“It was murder,” said Dimi. And suddenly, horrified by what had come out of his mouth, he snatched another cushion and, hiding his face behind it, began to sob. Broken, strangled gasps that sounded like hiccups. Fima tried to pull the cushion away, but Dimi held fast to it and would not let go, so he gave up. And he realized that there was no illness, no fever, but suffering that required patience and silence. He sat down on the rug in front of the armchair and took Dimi’s hand, feeling that he too was close to tears and that he loved this weird child with his thick glasses and paper-white hair, his stubbornness, his knowingness, his perpetual air of solitary, premature old age. Fima’s body ached from holding back the urge to snatch the sobbing creature up from the armchair and squeeze him to his chest with all his strength. Never in his life had he felt such a strong desire to press himself against a woman’s body as he felt now to hold Dimi. But he controlled himself and did not stir so long as the gasps continued. Until Dimi stopped. And, oddly, it was just when he fell silent that Fima said gently:

“That’s enough now, Dimi.”

Suddenly the child slid out of the chair and into his arms. He huddled against Fima so hard, he seemed to be burrowing inside him. And he said:

“I will tell.”