first floor, with their steep rungs that he had difficulty climbing with his short legs.
The sound of his footsteps could be heard running over the floor boards above.
He climbed back down holding something black and came almost to the doorway to show me.
I bent over to look at it, without crossing the threshold, since he hadn’t invited me in.
In his open hand, the boy was showing me a long electric trimmer with a single head.
“This kind of razor hasn’t been in use for a long time! How did you get it?”
“I found it here,” he answered.
I looked at it closely, from a meter away or not much more, since he’d come right to the door and I too had moved forward a little to take a proper look at it.
“And how do you manage to use it? I asked.
“Like this!” he replied, beginning to move the trimmer, still switched off, over his small head, making the noise of the motor with his mouth.
Then he stopped and suddenly took a step back. I don’t know why, but I took a step back as well.
I stayed there for a while, saying nothing, while the child ran back upstairs to return the trimmer.
I looked around, waiting for him to return. There was a small colored ball under the broken bench by the door.
“He plays games then!” I thought. “Now and then, alone …”
The little boy returned but he didn’t come back to the door. He began rummaging with both hands inside a schoolbag. He pulled out two exercise books, two pens, a pencil, a pencil-sharpener and twoerasers. He put them all on the table and sat down in front of them.
He opened an exercise book.
“What are you doing?” I asked, from the other side of the door.
“I’m doing my homework!” he answered.
I looked at him in great astonishment.
“Why? You go to school?”
“Sure!” he replied, opening another exercise book.
He began moving his pencil the exercise book, taking no more notice of me.
I didn’t know what to say or do.
The child had begun sharpening his pencil, carefully studying the slit along the blade where the powdered graphite came out so as to stop just a moment before the point broke.
“Can I come in? I tried asking.
“Sorry,” he answered with his little voice, “but I’ve got my homework to do now.”
14
And so, every two or three days, when I go there, I sit on the small broken bench by the door so as not to remain standing up all the time, while the boy works away at his chores, washing his clothes, or the dishes or the floor, pushing a rag back and forth on the end of a worn-down brush.
“So you go to school then …” I say, to start a conversation.
“Yes, sure!” he replies, continuing to scrub the kitchen floor with the rag.
“But what school do you go to? Because sometimes I come in the morning and you’re here.”
“To night school.”
“There’s a night school around here?”
“Yes, down in the village.”
“And you go the whole way on foot, by yourself, in the woods?”
“Of course!”
“Do you want me to take you?”
“No thank you, I’m used to it.”
I say nothing. I watch him, leaning forward from the bench so that I can look inside the kitchen, while the little boy carries on pushinghis improvised scrubbing brush, his face red with exertion, stopping every now and then to answer my questions.
“And the light?” I ask again, after a while. “When do you switch the light on? Why do I always see it switched on at the same time, from my house?”
“I switch it on as soon as I get back from night school.”
I fall silent again. Even from where I am, I can hear the noise of his little breath under the effort.
“And what do you do about the animals,” it occurs to me to ask, after a while. “You’re in the middle of the woods … How do you keep the animals away?”
He stops for a moment or two, and comes up to the door to answer.
“I bang some lids!” he tells me, looking at me with his round eyes. “I take two lids from the cooking pans and bang them loud to
The sound of his footsteps could be heard running over the floor boards above.
He climbed back down holding something black and came almost to the doorway to show me.
I bent over to look at it, without crossing the threshold, since he hadn’t invited me in.
In his open hand, the boy was showing me a long electric trimmer with a single head.
“This kind of razor hasn’t been in use for a long time! How did you get it?”
“I found it here,” he answered.
I looked at it closely, from a meter away or not much more, since he’d come right to the door and I too had moved forward a little to take a proper look at it.
“And how do you manage to use it? I asked.
“Like this!” he replied, beginning to move the trimmer, still switched off, over his small head, making the noise of the motor with his mouth.
Then he stopped and suddenly took a step back. I don’t know why, but I took a step back as well.
I stayed there for a while, saying nothing, while the child ran back upstairs to return the trimmer.
I looked around, waiting for him to return. There was a small colored ball under the broken bench by the door.
“He plays games then!” I thought. “Now and then, alone …”
The little boy returned but he didn’t come back to the door. He began rummaging with both hands inside a schoolbag. He pulled out two exercise books, two pens, a pencil, a pencil-sharpener and twoerasers. He put them all on the table and sat down in front of them.
He opened an exercise book.
“What are you doing?” I asked, from the other side of the door.
“I’m doing my homework!” he answered.
I looked at him in great astonishment.
“Why? You go to school?”
“Sure!” he replied, opening another exercise book.
He began moving his pencil the exercise book, taking no more notice of me.
I didn’t know what to say or do.
The child had begun sharpening his pencil, carefully studying the slit along the blade where the powdered graphite came out so as to stop just a moment before the point broke.
“Can I come in? I tried asking.
“Sorry,” he answered with his little voice, “but I’ve got my homework to do now.”
14
And so, every two or three days, when I go there, I sit on the small broken bench by the door so as not to remain standing up all the time, while the boy works away at his chores, washing his clothes, or the dishes or the floor, pushing a rag back and forth on the end of a worn-down brush.
“So you go to school then …” I say, to start a conversation.
“Yes, sure!” he replies, continuing to scrub the kitchen floor with the rag.
“But what school do you go to? Because sometimes I come in the morning and you’re here.”
“To night school.”
“There’s a night school around here?”
“Yes, down in the village.”
“And you go the whole way on foot, by yourself, in the woods?”
“Of course!”
“Do you want me to take you?”
“No thank you, I’m used to it.”
I say nothing. I watch him, leaning forward from the bench so that I can look inside the kitchen, while the little boy carries on pushinghis improvised scrubbing brush, his face red with exertion, stopping every now and then to answer my questions.
“And the light?” I ask again, after a while. “When do you switch the light on? Why do I always see it switched on at the same time, from my house?”
“I switch it on as soon as I get back from night school.”
I fall silent again. Even from where I am, I can hear the noise of his little breath under the effort.
“And what do you do about the animals,” it occurs to me to ask, after a while. “You’re in the middle of the woods … How do you keep the animals away?”
He stops for a moment or two, and comes up to the door to answer.
“I bang some lids!” he tells me, looking at me with his round eyes. “I take two lids from the cooking pans and bang them loud to
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