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It is thought that a writer only uses the machine. It's hard to find ink in a writer's house."

"Yes, I remember your ending: 'The ink has been discovered. Big cheers from all the intrepid explorers...'"

"...'Ink, they shouted. He has the ink.'"continued Papa.

"'Glory to Allah. Long live ink.'" I continued in my turn remembering. 

"You have a good memory, Daughter," Papa smiled. 

"Not always. Sometimes."

"One of the things I miss most when we are not together and joking is the sound of your voice. There is no other voice like yours in the world and, my lord, we might as well face reality." 

"Luckily. After listening to it on a tape recorder I didn't dare to open my mouth, it was so unpleasant. But really unpleasant."

"It happens. Nobody recognizes himself on the tape recorder. I'm glad you started talking again. I'd be bloody sad if I couldn't hear the sound of your voice anymore." 

"My silence didn't last long. The next day, I forgot the tape recorder, I probably talked for two."

We had stopped to look at a shop that exhibited Murano glass. "See anything you'd like?" asked Papa. "That crystal necklace? Or the mirror with the white and pink frame?" 

"No thanks," I said, walking away from the window. "I don't want anything."

"Always 'no thanks'" said Papa and shook his head. 

"You just gave me the Royal," I observed. 

"The Royal is not a gift. Just a change of ownership." 

We resumed walking. Too bad I couldn't stop...