Butterflies in November

FORTY-EIGHT

The boy doesn’t want to play with other children or the ball I bought him. He prefers to stick close to me, and sit outside on the deck under the porch, watching me read or looking up the myths of ancient Greek gods. He also likes to lie on the floor by the fireplace, writing words and drawing pictures. One of them is of a little child holding the hands of two women, one of whom has a swollen tummy. After that he draws thirty pictures of Hercules in a row.

“So, you see, his macho-ness may not be buried as deep as you think,” I say to the music teacher and mother of this deaf child.

“Are you afraid of the other children? Are you afraid of what’s outside? I don’t ask him these questions; they’re not the sort of questions one asks a child.”

Sometimes the child sits totally still for long periods, as if he were somewhere far away. Or he rocks to and fro like an old man. But in between, he’s like just any other kid, always agitated, like the sea. He reminds me of one of those deadpan actors from the days of silent movies or a professional mime artist from the south, whose facial expressions can switch hundreds of times in the space of a few moments. His hands create images that I can understand, although not all of them yet.

Someone knocks at the door at ten-forty one morning, a potential friend for him of about his age, holding a DVD for over-twelves in his hands. It’s his father who has brought him here. Tumi’s eyes light up with hope as he stands beside me, eager with anticipation.

“I saw you at the co-op and it occurred to me that they might get on,” he says, pushing his boy in and trying to close the door, which is suddenly blocked by his son, who sticks his foot through the gap.

“Don’t you have a DVD player? Or even a TV?”

The man quickly sizes up our home, which we’ve decorated with the model of the church, the portrait of the sheep, the foggy window words Tumi has copied onto paper, and thirty drawings of Hercules on the wall. Then the man walks one circle around the living room, knocking on the walls, as his son follows right behind him.

“Well then,” says the father, “this obviously won’t work out then.”

He tugs on the sleeve of his son, who seems to be quite interested in the flames in the fireplace, and drags him back towards the entrance where he shilly-shallies at the door.

“I remember your grandmother very well,” he says finally. “I used to stay in the blue house sometimes when I was a kid. I used to play a bit of guitar back then and compose. I still write a bit of lyrics.” Then he suddenly shuts up, as if he’d suddenly remembered something more important:

“Are you here to protest against the dam and stuff?”

I hear him say goodbye as he quietly closes the door behind him. I can’t quite make out whether that’s a look of regret I see on Tumi’s face, as we melt a whole bar of chocolate into two cups of cocoa and spread butter and jam on some bread.