I toss away my cigarette. "You're not getting a cigarette, no matter what."

He says to me, "You're mean."

I say, "Yes, I'm mean. So? Is there a hotel somewhere in this town?"

"Sure, there are a couple. You don't know? And you seem to know the town so well."

I say, "When I lived here there weren't any hotels. Not one."

He says, "That must have been a long time ago then. There's a brand-new hotel on Central Square. It's called the Grand Hotel because it's the biggest."

"Let's go."

In front of the hotel the child sets down my suitcase.

"I can't go in, sir. The woman at the reception desk knows me. She'll tell my mother."

"What? That you carried my suitcase?"

"Yes. My mother doesn't want me carrying suitcases."

"Why?"

"I don't know. She doesn't want me doing it. She just wants me to study."

I ask: "Your parents-what do they do?"

He says, "I don't have parents. Only a mother. No father, I've never had one."

"And what does she do, your mother?"

"She works right here at the hotel. She cleans the floors twice a day. But she wants me to have an education."

"An education as what?"

"That she couldn't say, since she doesn't know what educated people do. She thinks professor or doctor, I guess."

I say, "Good. How much for carrying the suitcase?"

He says, "It's up to you, sir."

I give him two coins.

"That enough?"

"Yes, sir."

"No, sir, that's not enough. Don't tell me you've carried that heavy suitcase all the way from the station for as little as that."

He says, "I take what I'm given, sir. I don't have the right to charge more. And then there are poor people. Sometimes I end up carrying suitcases for free. I like the work. I like waiting at the station. I like seeing the people who arrive. The people from here, I know them all by sight. I like seeing the people who come from other places. Like you. You've come from far away, haven't you?"

"Yes, very far. Another country."

I give him a banknote and enter the hotel.

I choose a corner room from which I can see the whole square, the church, the grocery store, the shops, the bookseller's.

It's nine at night and the square is empty. Lights are on in the houses. Blinds are being lowered, shutters closed, curtains pulled; the town is going to bed.

I settle down at one of the windows in my room and watch the square, the houses, late into the night.

During my childhood I often dreamed of living in one of the houses on Central Square -it didn't matter which one-but most of all the blue house where there was and still is a bookseller's.

But the only one I lived in when I was here was the ramshackle one belonging to Grandmother, far from the center of town, at its very limits, near the frontier.

At Grandmother's I worked from morning till night, as she did herself. She fed me and housed me, but she never gave me money, which I needed to buy soap, toothpaste, clothes, and shoes. So at night I came to town and played the harmonica in bars. I sold the wood that I gathered in the forest along with mushrooms and chestnuts. I also sold eggs that I stole from Grandmother, as well as fish, which I quickly learned to catch. I also did all sorts of work for anyone who would pay. I delivered messages, letters, and packages; people trusted me because they thought I was a deaf-mute.

In the beginning I didn't speak, not even to Grandmother, but soon I had to talk numbers in order to sell my wares.

I spent much time at night on Central Square. I looked through the window of the bookseller-stationer's, at the white paper, the school notebooks, the erasers, the pencils. All of it was too expensive for me.

To make a bit more money, whenever I could I went to the station and waited for travelers. I carried their suitcases.

And so I was able to buy paper, a pencil and eraser, and a big notebook in which I wrote down my first lies.

Several months after the death of Grandmother some people came into the house without knocking. They were three men, one in the uniform of a border guard. The other two were in civilian dress. One of these two didn't say anything but only noted things down. He was young, almost as young as I. The other had white hair. It was he who questioned me.

"How long have you lived here?"

I say, "I don't know. Since the hospital was bombed."

"Which hospital?"

"I don't know. The center."

The man in the uniform interrupts. "He was already here when I took command of this unit."

The civilian asks, "When was that?"

'Three years ago. But he was here before that."

"How do you know?"

"It's obvious. He worked around the house like someone who had always been here."

The white-haired man turns to me. "Are you related to Mrs. V., née Maria Z.?"

I say, "She was my grandmother."

He asks me, "Do you have documents proving the relationship?"

I say, "No, I don't have any papers. All I have are the sheets I buy at the bookseller's."

He says, "This is the situation. Take this down!"

The younger civilian writes: "Mrs. V., née Maria Z., is deceased without heirs, and so all her possessions, house, and lands will become state property belonging communally to the town of Z., which will make use of them as it deems fit."

The men stand up and I ask them, "What should I do?"

They look at one another. The uniformed man says, "You must leave."

"Why?"

"Because this place doesn't belong to you."

I ask, "When do I have to leave?"

"I don't know."

He looks at the white-haired man in civilian clothes, who says, "We'll inform you soon enough. How old are you?"

"Fifteen, nearly. I can't leave before the tomatoes ripen."

He says, "Of course, the tomatoes. You're only fifteen? Well, then, there's no problem."

I ask, "Where should I go?"

He is silent for a moment and looks at the man in uniform; the man in uniform looks back at him. The civilian lowers his eyes. "Don't worry. You'll be taken care of. Above all, don't be scared."

The three men go outside. I follow them, walking on the grass to make no noise.

The border guard says, "Can't you leave him alone? He's a good little fellow and he works hard."

The man in civilian dress says, "That's beside the point. The law is clear. The property of Mrs. V. belongs to the commune. Your little fellow has been living on it illegally for almost two years."

"And who's been harmed by it?"

"No one. But come on-why are you defending that little good-for-nothing?"

"For three years I've watched him tending his garden and his animals. He's not a good-for-nothing, in any case no more than you are."

"You dare call me a good-for-nothing?"

"I didn't say that. All I said is that he's no more of one than you are. And anyway I don't give a damn. Not about you, not about him. In three weeks I'll be out of the service and tending my own garden. You, sir, will have a soul on your conscience if you turn that child out into the street. Good night, and sleep well."

The civilian says, "We won't be turning him out. We'll take care of him."

They leave. Several days later they come back. The same man with the white hair and the young man; they have brought a woman with them. She is older and wears eyeglasses; she looks like the director at the center.

She says to me, "Listen to me carefully. We don't want to hurt you; we want to take care of you. You're coming with us to a nice house where there are children like you."

I say to her, 'I'm not a child anymore. I don't want to be taken care of. And I don't want to go to a hospital either."

She says, "It isn't a hospital. You'll be able to study there."

We're in the kitchen. The woman speaks but I don't listen. The white-haired man speaks too. I don't listen to him either.