But around here, some people are born from the ground twice. When that happens, we hold a wake for them. You never forget your first wake. I was nine or ten when Uncle Rudolf died. Kids hated him. I hated him too. He had ginger hair and gray, piggish eyes. He was a dedicated torturer of kids. When the other adults looked away he would grab the kid nearest to him and start twisting its nose until the child burst into tears. Like a predator, he would wait for his prey in the cool of summer kitchens or by the shadowy benches along the wall. He would ask for a glass of cold water to get the adults out of sight, then he would look at you and let a pale, terrifyingly cold smile crack on his face. He would draw you in with a beckoning gesture, and you had no choice but to walk up to him. It was a game between predator and prey – a child always does what an adult says (at least they do around here), but that doesn’t make them a fool. As for me, I always tried to approach, obeying his order, but remain just out of reach. If I managed to keep my distance until the adult returned with the glass of water, I was safe. Uncle Rudolf was old, but he could lash out quickly and fiercely. He didn’t mind if you bled a little. After he gave your nose a good twisting, he laughed as if it had all just been a good joke. As a kid I thought when I grew up I would understand what was so funny about twisting noses. I didn’t.

That reminds me of my only memory about Uncle Rudolf which is not related to pain. It was summer – it’s as if Uncle Rudolf only lived in the summer, I don’t have any winter or spring memories of him. He was sitting in the summer kitchen by the table. He had a soda siphon before him, along with a small glass of soda water, a filthy fly swatter, and a coin. Uncle Rudolf was famous for never drinking or smoking. ‘I’ll drink in my grave.’ That was what Uncle Rudolf always replied when offered a glass of wine or pálinka. I think people offered him a drink every once in a while just to hear him say it.