His mother was kind ... Perhaps too kind, too ingenue as to marry a man akin to his father.

His father, he learns was a dodger and gambler, light with his hands.

Up until he met her.

His father, hated her guts the first time they met, so white, so vivid yet so sharp, the worst kind of charmers, he'd say.

His mother fit the description, as poor as they were, she was dignified and poised, a loyal beautiful woman indeed.

He never learnt much about her past life, of the circumscept circumstances of his parents' marriage, only loose fragments and figments here and there.

He learns during one of the 'friendly' spiels in a familiar tenant's ball that his mother is a world of information on arts and culture.

She takes over the reign of conversation and attention with quite a flick of her wrist, responding to the provocative diatribes and thinly veiled ridicules with insight knowledgablity about delicacies, books, music, watercoloured canvas and various world affairs.

She responds with determined sharp euphemisms about ignorance, adultery, golddigging and robbery before leaving the hords of phoney ostentatious women with simpering smiles reeling and sizzling with jealousy and desdain as she retires to the kitchen to take over catering and cleaning duties.

God, he hated those women. Smug as he felt when he recalled to his dad how she carried herself, He couldnot help but feel, she deserved better.

One day he simply asks her about who was she before she married his father, why despite so much potential did she settle for this poor excuse of a life.

She tells him she had always been who he sees everyday. And that circumstances whether of past or present, harsh or opulent don't change who we are at heart.

She tells him not to feel bitter or jealous and to be acceptant and grateful for whatever he has and that she is grateful to have him as her son (he wonders though when he is knicking off pieces of canvas, seducing women to his rooms, throwing a dice or filling his bones with booze and lies if she would be as grateful and proud).

She tells him to brave and to be honest, a far cry from whatever he is now.

And for a time, he takes her words for granted, he believes her, he believed her until he was too broke to treat her well as she perished, until he got drafted and the world threw whatever ugliness it was concealing within its core to his face.

And he came back with a vengeance ... against this world's unjustice, this world's hypocrisy.

His father told him during a bereaved drunken haze, shortly after his mother was gone that she was the only one who dared take a leap of faith with his pathetic self, she made a different call.

Truth was he never understood what initiative caused her to do so, what was she thinking? She wasn't some sort of emotional light headed fool, she was deft.

'Maybe she saw something good, something worth taking the first leap' as he leaves the gun and tosses the watch to his partner.

He sees fairness, gratitude and fierce loyality in Ilya. Good friend's material , worth the investment.