so low over the papers that if Ashraf didnât know better, he would have thought the post boss was drunk. But Youssef had warned him: âHe is burned up or something.â
âAppie,â the post boss said, âdo you mind if I call you Appie? You are young, ambitious. That is a good thing. You want two areas. That is fine. After that you want even more. You want to be like Gregor, I suppose.â
Ashraf nodded.
The post boss took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. âYou should know,â he said, âthat it wonât be easy.â He shook his head. âYou probably think it will be easy. But life isnât always easy. And it isnât always fair.â
âI know,â Ashraf said. âIââ
âFor me, for instance,â the post boss said, âit has not been fair at all. As we speak, doctors in the hospital are pumping liquid out of my son, liters and liters of liquid. He went into a coma when they had to operate on his liver. It stopped working because he got too fat. His fingers are like sausages. They always have been, but now he is just bursting out of his skin. Itâs not a pretty sight.â He looked out the window. âI always told him he needed to go on a diet. After the operation I sat by his bed and I looked at the cracks in his skin, the way his face disappeared into his neck, and I just wanted to bring my mouth really, really close to his ear and yell, âWell? Was it worth it?ââ
For a second the post boss looked startled, as if it had been someone else who yelled âWas it worth it?â through his office. Then herecomposed himself. âOf course he canât reply, he just lies there with this strange smile on his face. My wife said she saw him smile in his sleep like that once, and the next morning he told her heâd dreamed that he was weeding the Queenâs garden.â
He gasped.
âWeeding the Queenâs garden!â
The post boss buried his head in his hands. Ashraf looked at the picture he kept in a frame on the desk. It was an old photo of the post boss, a small woman, and a boy smiling by a slide in the shape of an elephantâs trunk. The photo was in color, but somehow the post bossâs face seemed to consist of black and white only.
âSo,â Ashraf couched, âdo I have the areas? When shall I start?â
âYes, yes,â the post boss said, gesturing to the door. âJust leave your license and registration papers so we can copy them. You start Monday at eight.â
THE BOSSâS SON
The bossâs son was weeding the Queenâs garden. He had a wheelbarrow and he pulled the weeds from under the geometric hedges. In the distance they were practicing the trumpets for the Memorial Service. The sun shone on his face.
âGardener,â the Queen shouted from her tower, âgardener.â
The bossâs son looked up. The Queen was leaning out of her window, pointing at the field behind him. âYou forgot something over there!â
The bossâs son turned around and bent over. He picked up the leaf and put it in the wheelbarrow.
âYes,â the Queen said, âvery good.â She retreated to her tower.
The bossâs son smiled and pushed his wheelbarrow farther on down the gravel path.
RUS AT THE CITY REGISTRATION
âName?â the lady at the City Tax Department asked.
âRus,â Rus said. âPleased to meet you.â He smiled at the lady, ather shiny red cheeks and at her glasses. His suit was still wet and he was shaking unstoppably. He had waited six hours outside the tax office, but he wasnât cold anymore, he was hot and his mood was good. Very good. He placed the wet letter carefully on the tray in front of him.
âWanda,â he said, reading her name tag, âyouâve sent me this letter and I am here to say I would give you everything if I had anything, but I donât have anything. Francisco
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