In 1921, he flew from the Great Rift Valley. That was the foundation of his reputation. Whispered, announced, stated, introduced, it always provided a collective puckering of lips, a breathing of "oohs" and then sips of champagne as fingers were taken into hand, and warm, hearty pats on the back offered. What a way to enter a party, what a ticket into every party!
He never tired of these parties, the compliments on his swarthy, sun embraced flesh, and the women who plucked at his sleeves and asked what it was like up there, racing against clouds. A man could die a thousand times over and never receive such joy.
Alone, however, it was different. He often stared at the honey railing at the stairwell, remembered things like sliding down it as a child, and the sound of his brother's head impacting marble. It was this old injury to his brother's brain that burst when he took that flight from the rift.