by John Boyne
He nods and wipes his eyes, then puts teabags into two cups and fills them with boiling water, pressing them against the sides with a teaspoon rather than making a pot. If his grandmother was here, she’d roast him alive.
‘You don’t have to think about it right now,’ he says, sitting opposite me and putting the cups down. ‘But you know that you can come to ours, don’t you? To live, I mean. Dad will be fine with it.’
‘I know,’ I say, smiling. ‘And I’m grateful to you both. But I think not. I’m healthy still, don’t you think? I can manage. You will visit me though, won’t you?’ I ask nervously, unsure why I am asking this since I already know the answer.
‘Of course I will,’ he says, his eyes opening wide. ‘God. Every day, if I can.’
‘Michael, if you come here every day, I won’t open the door,’ I tell him. ‘Once a week will be fine. You have a life of your own to lead.’
‘Twice a week, then,’ he says.
‘Fine,’ I say, not looking to strike any deals.
‘And you know my play is coming up, don’t you? Two weeks from now. You’ll be there for opening night, won’t you?’
‘I’ll try,’ I say, unsure whether I can really go without Zoya by my side. Without Anastasia. I can see the look of disappointment on his face and I smile and reassure him. ‘I’ll do my best, Michael,’ I say. ‘I promise.’
‘Thanks.’
We sit and talk for a little while longer and then I tell him that he should go home now, that he must be tired, he’s been up all night.
‘I will if you’re sure,’ he says, standing up and stretching his arms in the air, yawning loudly. ‘I mean, I could sleep here if you want.’
‘No, no,’ I say. ‘It’s time you went home. We both need some sleep. And I think I’d like a little time on my own anyway, if you don’t mind.’
‘OK,’ he says, putting his coat on. ‘I’ll call around later tonight and see how you’re getting on. There’s …’ He hesitates, but decides just to say it. ‘You know, there’s arrangements that have to be made.’
‘I know,’ I say, walking towards the door with him. ‘But we can talk about them later. I’ll see you tonight.’
‘Later then, Pops,’ he says, reaching forward and kissing my cheek, hugging me, and then pulling away before I can see the expression of grief on his face. I watch as he bounds up the steps towards the street, those long, muscular legs of his that can take him anywhere he wants to go. To be so young again. I watch and wonder at how he always manages to leave just as a bus is appearing, as if he refuses to waste even a moment of his life by waiting on a street corner. He jumps on the back of it and raises a hand to me, the uncrowned Tsar of all the Russias waving at his grandfather from the back of a London bus as it speeds off down the street while a conductor approaches him, demanding money for his fare.
It’s enough to make me laugh. I close the door behind me and sit down again, considering this, and truly, I find it so funny that I laugh until I cry.
And when the tears come I think aah …
So this is what it means to be alone.
Copyright © 2009 John Boyne
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eISBN: 978-0-385-66868-2
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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