set out on the table, a beer for my dad, a soda for me.
At night the wind makes the house squeak and groan, wood rubbing against wood like a ship sailing on a stormy sea.
When I wake up the next morning, Iâm alone in the room again. I search the suitcases but grow increasingly convinced that my dad packed just a single comic when he cleared out the apartment. I know the words by heart; all I have to do is close my eyes to see the pictures, one by one. I sit on the bed and I cry. I think my dad is doing this on purpose, leaving me here in the room. Iâm meant to learn something.
Before Iâve time to think about it, Iâm standing with my hand on the door handle. I let go and race back to my bed. I pull up my feet as if the ground is toxic. I sit there for a while, wiping my eyes on my sleeve. My dad wonât be coming to fetch me for a long time. Yesterday morning, I listened out for all the noises of the house, doors opening and closing. Iâm almost certain that the old lady doesnât leave the drawing room until she goes to make lunch for us. I should have at least a couple of hours to make it down the stairs and out into the garden.
I open the door; I hold my shoes in my hand. I walk down the passage as quietly as I can. Iâve reached the top of the stairs when I stop. One of the doors is ajar. I notice something inside. It looks like hair, but Iâm not sure. I know itâll bug me for the rest of the day if I donât find out what it is. I go back and push open the door. The room Iâm looking into is filled with antlers. Not just one or three: itâs crammed with them, all four walls from floor to ceiling. No furniture, only antlers from deer, and gazelles, and every imaginable horned animal. I bolt down the stairs and out the front door.
Iâm sitting on the grass drawing when my dad appears between the trees. He smiles; I think heâs proud to find me here.
âThis is a strange house,â I say to him while we eat liver pâté sandwiches with meat jelly.
âPeople are much stranger than theyâre prepared to admit.â He takes a bite of a large pickle. âSo why shouldnât their houses be?â
The next day I stand at the top of the stairs again. I know that I should just walk down them. Not just walk, but hurry as much as I can without running. Down the stairs, out the door. And yet I stay where I am. I managed it yesterday, I still have all my arms and legs.
I pick the door opposite the room with the antlers. This door isnât ajar, but neither is it locked. A little boy looks out at me from the dimly lit room. When I raise my hand to my mouth, the boy copies my movement. I enter. The room is full of mirrors. From floor to ceiling, in wood or gold frames. I stand in the middle. I see an ear, a nose, a shin, some hair, the shoes in my hand. A little boy who looks like me, cut into small pieces and stuck on the walls. There are more mirrors in the ceiling; the boy looks down at me, very small and a little bit scared. When I leave the room Iâm dizzy.
As I walk down the stairs, I promise myself to stop being so nosy. I donât want to take any more chances.
Itâs early in the morning; Iâm lying under the blanket, keeping my eyes closed. I hear my dad get dressed. He walks along the passage and down the stairs. The front door opens and closes. I leap out of bed. Iâve become a thief who doesnât steal. I explore the house in sock feet, a new room every day. I find one full of stuffed animals: dogs and cats, beavers and squirrels. Animals with bared teeth, all of them facing whoever enters the room. They stare at me until I leave. In another room thereâs only a single stuffed bison with its head facing the wall as if itâs ashamed. Itâs much bigger than the doors and windows; the house must have been built around it.
I keep away from the old ladyâs drawing room, but I investigate the rest of
At night the wind makes the house squeak and groan, wood rubbing against wood like a ship sailing on a stormy sea.
When I wake up the next morning, Iâm alone in the room again. I search the suitcases but grow increasingly convinced that my dad packed just a single comic when he cleared out the apartment. I know the words by heart; all I have to do is close my eyes to see the pictures, one by one. I sit on the bed and I cry. I think my dad is doing this on purpose, leaving me here in the room. Iâm meant to learn something.
Before Iâve time to think about it, Iâm standing with my hand on the door handle. I let go and race back to my bed. I pull up my feet as if the ground is toxic. I sit there for a while, wiping my eyes on my sleeve. My dad wonât be coming to fetch me for a long time. Yesterday morning, I listened out for all the noises of the house, doors opening and closing. Iâm almost certain that the old lady doesnât leave the drawing room until she goes to make lunch for us. I should have at least a couple of hours to make it down the stairs and out into the garden.
I open the door; I hold my shoes in my hand. I walk down the passage as quietly as I can. Iâve reached the top of the stairs when I stop. One of the doors is ajar. I notice something inside. It looks like hair, but Iâm not sure. I know itâll bug me for the rest of the day if I donât find out what it is. I go back and push open the door. The room Iâm looking into is filled with antlers. Not just one or three: itâs crammed with them, all four walls from floor to ceiling. No furniture, only antlers from deer, and gazelles, and every imaginable horned animal. I bolt down the stairs and out the front door.
Iâm sitting on the grass drawing when my dad appears between the trees. He smiles; I think heâs proud to find me here.
âThis is a strange house,â I say to him while we eat liver pâté sandwiches with meat jelly.
âPeople are much stranger than theyâre prepared to admit.â He takes a bite of a large pickle. âSo why shouldnât their houses be?â
The next day I stand at the top of the stairs again. I know that I should just walk down them. Not just walk, but hurry as much as I can without running. Down the stairs, out the door. And yet I stay where I am. I managed it yesterday, I still have all my arms and legs.
I pick the door opposite the room with the antlers. This door isnât ajar, but neither is it locked. A little boy looks out at me from the dimly lit room. When I raise my hand to my mouth, the boy copies my movement. I enter. The room is full of mirrors. From floor to ceiling, in wood or gold frames. I stand in the middle. I see an ear, a nose, a shin, some hair, the shoes in my hand. A little boy who looks like me, cut into small pieces and stuck on the walls. There are more mirrors in the ceiling; the boy looks down at me, very small and a little bit scared. When I leave the room Iâm dizzy.
As I walk down the stairs, I promise myself to stop being so nosy. I donât want to take any more chances.
Itâs early in the morning; Iâm lying under the blanket, keeping my eyes closed. I hear my dad get dressed. He walks along the passage and down the stairs. The front door opens and closes. I leap out of bed. Iâve become a thief who doesnât steal. I explore the house in sock feet, a new room every day. I find one full of stuffed animals: dogs and cats, beavers and squirrels. Animals with bared teeth, all of them facing whoever enters the room. They stare at me until I leave. In another room thereâs only a single stuffed bison with its head facing the wall as if itâs ashamed. Itâs much bigger than the doors and windows; the house must have been built around it.
I keep away from the old ladyâs drawing room, but I investigate the rest of
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