I go upstairs and lie down. This is my in-between time. I dream and I invent. One morning I wake up and it’s my birthday Mom stands by my bed singing while Boletta keeps time with her stick. Fred leans against the door frame where I stopped growing a long time ago. The first parcel I open is from Mom. It’s a tie. The other parcel’s Boletta’s. It’s a tie-pin. The third parcel is a joint present from Mom and Boletta. It’s heavy. It’s Knut Hamsun’s collected works. The flakes of ash from the stove have been washed and put together, side by side, and bound, volume by volume — eighteen spines raised from the flames. “Thank you,” I breathe. And then it’s Fred’s turn. He bends down and pulls out something he’s kept hidden under his bed. I’ve never had a present from Fred before. Mom opens her mouth in astonishment. Boletta straightens her hunched back. Fred places a great angular parcel on the quilt. “Many happy returns,” he says. I almost don’t dare open it. I’d rather wait. I’d like to hold on to this moment while I’m still in ignorance of what’s inside; it could be anything whatsoever or exactly what I want it to be. Fred has bought me a present. To Branum from Fred. I make as if I haven’t seen that. I don’t see it. Branum is my name. The line on the floor is gone. I feel the parcel. Its hard. There’s a jarring noise when I shake it. Mom starts growing impatient. Fred gives a laugh. “It’s not grenades,” he says. And I tear off the wrapping paper. It’s a typewriter. I have to close my eyes and open them again. It’s still a typewriter — a Diplomat — with a carrying case and three different line settings. Boletta thumps her stick against the wall. Mom’s face is dark and worried, but the delight inside her is greater, and she claps her hands because this moment mustn’t be spoiled. “Now the only thing you need is something to write on,” she murmurs, almost moved. Fred points to the table. There’s already a stack of white paper there. “Now the only thing he needs is something to write,” he says. I get up. I take his hand. “Next time you’ll get the finest thing I have,” I tell him. Fred looks at me in surprise. “What?” he says. But that I don’t yet know. “Many thanks,” I say, that’s all. Fred’s smiling now. “Good, Barnum.” And he drops my hand and disappears.
I put my tie and the pin in my drawer, and Hamsun’s collected works on the bookshelf between the Medical Dictionary for Norwegian Homes and The World in Pictures. I begin writing that same evening. I type out “The Little City” on the machine. I copy it out from my notebook. I begin. It isn’t easy. I have to start again several times. Now it’s no longer the sound of Mrs. Arnesen’s piano that’s to be heard across the yard, but rather that of my typewriter. There’s something wrong with two of the letters. The k is all but invisible and the e is fairly worn too. It makes no difference. Perhaps Fred got it cheap. But it looks a bit strange when, for instance, I type the word kindness. What ends up there is indness. That isn’t a word. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t write the word all that often anyway. And afterward I correct all the mistakes with my pen. By the time I’m finished it’s one and a half pages altogether. Two pages really. This is mine. This is no one else’s. This is something only I could have done. I’ve never thought of it like that before. What I’ve written on those two pages isn’t to be found anywhere else in the world, the entire universe — just here. And it’s from my head, my very own head; my hand wrote it and now it’s there — “The Little City” by Barnum Nilsen — forty-eight lines the world has never seen before. I have to lie down for a bit. I’m intoxicated. I’m all trembling there where I lie. Then Peder comes in. And Peder isn’t exactly the type to knock and wait for an answer. He just storms in, and Mom’s standing there with a cake and the requisite number of candles in the icing on top. “Happy Birthday!” Peder exclaims. Then he stops a moment and goes straight over to the gleaming typewriter and gives it a long look. “Got that from my brother,” I tell him with pride. “God damn,” Peder murmurs. At once he whirls around to face Mom. “Please excuse my language. I only wanted to express my enthusiasm for the best present I’ve ever seen.” Mom smiles. “Would you like a little cake?” “A little? Peder Miil has never said no to a lot of cake.” And this is my birthday. I blow out the candles. I manage it on the third attempt. Mom leaves us in peace. We have some cake, but I’m not especially hungry and Peder beats me by five slices. “Have you tried it?” he asks. And I show him the pages I’ve produced. Peder studies them carefully himself, smiles and nods. Then he finally remembers he’s brought a present with him too. He pulls a square parcel from his pocket. I open it. It’s a square, red metal box. “What is it?” I ask him. Peder points. “Press the button, idiot.” It starts laughing. To begin with it’s just a low chuckling. It chuckles. Then it grows stronger. The chuckling becomes a spluttering, and the spluttering becomes laughter. And Peder and I laugh too; it’s infectious — the mechanical laughter is infectious. We have to hold on to each other and we laugh like that, we laugh at the laughter, and it lasts two minutes before the box falls silent once more. And we breathe out, dry our tears, and can hardly manage to talk properly. “Closest I could get,” Peder breathes. “Closest you could get to what?” Peder has to massage his stomach. “After we didn’t find any applause in your suitcase.” My head grows dark for a time. “Couldn’t Vivian come?” I ask, and look the other way. Peder puts the machine on again. It laughs. And when there’s no more laughter left in it, Mom’s standing in the doorway with her hands over her ears. “Help us all. What are you laughing at?” Peder gets up. “Barnum laughed at me, and I laughed at him.” Mom just shakes her head, laughs herself, and takes out the empty cake plate and the candles. Peder stays on his feet. “Now I know,” he says. “You’ll write my essays for me, and I’ll do your math.” “Couldn’t Vivian come?” I ask him again. “She had to look after her mother,” Peder murmurs. “Christ.” “Yes, Christ,” I agree. And when I’m on the point of putting the typewriter in its carrying case, I find something else, another present, that Fred must have put there for me. It’s a dozen Durex — gossamer. Peder looks at me, long and hard. “Can I borrow one?” he asks. “What for?” Peder groans. “You don’t need the whole dozen!” So he gets one, and the remainder are secreted in Oscar Mathisen’s left shoe, as far back as possible in the closet. And I fold up “The Little City” and put it in my right shoe. But I try one of the condoms that same night; it stings and I think certain thoughts, and afterward I don’t know where to hide it. I chuck it out of the window. The lights come on in the caretaker’s by the gate. Now the building has something else to talk about, but my mouth is shut. I write Peder’s essays, and he does my math. We both get As. I read Hunger. Fred comes home. He undresses. I see his long, thin body in the dark by the bed. He has his back to me. If I were to run my hand over his shoulder, past his neck and along his cheek that’s blue and almost swollen — what would he say? I don’t know. I can’t sleep. That which we do is only a shadow of all we could have done. “Why didn’t you ever say that Vivian was born in a car too?” he suddenly asked.
One day, when I come home from school, there’s another letter waiting for me. Mom is so impatient she can barely wait, and I’m certain she’s held it up to the light to try to read it. But that hasn’t worked, because the envelope is fat and impossible to see through. Boletta’s pretty excited herself. She’s probably tried to slip it open with Malaga steam. “But aren’t you going to open it?” Mom exclaims. I turn away and slowly tear it open. Boletta thumps her stick on the floor. Mom leans over my shoulder. “What does it say, Bar-num?” “I’ve won,” I tell her, amazed and bewildered. Mom puts her arms around me. “I knew it!” And so it comes to light that she has submitted “The Little City” to the School of Oslo’s major creative writing contest, and I don’t know whether to be happy or angry, proud or put out — because Mom has, in other words, unearthed my typescript in Oscar Mathisen’s right shoe, and gone behind my back. And that means she must have found the condoms in my left shoe too. Mom tears the letter out of my hands and reads it aloud. “Dear Barnum Nilsen, It is a joy to inform you that you have won th
e School of Oslo’s creative writing contest for your age group with your story ‘The Little City.’ The prize will he awarded in the City Chambers on Friday the 12th and we would be delighted if you would be present to receive this.” Mom gives me a kiss on the brow and is suddenly all flustered. “Good Lord, Barnum, it’s only four days away!” Boletta’s already poured two glasses of Malaga. I have to go into my room to get my breath back. Soon I’ll be famous. I don’t quite know why but I start crying; I sit in at the windowsill and cry for joy and I’m glad Fred can’t see me now. But when I turn around he’s standing in the doorway after all. I hide my face. Fred throws himself down on the bed. “Not long now,” he says. “Till what, Fred?” He just looks at me and gives me that crooked smile; his lips slide over his teeth. “You remember what you promised, Barnum, huh?” “Of course.” “That you won’t say anything?” “I won’t say a thing, Fred.” “Brothers don’t squeal on each other, do they?” “Of course not.” Suddenly he gets up. “I’m forgetting to congratulate you! Well done, Barnum! I’m proud of you!” I look down. “Had it not been for the typewriter,” I murmur. “Don’t put yourself down, Barnum.”
That evening I go to Vivian’s. The stairs are chilly. I ring the bell. The seconds pass. I hear steps inside. I peer through the keyhole. Her mother’s called the Veil. In the wake of the accident, she’s always worn a veil to cover her face. She is the eternal widow. She lost her beauty in the bend above Holmenkollen. She is hideous and forsaken. There are those who scare their children with her name. If you arent good, the Veil will come and get you, they say. If you don’t eat your food. If you don’t do your homework and wash your hands. And it is not this which scares us the most — that which we don’t see, but rather what we imagine and believe to be there — under the bed, around the corner, in the dark, behind the veil. The misgivings we allow grow arms and legs. There’s no limit to people’s fantasies about what she must look like. They invent something they themselves have never seen — a face without features, a face that’s one open hole, inhuman and unrecognizable. But once we’ve beheld that face, seen it with our own eyes — there’s nothing to be afraid of any more. It’s Vivian who opens the door. “Guess what!” I exclaim. She has a think while she looks at me with a sidelong, uncommitted expression. “You’ve grown three inches,” she says. I shake my head. “Does it really look like it?” “Has Peder lost six pounds?” she suggests. I shake my head again. “I’ve become a writer!” I shout. Finally she lets me in, and we sit in her bedroom, under the photograph on the wall. And it wasn’t until many years later that Vivian told me it wasn’t Lauren Bacall’s picture that was hanging there, but her mother’s — as she was when she was young, before the accident, unblemished and beautiful. I tell her what’s transpired. I can hardly manage to get the words out right. That Mom silently and secretly smuggled in my manuscript to the School of Oslo’s creative writing contest, that I’ve won the prize for my age group, and that this is on a par with the Nobel Prize for Literature. I’ll receive my award in the City Chambers — maybe a world cruise for two, a painting by Munch or free travel on the trams for a year, presented by the council chairman. And if Vivian wants to be there, then it’s bound to be possible to reserve seats. I bury my face in her lap. “Have you spoken to Fred?” I ask her. Vivian strokes my neck with her hand. “Why do you ask me that?” I make no reply. I stay where I am with my head in her lap, and she keeps stroking my neck. I open the top button of her pants, and then a second; I can see the edge of her panties and there’s a strong, almost dizzying smell. She twists a little and her hand doesn’t move at all; I hold my breath and lick her skin and get one more button undone. Then she gets up abruptly, and I tumble onto the floor and can’t bring myself to look at her and haven’t the faintest idea how I’ll get up again — maybe I’ll have to stay where I am for the rest of my days. “Will you say hello to Mom?” Vivian asks me. She takes my arm and hoists me up. “Forgive me,” I whisper. Vivian closes her eyes and kisses my mouth. Her lips are soft, and they move — it’s as though she laughs in the middle of her kiss. And I follow her out through the apartment, the one room darker than the next — I don’t want to but I go with her all the same; I have no choice. Finally we reach her mother’s bedroom, and Vivian knocks and opens the door — she lets me go in first, I don’t see her mother immediately. Then I find I can discern her. She’s sitting in a chair in the shadows by the window, a window hidden by long, thick curtains. I stop. Still she hasn’t moved a muscle. The air’s heavy. Vivian’s standing beside me. I hear the door slide shut behind us. And I get a strong sense that all this means more than I can fathom, that Vivian wants to test me, to see if I can cope with this. I decide I will cope with it. “Here is Barnum,” Vivian says. I take a step forward and bow. Her mother slowly moves toward me. “Well, well. So you’re Barnum?” Her voice is childish and light; it’s as if it’s a little girl who’s sitting talking there. “Yes,” I murmur. “That’s me.” Vivians mother suddenly raises her veil, but I can’t see her face — it’s as if it isn’t there at all and I feel glad, I’m glad and yet would like to have seen it nonetheless, seen what isn’t there. “Barnum’s won first prize in the School of Oslo’s creative writing contest,” Vivian tells her. She leans forward in her chair. “Congratulations, Barnum,” she says. I give an even deeper bow. That way I can avoid looking at her. “Thank you very much,” I whisper. She lays her hand on my arm. I’m trembling. She senses it, for she holds me even tighter. “You’re obviously a clever boy, Barnum.” I hear her delicate, twinkling voice — it’s as if it’s the only undamaged thing about her, the only thing that hasn’t been changed since the accident. All that remains of the beautiful young girl in the Chevrolet is her voice, and it speaks still in that ruined body. She doesn’t let me go. I remain where I am. “You’ve got fine curls,” she says. She can see me, but I can’t see her. All I can see is the veil that falls back down over the remains of her face. She retracts her arm; the visit is over and I have been initiated. And I wonder just how many have been here before me — if I’m the first, if I’ve passed the test — and Vivian pulls me out. Now her father’s come home too; he’s sitting asleep in the living room, but I suppose he’s just pretending — this man who’ll one day be my father-in-law — for one eye remains all but open and secretly watching me, and it looks as though the eye doesn’t like what it sees. Even I get the message that it’s time to leave. “That was what I wanted to ask you,” I murmur. Vivian furrows her brow. “What?” “My curls. I wouldn’t mind losing them for the prize-giving.” Vivian gives my hair a pull and lets it go again. “Either you can get the whole thing cut,” she says. “Or else?” I ask, my voice quieter still. Vivian smiles a long while. And I get to borrow her hairnet and hairpins, and have them for three nights. When I get up on the fourth day my head feels flat and different, as though someone’s taken a plane to it. I tear off the net, take out the hairpins, and dash to the bathroom. I see someone else in the mirror. To begin with, I’m in seventh heaven. This is the day I’ll receive my prize at the City Chambers and I’ve become someone else. I no longer look like myself. I’ll probably have to pay an adult fare on the tram and no old ladies’ll put their hands on my head any more. My hair’s all smooth and flat against my skull; not so much as one solitary strand is standing upright. But soon enough I’m not as pleased as I was. Something isn’t right. It takes a while before I know what it is, what’s wrong; I think I’m going to faint, and then Mom’s at my back, looking at me with worry. “You’re not ill, Barnum?” “No, no,” I murmur, and scrabble around for the toothbrush. Mom pulls me around. “Yes,” she says. “There is something.” “I’ve just got butterflies, Mom.” She takes a step back again. “Have you shrunk, Barnum?” “Yes,” I sob. Now Boletta’s there in the bathroom too. “He’s lost his beautiful curls,” she sighs. And Mom all but shrieks. “He’s lost his curls!” I look at least three inches shorter and resemble a tortoise. “I want my curls back!” I cry. And for the remainder of the mo
rning Mom rolls them up again, one after another — it’s a laborious task, but as soon as she lets go of them my locks unravel as though my hair’s rubber tapped from brain bark, and vulcanized at about 340 degrees, and she has to begin all over again. When I do finally stand in the great hall of the City Chambers in my blazer, and with my blue tie and tie-pin in place, and wearing my narrow shoes that contain neither manuscripts nor condoms, just my fat and clammy feet, my hair’s back to normal. And in the celebrated picture that was taken of me (by the photographer from the afternoon edition of Aftenposten), of that moment when I’m presented with my shiny certificate bearing the city’s emblem and a check for fifty kroner by the council chairman, I resemble a rather worn miniversion of Einstein. And underneath this picture, which Mom had framed and which she hung above the stove in the living room, was the caption Barnum Nilsen, the little genius. And after the chairman’s sweated his way through the line of nervous prizewinners, and the mothers have done their weeping, and Peder and Vivian have gotten to their feet and shouted my name and done some stamping — none other than Ditlev himself makes his way over, notebook in hand, and we go out into the courtyard to find some quiet. “Well, well,” Ditlev says. “You haven’t brought your brother with you? Or is he still out for the count?” But before I can say anything, Peder’s materialized and is shaking hands with Ditlev. “Peder Miil,” says Peder. “Barnum Nilsen will only speak to the press when I’m present.” Ditlev sighs heavily and lights a cigarette. “Well, well,” he says again. “What was the point behind this strange story of yours then?” I give the question some thought. Vivians standing waving with Mom and Boletta over by the ornamental porch. I wave back. Water is running everywhere — dripping and pouring — the last snows in the process of melting and the sun’s shining in pools where the light’s reflected; so the whole city looks as if glass has been scattered over it. Easter’s over. “That everyone’s sufficiently big,” Peder says. Ditlev gets irritated and turns to Peder. “Is it Barnum Nilsen or you who won today?” Peder points to me. “That everyone’s sufficiently big. If they just acknowledge it.” Ditlev scribbles on his pad and flicks over to a fresh sheet of paper. “Have you any literary models, Barnum?” “One would have to be Hamsun,” I reply. “So what in particular do you admire about Hamsun?” I consider this for a while. “He was a troublemaker who wrote well,” I reply. Ditlev goes on writing furiously. “Good, Barnum. This’ll be great. Hamsun’s a troublemaker.” Peder rolls his eyes. “Barnum’s also been inspired by his great-grandfather,” he says. Ditlev raises his pen to his mouth. “Your great-grandfather? Was he a writer too?” “He wrote letters,” I tell him. “But unfortunately I can’t say any more than that.” “No? Why’s that, Barnum?” “Because he wrote that we shouldn’t talk to gossip columnists.” Peder intervenes at once. “I’d also like to mention that Barnum Nilsen’s had a small part in the forthcoming film Hunger.” Ditlev sticks his pen in his breast pocket and bangs his notebook shut. “The gossip columnist is most grateful for the information.” It’s obvious that the interview’s over. And then we go off to the Grand — that’s Mom’s decision — because it’s where Ibsen went in his time, and we sit at the same table as before, on that day when Dad had died and been buried — Mom and Boletta, Peder and Vivian and me. We have shrimp sandwiches with thick mayonnaise on a bed of lettuce leaves, while outside, people pass revealing brown faces above light-blue shirts and white blouses. We’re waiting for Fred. “He said he’d be coming to the City Chambers,” Mom says, and her voice betrays a momentary shadow. I look away. “It doesn’t matter.” I try to appear disappointed — heroic and disappointed — a brother with an award. I’m actually relieved. Mom places the whole of her hand on my own, and I try to push it away. “He’ll come all right, just you see.” Boletta raises her beer glass (even though she’s given up drinking because her system won’t tolerate it, but today’s an exception, today’s a day without rival or rules), and she drinks to my health. The ice rattles in Vivian’s cola. All at once Peder and I have to exit to the bathroom. We race down to the gents and find a stall, but neither of us needs a pee. Peder has something in both the pockets of the tweed jacket he can only just manage to button up at the middle. Two rum miniatures. We unscrew the tops of our respective bottles. We drink. We cough. Our heads burn. “I’m proud of you, Barnum!” “Oh, don’t,” I say Peder puts his arms around me. “I mean it! I’m damn proud of you, Barnum!” He has one miniature left and we share it between the two of us, and it’s in there, in a stall in the Grand’s gents, that I lay the foundation for my prodigious use of miniatures — the playthings of the minibar. They’re somehow in line with my smallness, and it’s possible to secrete them in the tiniest pockets and folds and gloves — yes, I’ve even hidden them in shoes. “I’ve seen her,” I whisper to Peder. “Seen who?” “Vivian’s mother.” “Did you see her?” “Not really it was pretty dark in the bedroom. But I heard her at any rate.” Peder shakes his head. “What did I tell you? Vivian’s in love with you.” “You think so?” “Think? I know, Barnum. It’s a simple case of mathematics.” Then we emerged and washed our mouths out with soap, and the venerable gentlemen, who probably lived here in the toilets in between engagements, turned up their noses at us — their porous, burgundy noses that spread over their blotchy faces and looked as if they were completely falling apart. By the time we got back to our window table once more, Fred still hadn’t shown up. I had to look extra specially at Vivian, and she smiled back in her own way — a smile without anything behind it. Because everything about Vivian was so tranquil — at least on the outside. And twice or more Mom gave Peder and myself particularly hard stares; then we got coffee and meringues and went home through the mild evening — but when we got there, Fred wasn’t there either. Mom became even more agitated. The special atmosphere had disappeared. Boletta got a headache and lamented her own distress. “You shouldn’t have had beer!” Mom told her. “Oh, cut it out!” Boletta shouted. “Have you forgotten I worked at the Exchange? I get a sore head just seeing a telephone wire between two posts!” Mom refused to carry on a debate with her, sat down in the living room instead, and started waiting. Mom started to wait, and Fred’s absence from us began. The following day I had to read “The Little City” aloud in the school hall to all the pupils, and I don’t think there were many who understood a thing about it, because at recess no one said anything to me — quite the opposite, they kept their distance and left me on my own by the fountain. So my isolation in the playground grew yet more obvious, sharp and short as a shadow. I didn’t give a damn. It felt so good not to give a damn. I had Peder. I had Vivian. I had the typewriter! That was sufficient. That was all I needed. And that was the day the interview with me appeared in the afternoon edition of Aftenposten, that and the wild picture of me that Mom ordered a copy of from the paper and got framed, and which hangs above the stove to this very day. The little genius. Prizewinner Barnum Nilsen speaks out. But Fred still hadn’t shown up. And when this dragged on over a week — the first time he’d disappeared for such a stretch at one time — Mom came into my room while I was sitting composing the opening lines of what would become my story, “Fattening.” She came in without knocking and proceeded to go through his drawers, look in the wardrobe and peer under the bed. All she found was that nothing was missing — everything lay where it should lie, nor had he taken anything with him. Then she sat down beside me. I took the sheet of paper out of the machine and put it in my drawer. “Barnum,” she said. “We don’t need to keep secrets from each other, do we?” I didn’t answer that. I figured it was a trap, and that keeping quiet would be my strongest card. Mom’s face was pale and sleepless. “You can’t keep secrets,” she said, when she realized an answer was there in hiding. “Do you really think I didn’t find the condoms?” That was certainly something I couldn’t respond to, and for a time the two of us were silent. Then Mom gave a laugh. “Barnum, Barnum,” she said. It was Fred who’d gotten them. My mouth was under lock and key I realiz
ed I’d do pretty well under interrogation. Mom sighed and ran her hand through my curls, which had sprouted once more, higher than ever. “Has Fred said anything to you?” she murmured. “About where he is?” And I remembered what I’d promised him, and that brothers didn’t squeal on each other. “I don’t know,” I told her, my voice as quiet as possible, as though our conversation was being bugged. “Look me in the eyes, Barnum! You’re not lying to your own mother?” I looked her in the eyes. It was not a pretty sight. It was as if her eyes were hanging by two thin threads above shadows of skin. I couldn’t tell her there was a chance Fred had gone to search for the Greenland letter. “Perhaps he’s at Willy’s,” I said instead. Mom’s eyes narrowed. “Willy? That idiot of a trainer?” I nodded. “He’s been there before.” Mom found him in the telephone book and went over there in a taxi, to the other side of town, that same evening. She didn’t want to phone and give Fred the chance to slip away once more — if indeed he was there at all. Boletta and I sat at home in the living room waiting. Her headache had passed, but it was as if she were absent, and was disappearing gram by gram. Perhaps that was what it was like to die, that you dried up like a juicy piece of fruit that’s been in the sun too long. I wondered if I might use some of this for my fattening story. Boletta looked around at me and smiled. “You look thoughtful,” she said. “Or are you just sad?” “What do you thinks happened?” I asked her. “I’m too old to believe anything at all, Barnum. So I believe nothing before I know for sure.” Boletta was drinking tea, and she slowly stirred the spoon around her cup. “But then you don’t think,” I said. “You know.” Boletta sighed. “I only know that Fred is restless. He wanders.” I moved closer. I liked the aroma of the sweet tea. I liked having Boletta all to myself. “Wanders? Around in the streets? But then I’d have seen him.” “Oh, no. He wanders a lot farther afield now. Much farther. And there’s no one who can stop him.” “Can’t we?” Boletta shook her head. “Fred’s a night man, Barnum.” She drank up the last of her tea, and there was a clump of brown sugar left at the bottom of the cup that she ate with her spoon. “And I’m not?” I asked, my voice quiet. “No, Barnum. You’re no night man.” I went into the bedroom. I was no night man. I was the one who stayed. I’d travel in different ways. I had a laughter machine, a typewriter, and a measuring tape with two different sides. I managed. And I remember something, something I was told by someone, and I mention it now and pass it on. And it isn’t a story but rather a picture, a picture that floats up from a story rather like a photograph from developing fluid. A mother in Siberia stands beside a golden beach looking out over the sea day after day eating sunflower seeds she has in her hand. A stranger asks her what it is she’s looking for. “My son,” she replies. “He hasn’t come back yet.” “Has he been away long?” the stranger asks in ignorance. “Eighteen years,” the mother replies, and chews her sunflower seeds as she stares out over the sea.
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