Everybody listened to the conversation, including the children, who were throwing gashyk and wished for so many horses to be revealed—and who saw that so many horses were revealed—and they loved it. It felt so good to play. Yet the children never lost track of the conversation even though they would not butt in unless they were asked a question. Everybody took part in everything. Sometimes there was a longer pause, but nobody ever rushed to break it. Rather, we would let it last and muse upon it. This way everybody seemed to be getting prepared for the night’s rest.

Sometimes Grandma rested. Then Sister and Brother had to take turns crouching in front of the door of the round sheet-metal stove and tending the fire. It must have been hard work since whoever was crouching there at any given moment would plead with the other that it was time to switch places. At such moments, I was an outsider. I was the lucky onlooker who was above Brother and Sister’s trials but offered commentary whenever it pleased me. After all, I was not only the youngest child, I was also the scalded child. Whenever I felt like it, I would flaunt my scalding. And was I ever able to do so convincingly! Maybe Mother Nature had added a small portion of acting talent before she dropped me in solid form into life and left me to live and die. But even when we were deeply engrossed in our games, I would never forget to slip quickly over to Grandma, whether she was up or in bed, and stroke her bald head or gently pull at her ear lobes, which felt strangely cool and hung low, weighed down by the heavy silver earrings all grownup Tuvan women wore in those days.

Grandma was always attentive. Even in her sleep her hand would reach out for me and stroke my hair or my cheeks, and whenever my head happened to get under her nose, she would sniff it and make a muffled, gurgling sound, like a sleeping mare who senses her foal close by.

Grandma stayed as old as she had been before, and just as nimble and useful. Only her eyes grew older, as you could tell when she was sewing. When she lost the needle, she had to finger the quilted mat with both hands until one of her fingertips happened across it. Mother would shake her head and say: “But Daaj, haven’t I told you it’s time you stopped sewing!”

Grandma would reply cheerfully: “It’s not that I should stop—it’s that my eyes should stop being so lazy. And they will, once I’ve rinsed them with the water of my little one.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. Already I stood in front of her with my pants down to my knees.

“Shall I, Enej?”

“Can you?”

“Oh yes.”

Grandma held out her cupped hand, and I peed into it.

“Is that all?”

“For now.”