name?”
“No names,” the man said. We both looked at him. “Better we have
no names, OK?” he said, a little more gently.
The child poked one finger at her chest and said, “Anna.” She
beamed at me and then pointed at her father. “Papa!”
There was a pause, and then Anna declared her name again, and
then the man laughed, and he shook his head. Anna and I laughed,
too. I hesitated, and then I said, “And what’s Papa’s name?”
I saw at once I had made a mistake. There was another pause,
tighter than before; the man looked suddenly terrified, and angry
enough to hit me. Then Anna stretched out her giraffe towards me
and said carefully, “ Jee-raff . Anna, Papa, Jee-raff…”
He took the giraffe and waggled it at her, then thrust its head
at her and cuddled it into her neck so it tickled. She tried to
grab it, giggling and squealing.
“OK, OK, Anna,” he said, letting it go and looking at her, and
then at me. “OK, so what. I’m Stefan.”
Whatever it was that had caused him to be so tense, his daughter
released him from it as if she had let go of a bird trapped in her
hands. She was sucking again on the fronded tail of the giraffe,
and staring at her father. She already knew something about
adoration, but she didn’t have an inkling of her power. She didn’t
understand that just the sight of her fingers flexing and pointing
at a stranger’s face and her voice experimenting with a stranger’s
name could do this. She made him believe that nothing else
mattered, that he could handle anything. He sank down on the seat
on the other side of the trailer, leaning gingerly on the
table.
“You hurt your arm,” I said. “Let me see.”
When I asked him to make a circle with his wrist, he hissed with
pain.
“Can you move your fingers?” I asked. “Can you bend your elbow?”
He could, but when he tried to turn his forearm, the pain shot up
and down between elbow and wrist. The redness of his hands had got
worse since we came inside the trailer, and they were now mottled
with blue, and he was shivering. He might have been quite ill; at
the very least he was frozen, and probably shocked by the fall.
“You need a hot drink,” I said.
He wiped his uninjured hand across his face and didn’t reply. I
got up and moved to the other end of the trailer, where there was a
double gas burner. I filled a small saucepan with water from a
plastic canister, lit the burner using a box of matches from a
shelf, and set the pan on it. I opened cupboards and found
grassy-smelling herbal tea bags of some kind. I decided that he
needed sugar but there didn’t seem to be any, so when the water was
poured I stirred some honey into it. As he drank, the trailer
filled with balmy, hay-scented steam, like when the sun warms
leaves and wild flowers after rain. The fumes reminded me of the
kind of summer day almost impossible to imagine looking at his
sore, pinched hands, while a few feet away outside the trailer the
air splintered with cold and the river ran past swollen by the
wintery, dark flow of melted ice.
He saw me glance past him through the window. As if remembering
what I was there for, he pushed his cup aside and looked at his
watch.
He said, “There isn’t much time. Come outside. Anna, stay here a
minute and be a good girl.”
He stepped down from the trailer; I followed. He was in a hurry
now, but Anna scrambled after us to the door and wailed to be
lifted down and kept near him. He got her boots on again and
buttoned her into her coat.
We walked all around the car. He kicked at the tyres and peered
in the windows, and he tried all the doors and inspected the boot.
When he asked to see the engine we had to fish out the manual and
look up how to release the catch under the bonnet. I could tell he
knew no more about car engines than I did.
When he’d finished looking, he said, quietly and without
surprise, “Rental car. You steal it? You come to sell me a car
that’s not yours?”
“I need some
“No names,” the man said. We both looked at him. “Better we have
no names, OK?” he said, a little more gently.
The child poked one finger at her chest and said, “Anna.” She
beamed at me and then pointed at her father. “Papa!”
There was a pause, and then Anna declared her name again, and
then the man laughed, and he shook his head. Anna and I laughed,
too. I hesitated, and then I said, “And what’s Papa’s name?”
I saw at once I had made a mistake. There was another pause,
tighter than before; the man looked suddenly terrified, and angry
enough to hit me. Then Anna stretched out her giraffe towards me
and said carefully, “ Jee-raff . Anna, Papa, Jee-raff…”
He took the giraffe and waggled it at her, then thrust its head
at her and cuddled it into her neck so it tickled. She tried to
grab it, giggling and squealing.
“OK, OK, Anna,” he said, letting it go and looking at her, and
then at me. “OK, so what. I’m Stefan.”
Whatever it was that had caused him to be so tense, his daughter
released him from it as if she had let go of a bird trapped in her
hands. She was sucking again on the fronded tail of the giraffe,
and staring at her father. She already knew something about
adoration, but she didn’t have an inkling of her power. She didn’t
understand that just the sight of her fingers flexing and pointing
at a stranger’s face and her voice experimenting with a stranger’s
name could do this. She made him believe that nothing else
mattered, that he could handle anything. He sank down on the seat
on the other side of the trailer, leaning gingerly on the
table.
“You hurt your arm,” I said. “Let me see.”
When I asked him to make a circle with his wrist, he hissed with
pain.
“Can you move your fingers?” I asked. “Can you bend your elbow?”
He could, but when he tried to turn his forearm, the pain shot up
and down between elbow and wrist. The redness of his hands had got
worse since we came inside the trailer, and they were now mottled
with blue, and he was shivering. He might have been quite ill; at
the very least he was frozen, and probably shocked by the fall.
“You need a hot drink,” I said.
He wiped his uninjured hand across his face and didn’t reply. I
got up and moved to the other end of the trailer, where there was a
double gas burner. I filled a small saucepan with water from a
plastic canister, lit the burner using a box of matches from a
shelf, and set the pan on it. I opened cupboards and found
grassy-smelling herbal tea bags of some kind. I decided that he
needed sugar but there didn’t seem to be any, so when the water was
poured I stirred some honey into it. As he drank, the trailer
filled with balmy, hay-scented steam, like when the sun warms
leaves and wild flowers after rain. The fumes reminded me of the
kind of summer day almost impossible to imagine looking at his
sore, pinched hands, while a few feet away outside the trailer the
air splintered with cold and the river ran past swollen by the
wintery, dark flow of melted ice.
He saw me glance past him through the window. As if remembering
what I was there for, he pushed his cup aside and looked at his
watch.
He said, “There isn’t much time. Come outside. Anna, stay here a
minute and be a good girl.”
He stepped down from the trailer; I followed. He was in a hurry
now, but Anna scrambled after us to the door and wailed to be
lifted down and kept near him. He got her boots on again and
buttoned her into her coat.
We walked all around the car. He kicked at the tyres and peered
in the windows, and he tried all the doors and inspected the boot.
When he asked to see the engine we had to fish out the manual and
look up how to release the catch under the bonnet. I could tell he
knew no more about car engines than I did.
When he’d finished looking, he said, quietly and without
surprise, “Rental car. You steal it? You come to sell me a car
that’s not yours?”
“I need some
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