LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter 6: Just a Boy

      Age 10

       I’m trying really hard to concentrate on the face in the wallpaper. When I stare at it long enough I see the face of a grumpy old man. He is staring at me, frowning. The pattern is really girly but it’s always the old man I see. Sometimes I pretend the old man is God and I pray to him. I say pray, but really I just give him a list of questions and wait for his expression to change. Naturally his expression never changes and my questions remain unanswered, loitering in my head.

       This is my sister’s room but she’s not here any more. My mum keeps it the same in case she comes back, but she’s not coming back. You don’t come back from there. I don’t know if I believe in heaven, really, or hell for that matter. I like to pretend heaven is real though, and that she is there, stuffing her face with ice creams and chocolates. Pistachio ice cream was her favourite, sometimes Baba would buy a whole big tub of it, just for her.

       Since my sister died, my mum cries a lot. Understandable, I suppose, but when I walk into the room she dries her eyes and smiles at me, as if her smile could disguise the despair. I may be young but I’m not stupid. She doesn’t talk about my sister and we aren’t meant to either, but I do. I come here and talk to God about her.

       My mum’s cooking lamb for dinner; she must have upset Dad in some way because lamb is usually reserved for Sundays. Today is Tuesday. In four days I’m going to be eleven years old, so maybe this is an early birthday dinner. My stomach is rumbling. I can feel the hollow pit; I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday. I should go back to my room before I get caught in here. I’m not supposed to be here, if my father catches me I will likely have to do without dinner. On an ordinary day I might risk it, because I like being in this room more than the food my mum usually prepares. The smell of that lamb though – it’s made my mouth water.

       Back in my own room, I feel more alone and the smell of the food isn’t nearly as strong as it was in my sister’s room, which is just a few steps down from the kitchen. I can’t feel my sister in here. I pick up the book that sits by my bed. It’s my father’s favourite book so I’ve been instructed to read it. Apparently it will prepare me for when I am older. It’s important to him that I am not weak. Every day he gives me a passage to learn and I must recite it for him before dinner, before I’m allowed to eat. Yesterday I wasn’t in the mood but the smell of the lamb has made me not want to take another stand. My father likes it when I stand up to him, to a point. I see his lips curl upwards when he thinks I am not looking, so sometimes even if I’m starving I make the sacrifice in order to make him like me. I like it when he likes me.

       At dinner, I recite the passage he has asked me to remember. He seems disappointed that I couldn’t hold out even longer, he’s disappointed that I learned the words. It seems that no matter what I do I am the disappointment. Some days I think it is all about the words I’m asked to remember, some days I think he wants me to defy him and other days I think he wants me to starve to death. I gave up trying to figure my father out a long time ago. Soon he will think of an alternative punishment for learning the words, as I seem to have got better at memorising them. I guess that comes with getting older. He can’t trick me any more. I wonder what I will have to do next.

       My mother is silent throughout dinner; she is often silent. Her face has changed since my sister died, I don’t know whether it’s just because she has cried so much that she has changed her face forever. She is thin, too; sometimes she’s not allowed to eat either.

       The lamb is delicious and I want more as soon as I’m finished. When I am older I want to be a chef so that I can cook for myself. My father doesn’t think there is any money in that profession, though; he wants me to be a businessman. I never really understood the term ‘businessman’ – surely any work is business and so anyone with a job is also a businessman. I don’t really understand a lot of things like that. My father is a businessman, he wears a suit and he makes money. Sometimes I will open a drawer at home and there will be a big bundle of notes held together with an elastic band. I once found twenty thousand pounds in the bottom of my parents’ wardrobe. My father doesn’t talk about his business much in front of my mother; occasionally he might say he has a good or a bad day but never any more detail than that. He has promised me that when I am older he will take me to work with him and I can see how to earn good money, because nobody wants to be poor.

       My dad usually goes out again after dinner. Sometimes when he comes home he smells funny. I don’t know what the smell is exactly but it’s a mixture of smoke and whisky. I don’t know how people can drink whisky; I think it tastes horrible.

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