yawns leisurely, stretching first his arms, then his legs until he feels he has overdone the stretching. For a man his age, he is blessed with a sharp mind, but his body is bent as the young branch of a eucalyptus tree. He feels the belt of his dressing gown loosening; in an instant, he’ll feel exposed. Not that it matters—he presumes he is alone and his son, his daughter-in-law, his brood of grandchildren, and the maid are all out. It will amuse them to find him in the garden, unshaven, unwashed, in his pajamas and his dressing gown.
Suddenly his heart beats faster; he hears sounds from inside the house and realizes that this can only mean danger. He debates what he should do. He is on the verge of walking around the house to find out if there is a way of entering through a back window, when the front door opens. Out comes a young thing bearing a gun bigger than himself. The old man and the boy with the gun size each other up. Dhoorre thinks, What if he reacts as if the boy is holding a toy gun? What if he tells himself, even though this may not be the case, that the young thing does not know how to shoot and can’t pose much of a threat?
He asks, “What have you been doing inside?” He speaks the way one might to a mischievous grandchild.
The boy says, “What are you doing outside?”
Looking at the two of them and listening to them, you would not be able to tell who is the guest and who the host—the boy standing guard at the entrance to the house or the old man, befuddled and amused. Befuddled, because he can’t figure out what to do; amused, because he can’t imagine such a young thing frightening him. However,there is uncertainty in Dhoorre’s demeanor when the boy says, “Answer my question.”
Dhoorre tells himself that the boy is putting on a brave face, because he has a gun and this endows him with the hollow bravado of a coward. Is the boy the type who will beg for mercy when things turn nasty?
Hardness enters the boy’s voice. “Answer before I lose my patience, old man. What are you doing outside, in near rags, in the garden?”
Dhoorre replies, “The wind locked me out, pushing the door shut behind me when I came out to enjoy a bit of fresh air outside, in the garden, and I couldn’t get back in, so I napped on the bench. There.” He points at the bench, his voice laced with a genuine tremor.
The boy is thinking, What if he is wrong about the old man, whom he first imagined to be a drifter with nothing more than the rags he has been lent by a kinsman? A typical tramp, come off the streets without his begging bowl, maneuvering his way in.
“The wind, eh?”
“That’s right, the wind.”
The boy is not convinced.
“And your clothes, where are your clothes?”
“Inside.”
YoungThing considers his next move, and the implications if it does turn out that the Old Man lives in the house. He stares at the man, wondering how he can make him disappear before the advance team arrives. He could act like a trained insurgent—shoot first and explain later that he found this worthless hobo in the garden, insisting that he lived here. But the option of shooting the old man does not appeal to the boy. Yet how will he explain himself to the leader of the cell when he shows up?
The old man is saying, “My name is Dhoorre,” and his outstretchedhand waits, ready to shake the boy’s. When the boy doesn’t react, Dhoorre says, “At least tell me your name.”
Then he takes one speedy step closer to the boy and another step closer to the door. The muscles of the boy’s neck stiffen, his jaw goes taut, his whole attitude becomes more threatening. He raises his gas-operated AK-47 and presses the selector switch that turns it fully automatic. This action gives him the composure of a boxer who has just won a KO in the second round.
“I wouldn’t act the fool if I were you,” says the boy. “It is at your peril that you take me for a lamebrain. You make one foolish move, you are
Suddenly his heart beats faster; he hears sounds from inside the house and realizes that this can only mean danger. He debates what he should do. He is on the verge of walking around the house to find out if there is a way of entering through a back window, when the front door opens. Out comes a young thing bearing a gun bigger than himself. The old man and the boy with the gun size each other up. Dhoorre thinks, What if he reacts as if the boy is holding a toy gun? What if he tells himself, even though this may not be the case, that the young thing does not know how to shoot and can’t pose much of a threat?
He asks, “What have you been doing inside?” He speaks the way one might to a mischievous grandchild.
The boy says, “What are you doing outside?”
Looking at the two of them and listening to them, you would not be able to tell who is the guest and who the host—the boy standing guard at the entrance to the house or the old man, befuddled and amused. Befuddled, because he can’t figure out what to do; amused, because he can’t imagine such a young thing frightening him. However,there is uncertainty in Dhoorre’s demeanor when the boy says, “Answer my question.”
Dhoorre tells himself that the boy is putting on a brave face, because he has a gun and this endows him with the hollow bravado of a coward. Is the boy the type who will beg for mercy when things turn nasty?
Hardness enters the boy’s voice. “Answer before I lose my patience, old man. What are you doing outside, in near rags, in the garden?”
Dhoorre replies, “The wind locked me out, pushing the door shut behind me when I came out to enjoy a bit of fresh air outside, in the garden, and I couldn’t get back in, so I napped on the bench. There.” He points at the bench, his voice laced with a genuine tremor.
The boy is thinking, What if he is wrong about the old man, whom he first imagined to be a drifter with nothing more than the rags he has been lent by a kinsman? A typical tramp, come off the streets without his begging bowl, maneuvering his way in.
“The wind, eh?”
“That’s right, the wind.”
The boy is not convinced.
“And your clothes, where are your clothes?”
“Inside.”
YoungThing considers his next move, and the implications if it does turn out that the Old Man lives in the house. He stares at the man, wondering how he can make him disappear before the advance team arrives. He could act like a trained insurgent—shoot first and explain later that he found this worthless hobo in the garden, insisting that he lived here. But the option of shooting the old man does not appeal to the boy. Yet how will he explain himself to the leader of the cell when he shows up?
The old man is saying, “My name is Dhoorre,” and his outstretchedhand waits, ready to shake the boy’s. When the boy doesn’t react, Dhoorre says, “At least tell me your name.”
Then he takes one speedy step closer to the boy and another step closer to the door. The muscles of the boy’s neck stiffen, his jaw goes taut, his whole attitude becomes more threatening. He raises his gas-operated AK-47 and presses the selector switch that turns it fully automatic. This action gives him the composure of a boxer who has just won a KO in the second round.
“I wouldn’t act the fool if I were you,” says the boy. “It is at your peril that you take me for a lamebrain. You make one foolish move, you are
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