenda's face was a collision of two centuries. Her girlhood beauty had embodied the nineteenth-century feminine ideals of hope, charity and mercy as portrayed in naive American statuary, but life had blasted her hot and hard and now the nerves of her face seemed too raw to feel hope, the smile too wary for charity, the huge green eyes too fearful of the absence of mercy everywhere to dispense their share. Her long, brown hair was thinning.

Glenda wondered why Monsieur Alle had originally seemed in such a big hurry to investigate Howie. He had wanted to come to the apartment within forty-eight hours of receiving the report of abuse from the Pierrepont School. Glenda was ruffled by his phone call--what to serve? Her signature appetizer, Warmed, Marinated Goat Cheese on Whole Wheat Cumin Pita Toasts, was passe. So she persuaded Howie to make the crab rolls for Monsieur Alle. It crossed her mind that Monsieur Alle might take the appetizer as a bribe, an attempt to bolster a poor moral reputation with a rich culinary one, but she decided to proceed. Amazing appetizers were a family custom. To offer the Monsieur nothing, she reasoned, might add nuances of pretense and deceit to the investigation, casting an unwarranted shadow of suspicion.

Two dozen crispy, golden, delicate crab rolls were draining on paper towels that first night when Monsieur Alle had called from the bowels of Brooklyn, apologizing at length in his vaguely noble accent, saying that he could not keep the appointment because he was still in the process of investigating a family there. Glenda rescheduled. Howie wrapped and carefully froze the rolls.

They were sitting in the club chairs the next week with the crab rolls reheated and arranged on the platter, waiting for Monsieur Alle and listening to Classic Rock radio when the disc jockey broke the Every-Day-Is-a-No-Repeat-Day rule by playing Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Free Bird" twice in a row. Howie pulled Glenda up from the chair, and they twirled around on the area rug together in ecstasy, until a brutal shout from Roddy, Glenda's sixteen-year-old son, broke the mood.

"Phone!" he yelled, opening the door to his bedroom just wide enough to stick out his shaved head. Howie's nine-year-old daughter, Mimi, was on the phone, calling from a booth at the corner of Ninety-sixth and Broadway. She was locked out of her mother's apartment--her mother was out of town on business and wouldn't be back until late. Howie took a cab up, let Mimi in with his key, then because Mimi was afraid to be alone, Howie called all three of the Allegras in Mimi's fourth grade class to try to arrange a spur-of-the-moment play date. No go. Howie brought Mimi home. The child abuse charge was a secret from her--how would he occupy her during Monsieur Alle's investigation?

When Monsieur Alle called to say in that lilting, vaguely aristocratic accent of his that he would be an hour late, Glenda explained in a whisper about the Mimi complication. Monsieur Alle respected this. The investigation was rescheduled for the following week.

Glenda wondered now if the initial jostling of the appointment time was contrived by Monsieur Alle to add to his information about the family. Perhaps the evaluation was already under way. As she looked about the room, wondering what he'd think of it, she felt sorry for her furnishings. The things she'd acquired over twenty years and three loves looked crowded and eccentric in this staid floor plan. Squeezed unsacredly onto the limited wall space were a pair of Tibetan Tangkas--complex, richly colored scrolls, symmetrically designed for Buddhist meditation, though her first love, Sol, the father of Roddy, had used them more often as implements of seduction. The Guatemalan club chairs had somehow been toted north from Central America on a Volkswagen bug by Jean, father of Glenda's fourteen-year-old son, Neil. With Howie came the Mexican motif. Rustic wood chairs with high, straight backs and rush seats encircled a heavy, somber table. The set spilled out of the modest dining alcove like a fat man overflowing a folding chair. Glenda felt guilty, forcing things from three different men to mix within such conventional walls. Yet, considering all they'd been through, she was grateful her things had survived at all.

The bell rang at 7:15. Neil sprang to answer it. Tall and thin, wearing his customary black T-shirt and black jeans, Neil offered to take Monsieur Alle's tan detective coat. Some gold or brass totem of personal significance hung from a chain around Neil's neck. His dark-blond hair he wore in a ponytail that reached to the middle of his back. His face presented the same classic, even features as his mother's, but projected an elusive caginess and despair.

The mystery of the vaguely noble accent was revealed: Monsieur Alle was Haitian. His manner was gentle and dignified, his suit well made but not ostentatious, his eyeglasses round with gold wire frames. Glenda urged Monsieur Alle to be seated on the sofa as near as possible to the appetizers. Roddy broke the embarrassing silence that ensued by crowing in a whining, theatrical English accent, "There was a bit of a nastiness last night, yes? Some very extreme nastiness, yes? A few of a certain Billy Boy's friends were ambulanced off, yes?"

Howie and Neil laughed heartily. Roddy had committed the entire dialogue of A Clockwork Orange to memory. Glenda studied the Monsieur's reaction to Roddy. He did not seem to be alarmed by Roddy's appearance. Good--she would not have to explain to him that although Roddy's head was shaved like a skinhead's, although he wore the same brand of heavy black lace-up boots skinheads wore and went to clubs where skinheads and longhairs broke each other's jaws, he went as a cultural observer, and was not, per se, a skinhead. Real skinheads were white supremacists. How could Roddy be a white supremacist when his father, Sol, was a child of the Holocaust? Roddy was serious, spiritually serious. The great blue dragon tattooed permanently on the full length of his arm proved it. Scarification was a male rite of passage; the dragon was a well-known symbol of spiritual evolution. It seemed obvious to Glenda that in a society which did not provide a sufficient ritual to mark a boy's transition into manhood, a serious youth made up his own. She had tried and failed to make up a transition ritual for Roddy--she'd dispensed with Chore Points. Chore Points were allotted for voluntary chores, five points for Ajaxing the bathtub, three points for Windexing the kitchen cabinets, one point for Lemon-Pledging the coffee table. Chore Points could be amassed, then redeemed for Privileges: staying up late to watch TV, baking chocolate chip cookies with Mom even if Mom was tired, that kind of thing. Dispensing with Chore Points had failed to prepare Roddy for manhood. Glenda felt sorry--he was a male adrift in a psychotic culture with the millennium approaching like a tsunami.

Neil was also adrift, but unlike Roddy, he was not fascinated by people. He was misanthropic. He stayed in his room much of the time reading science fiction and Guns & Ammo. Both Neil and Roddy were brilliant. Nearly every teacher in the Pierrepont School had said so. Glenda had years of written evaluations confirming it. Over and over, the teachers would write, Roddy [or Neil] shows no interest whatsoever in his homework, which is frustrating to me as both his test scores and his occasional in-class responses indicate he is brilliant.

"These are Howie's special crab rolls," Glenda said to the Monsieur. We drink beer with them. Will you have one?"

Monsieur Alle did not drink alcohol, never had, he said, because in Haiti, he'd been a minister and wanted to set a good example. Now, in America, where standards were more lax, it was too late for him to develop a taste for it. Tea was his drink, any kind of tea. Glenda brought him a pot of Lapsang Souchong.

Monsieur Alle opened his briefcase. "You are married?" he asked Howie, his pen poised over the first blank on the intimidating yellow investigation report.

"Yes," Howie said decisively. Less decisively he added, "To Mimi's mother."

"He doesn't want to hurt her feelings," Glenda explained.

"Plus, Glenda's still married to Neil's father," Howie pointed out.

"He doesn't believe in paying lawyers to achieve our emotional resolution," Glenda said.

"So Howie is your boyfriend," Monsieur Alle said to Glenda, neatly filling in the blank. He moved his pen down a line. "Roddy and Neil are whose sons?"

"Different people's," Glenda said. She explained about Sol and Jean.

"They live here full time?" Monsieur Alle asked.

"We are all here full time," Glenda said. "Howie and I make sure that one or both of us are here every day when the boys get out of school."

Monsieur Alle's dark eyes darted from Roddy and Neil to Glenda and Howie. "Why?"

"We just want to be here for them," Glenda said. "To make up for no one being there for them when they were little. If they want to ask for my help on homework or get Howie's advice on girls, we're here."

Monsieur Alle's brow was furrowed in bafflement. "And do they ask for your help on homework?"

"No," Glenda said. "They come home stoned and go straight to their rooms and listen to loud, robotic, post-punk nihilistic German bands. You should hear this awful music, Monsieur Alle."

"And do they ask your advice on girls, Howie?" Monsieur Alle asked.

"No. But I think it's important that I'm here. They're growing up with a creative male in the home."

"Your daughter," Monsieur Alle said. "She doesn't need to grow up with a creative male in the home?"

"No, she needs a breadwinning female, who's capable, flexible, bright, beautiful and never is home," Howie said.

Monsieur Alle's eyes darkened expressively, his shoulders stiffened. He returned to the investigation report. "Neil, please summarize the incident that occurred three weeks ago."

"Howie. Was in the kitchen. Making spicy. Oven-fried chicken." Neil respectfully spoke at the pace that Monsieur Alle was capable of writing script.

Glenda watched the Monsieur's pen as it formed lines of even, flowing lowercase letters. "Look, Howie," she said. "If our kids had gone to public school in Haiti instead of going to private progressive school in Manhattan, they would be able to write traditional script instead of printing everything in that unpredictable mixture of capital and lowercase letters."

Monsieur Alle read the sentence back to Neil, making it a question. "Howie was in the kitchen making Spicy Oven-fried Chicken?"

"It was Howie's night to cook," she said, interrupting. "We have an equal opportunity kitchen. Howie made these." She explained how the crab rolls were made and listed the twenty-two ingredients. "Try one."

"I was in the middle of something," Neil said with annoyance.

"Continue," Monsieur Alle said, eschewing the crab rolls.

"I came in. To get. Some potato chips. Howie was taking pieces. Of raw chicken. Out of the package. And rolling them. In flour."

"That's called dredging," Glenda said to Neil.

"Howie was dredging. I said to Howie. Did you wash. The chicken first. He beat me up."

Monsieur Alle's eyes grew dark and thunderous. He was impressed. "Who witnessed this?" he asked. Glenda raised her hand.

Roddy half-raised his, saying, "I came in for the ball-kicking."

"Ball-kicking," Monsieur Alle echoed. "My, my."

"We lived in a commune in Vermont," Glenda blurted out. "There was no authority figure. Everyone raised everyone. We ate organically grown food. The apricots got mealy worms. There were bugs in the whole wheat flour. We got lice. It wasn't the future. It was the past, the past that progress had improved. I left Jean." Everyone was staring at Glenda.

"Howie," Monsieur Alle said. "What is your side?"

"It's true," Howie said. "I was making Spicy Oven-fried Chicken. I coat the chicken with a special mixture of flour, salt and pepper, paprika, cayenne pepper, garlic powder and toasted sesame seeds."

"Sesame seeds," Monsieur Alle said, his eyes shining with a special Caribbean brightness.

"You toast them first," Howie said. "Mimi was having dinner with us. Spicy Oven-fried Chicken is her favorite dish. I was also making mashed potatoes--Neil will only eat potato products, mashed potatoes, french fries, potato knishes, potato chips. And I was making Green Beans in Olive Oil with garlic for Roddy. Because he's avoiding meat for ninety days as a purge. He'd been through a raw phase. He read a book about the precious enzymes and healthful minerals in raw foods. He ate a lot of raw oysters and steak tartar. Apparently for some people these are the keys to longevity. They made him sick."

Everyone relaxed while Monsieur Alle wrote down the menu and its rationale. The boys dipped the crab rolls in the sauce. Howie ate the radish roses. Glenda drank two Tsing-Tao beers. Monsieur Alle, she observed, would be well served by a tape recorder. "Continue," Monsieur Alle said.

"So Neil is walking back and forth in front of me," Howie said. "Eating potato chips. Watching me. And making a face."

"What kind of face?"

Howie demonstrated, bloating his face slightly in the cheeks, mouth and jaw, as if he were two seconds away from vomiting. Neil looked proud of himself.

"That face. Seven years I've been cooking for him and what do I get. Always that face. He stands there eating the chips, watching me, making that face. Then he says, Did you wash the chicken first. I stop what I'm doing. It's important to wash the chicken first, he says, to remove the grody slime. Look, dickhead, I say, the chicken is not for you. The potatoes are for you. And I point him to the pot on the range where the potatoes are boiling. If I have time, I make real mashed potatoes. If not, I buy Idahoan. Idahoan are the only instant dehydrated potatoes that taste like homemade." When Monsieur Alle had caught up, Howie went on.

"So, Neil goes to the pot, he lifts off the cover, he looks inside. He's still making that face. Say one word and you're dead, I say to him. Ugh, he says. I have this nice fat floury chicken thigh in my hand. And something comes over me, and I throw it at him. It hits him hard right in his face--smack! There's a little puff of flour in the air like gunpowder. The thigh falls to the floor. He picks up the thigh and throws it back at me. It hits me here in the chest. Pow, I get him in the face. Pow, in the neck. As fast as I can throw them at him, that's how fast he's throwing them back."

Monsieur Alle had stopped writing and was listening with an arrested expression. Glenda crossed her legs daintily at the ankle. "You've got a good home here," Roddy quoted to Neil in his whining English accent, "good loving parents. You've got not too bad of a brain. Is it some devil that comes inside of you?" Neil was laughing soundlessly.

"There was flour everywhere," Howie said. "Flour all over me, all over Neil, all over the floor, the table, the chairs. Everywhere. Mimi happens to walk into the room to ask a question about her history chapter."

"She's very bright," Glenda said.

"I say, Not now, Mimi. We're ducking, we're kicking over chairs, chicken is flying. Mimi screams at me to help her with her history chapter. I say, For God's sake, Mimi, not now. She runs out of the apartment and runs twenty blocks up Broadway to her home, only her mother's out of town on business and Mimi's forgotten her key, so she has to come back."

"You witnessed this," Monsieur Alle said, turning a suspicious eye on Glenda.

"We lived in a tepee on Mount Shasta one summer." Glenda said. "We had a goat. We carried water from a spring."

"We're down to a few raw chicken backs," Howie said. "I get him hard in the cheek. It smarts--I can see that. So I say, Let's call it quits. Fuck you, he says, and fuck your mother where she breathes. Don't ever say that about my mother, I say, now go to your room. He won't go. I attempt to bodily remove him from the kitchen. He kicks me in the balls."

"A shock," Roddy whined, "sending my dada beating his bruised and krowy lukkers and unfair Bog in his heaven and my mom boo-hooing in her mother's grief about her only son letting everybody down real horrorshow."

"I grab him," Howie said. "By the skin on his back. And push him out of the apartment and into the hall. When you're prepared to apologize for what you said about my mother, you can come back, I said.

"Did he apologize?" Monsieur Alle asked.

"She let him in," Howie said, pointing to Glenda.

"Howie told me to," she said.

"How long was he out there?"

Howie and Glenda looked at each other, trying to remember precisely. "It's hard to judge the passage of time in a family crisis," Glenda said. "A minute seems like an hour and an hour seems like a minute."

"Ten minutes," Roddy said crisply. "Howie locked the door at 7:50 and unlocked it so Neil could see The Cosby Show."

"Did he apologize?" Monsieur Alle demanded. Neither Howie nor Glenda could remember. Monsieur Alle seemed disappointed.

"Jean's mother always washed the chicken," Glenda said.

Monsieur Alle consulted the official complaint form in his file. "There were bruises," he said.

"I saw the bruises when I went in to say goodnight to Neil," Glenda said. "He had his shirt off and was looking at the bruises in the mirror. There were terrible marks on his back, on the shoulder blades and the upper spine where Howie grabbed him. I went to get ice packs, but Neil wouldn't let me back in his room. He didn't want me anywhere near him, did you, Neil?"

Glenda watched Neil shrink even now at the thought of her barging in with her leaky, ice-cube-filled baggies.

"How did the bruises on your back come to the attention of Ms. Lambert-Castor?" Monsieur Alle asked Neil, reading from the complaint form. Neil drew a blank.

"He means Cynthia," Glenda said to Neil. To Monsieur Alle, she said, "Everyone at the Pierrepont School, even the head, is on a first-name basis."

"I told my friend that Howie beat me up," Neil said. "He told Cynthia."

"Five years I helped her with the silent auction," Howie said to Monsieur Alle. "I called parents. I picked up donations. I set up tables."

"She is legally bound as a school official to call it in," Monsieur Alle stated.

"Five years," Howie said. "Watch her call me again this fall. "No more. Comprende, senor? No mast."

"It's an anti-parent school," Glenda explained. "We purposely picked it because we didn't want to impose our values on our kids. We wanted Roddy and Neil to individuate, even if it meant hating us a little earlier than they normally would. And you did, didn't you, boys?"

Monsieur Alle had not written anything down since the first piece of chicken was thrown. He was sipping his tea, and looking at Glenda with pity and contempt.

"Roddy and Neil," he said eventually, "Did Howie ever throw things at you before, did he ever strike you?" The boys laughed.

"My problem's passivity," Howie admitted.

"It works for me, babe," Glenda said. She and Howie clasped hands.

"Oh God, here they go," Neil said to Roddy.

"Why don't you two do the frug for Monsieur Alle," Roddy said to Glenda and Howie. "A-one, a-two." He snapped his fingers in time as Neil sang the opening guitar riff of Jimi Hendrix's cover of "All Along the Watchtower."

"We're secure enough in our relationship to let them tease us," Glenda instructed the Monsieur.

"So Howie has never treated the boys in a way that frightened them?" Monsieur Alle said, sticking to the point.

"Put it this way," Glenda said. "The day I told him he'd been reported by the Pierrepont School for child abuse was shopping day. He was very upset when he shopped. What's this, I said, when I unpacked. He'd bought Pepperidge Farm Milanos. Neil likes Mint Milanos. After what Neil did to me, Howie said, he's not getting Mint Milanos. He's getting regular."

Monsieur Alle was frowning deeply. He refilled his cup from the teapot. He sipped. He continued as if by rote. "Glenda, did you ever throw things at the boys or strike them?"

"I threw plates at Jean twice," Glenda admitted. "I once grabbed Roddy hard by the upper arms. He had marks on his skin. When you were three," she said to Roddy.

"So, no one is or was in the habit of striking you?" Monsieur Alle asked the boys.

Neil raised his chin provocatively as if to take one on it right then and there. Roddy drummed on his thigh with the flats of his hands, a fast, frenetic polyrhythm. Glenda was remembering the last big horrible fight the boys had had with Jean. "No," Neil said finally, shaking his head with annoyance. "They have a good relationship with Jean," Howie volunteered in a voice as bright and persuasive as a game show host's. "They go to Vermont every summer. Well, they used to before--. They're city kids now. And Sol is--."

"We don't know where Sol is," Roddy said curtly.

A demoralized silence filled the room. An impression of the underlying brutality of family life seized Glenda. The furnishings in the room shimmered with years of rage and pain, deadly, dull, throbbing, unresolvable. Errors in judgment, lapses in thinking issued with a sour insistence as palpable as heat waves from Glenda's things. "Goats are a lot of work," she said shrilly. "You have to milk them twice a day. Goat's milk is too strong to drink, but the cheese is wonderful. We had goat cheese twenty years before it showed up on every menu in Manhattan."

Religious generosity overtook Monsieur Alle's professional disgust with Glenda and Howie. His eyes shone with grace. "You are nice people," he said quietly. He folded the official complaint form and the yellow investigation report in half, then in quarters. He was legally required, he explained, to detain the children privately and invite them to add to their statements without the parents being present.

Glenda and Howie withdrew to the kitchen. She called Avi's, the healthy neighborhood pizzeria, and ordered an extra-large pie with mushrooms and green peppers on one half, spinach and garlic on the other and extra cheese over the whole. The garlic was for Roddy, the green peppers for Neil, the mushrooms for Howie and the garlic for herself. Mixing up the halves like that and adding extra cheese drove up the price of the pie to thirty-seven dollars, but Glenda believed anything so simple that made everyone happy was worth the cost.

She peeked into the living room a few times as the boys continued with Monsieur Alle. She couldn't catch specific words or phrases, but based on their arm movements and gestures, they were taking turns describing the tepee, the fire where they cooked, the goat pen they built, the brook they walked to for water. Monsieur Alle looked homesick.

He rose from the sofa, briefcase in hand. Neil went to the closet to retrieve the Monsieur's detective coat. Glenda and Howie came forth from the kitchen to see him to the door. While they were waiting for the elevator, Monsieur Alle got to talking with Howie about Haiti. He felt guilty, leaving his congregation in Port-au-Prince without a minister, but he had to flee that regime to give his wife and six children a chance for a better life.

"Six children!" Howie said to Glenda. "Think of the tuition bills if they all went to the Pierrepont School."

"What are their names?" Glenda asked, expecting a litany of powerful, vowel-heavy Afro-Caribbean syllables, but Monsieur Alle and his wife had chosen All-American New Testament names. As he uttered them, the light in his eyes reflected the special nature of each. They were serious, sly, weak, strong, gentle and playful. He was strict with them--he explained the details. There were curfews, minimum acceptable report cards, duties to complete at home. Serious spankings were the consequence of nonperformance.

Howie was spellbound. The elevator came and went twice as Howie continued to ask Monsieur Alle to give examples of infractions, swearing, failing a test, forgetting to do the laundry. They talked so long the pizza came.

It smelled delectable and spicy, so delectable and spicy, Glenda couldn't blame the boys for opening the box right in front of Monsieur Alle, though that forced her, given her standards of politeness, to offer him some.

"Won't you stay for a slice, Monsieur Alle?" she said.

He looked hungrily at the delicious sizzling pie. He really should be getting home, he said. "Please stay," she said. His wife always kept his dinner warm, he said. His nose got a wrinkle in it when he said dinner, as if he'd smelled chlorine. Glenda understood--his wife, though fertile, was not a good cook. "It's our custom that you stay," she said, grabbing his briefcase out of his hand. They seated themselves at the huge somber table and ate the pie and while they ate, Howie asked Monsieur Alle to tell again about how he spanked his sons.

Table of Contents

PART ONE
Monsieur Alle3
The Good Luck Cake25
The Talking Woman35
Close59
PART TWO
The Drunk75
Release83
Belief101
Silent Retreat123
PART THREE
Me, Gus135
Normal165
Quinn's Wedding187
Thanksgiving with Dorrie & Heck207
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