Not long ago, in art history class, they learned about Van Gogh. The teacher said that today he is considered a genius, but when he was alive people thought he was crazy and even retarded. Sometimes he got agitated and made trouble in the neighborhood. He cut off a piece of his own ear. He ended up killing himself. Old Man hasn’t cut anything off, at least not that she knows of, and he hasn’t hurt anyone. Still, people call him retarded too, though for other reasons. Her mother sat her down, tried to explain politely so as not to shock her. That man, she said, was born with a birth defect, a defect that can’t be cured. It happens in certain families, when children are born in a way they shouldn’t be. In small families, she added, that mix among themselves. It’s possible that it’s given him a confused idea of things. Of relationships. It’s not entirely his fault, but that doesn’t mean it’s okay for him to associate with a girl like her. People like him, she went on, should be subject to more control. They’re victims, but they can also be wrongdoers. Then she heard her father grumbling in the other room. Victims, victims, he repeated, weighting the word with irony and contempt. Her father never sat down with her to explain anything about Old Man. It put him on edge, he said, drove him crazy just to think about what might have happened. My little girl, my little girl, he said.

Oddly, during those days, her father stopped calling her by her name. She started to be his child and then, even more frequently, my little girl. He was much more affected than her mother by everything that happened. That’s what Soon overheard in several conversations. She’s his little girl, Soon’s mother would say, his only girl, and he’s devastated. That a man—an old man—would put his hands on your little girl— the very idea that an old man could put his hands on your little girl—it’s enough to drive any man crazy, everyone can understand that. He doesn’t care a whit if the man in question wasn’t in his right mind. Plus, the man had proven to be perfectly aware of his actions. But, what actions? Only the ones they’d managed to prove. And which ones were those, to be exact? Then the conversation went downhill.

Later, her father started to look at her suspiciously, afraid that she also held, inside her, the seed of rot. She saw him doubt, embrace, and then furiously let go of the idea of her innocence. He came into her room and tore up her beautiful bird poster. Since when have you liked birds?, he asked. Rats with wings, nasty creatures, disgusting, he said as he shredded the poster. He also searched her shelves and closet, dispensed with anything he suspected might have come from Old Man. And his distrust seemed endless, it lasted several weeks. Until he calmed down. More or less, he calmed down. To maintain that calm, it’s true, everyone avoided the use of certain uncomfortable words, words that had always been harmless before: diary, especially, but also notebook, park, bird, and even sausage. No one wrote a list of forbidden terms; there was no need: the three of them—father, mother, and Soon—knew full well what they were.