Once again, nobody was coming to the door. Once again, I had to stand there and listen hard for voices and sounds coming from inside her apartment. “What the hell?” I thought. “She doesn’t wanna let me in, does she?” I started pounding on the black metal door, waking the pigeons perched on the roof. Then some keys started jingling, eventually sliding into the hole, and the door swung open heavily. I lunged forward and crashed right into a boy. He looked like he was seven or so, standing there in a T-shirt and soccer shorts—cut-up knees, scratched-up elbows, thick black hair, furrowed brow—he didn’t inspire much trust in me. He was holding some pens and pencils and sizing me up. Dasha ran out of the kitchen to greet me, putting her hands on the boy’s shoulders with affected carelessness; she was obviously flustered though.
“Oh, is that you, Romeo? This is Amin,” she said, nodding at the boy.
“What’s his name?” I asked, taken aback.
The boy looked at me, his eyes filled with hatred.
“Those are some nice pens you got there,” I said in a conciliatory tone. “Is that a real Parker? I used to have one of those.”
“You know how to write?” the boy asked scornfully, and headed toward the kitchen.
“School just let out,” Dasha whispered quickly. “His grandmother dropped him off this morning. The thing is… what’s he gonna do here all summer? He should be down south, swimming in the sea.”
“Definitely,” I thought, “he should be in the sea, somewhere out beyond the buoys.”
I sat there in the kitchen—Dasha was bustling around, cooking something, showing how hospitable she was; the kid was watching with obvious skepticism. He didn’t look like his mom, but he did look like he loved her very much. Clearly, I was just getting in his way. And he was getting in mine. Dasha became more anxious, some of the meal got burned, some of it got way too much salt, and some of it just wound up in the trash can. I was trying to break the ice with Amin, but he kept giving me lip. His mom scolded him, but he gave her some lip, too, which made her even more anxious. Eventually, she couldn’t take it anymore; she grabbed her phone, ran over to the other room, and had a long conversation, while the kid indignantly drew monsters and serial killers in his school notebook. I got up and headed back to my place. The kid didn’t even lift his head.
Things went on like that for two weeks. I’d wake up at the crack of dawn to the sound of her footsteps through the wall, listening to her running around the apartment, getting the kid up, making him breakfast, rushing to get ready, picking out her clothes, vainly trying to impose order on that hair of hers, frantically searching for her shoes, desperately calling someone who wasn’t picking up, hopelessly pouring milk into cold coffee, resignedly running out the front door, tossing all her phones, pills, and sunglasses into her purse. She wouldn’t be getting back until late, so I could bide my time. Her friends, neighbors, teachers, and babysitters would come by to keep the kid busy. One time she asked me to keep an eye on him, but the kid purposely (yep, it was on purpose, I know that for a fact) knocked over some pots and pans, called his mom (his phone was more expensive than mine!), and started griping and sobbing. She had to hail a taxi and race home. I told her my side of the story; she even seemed to believe me, but I wasn’t asked to watch him again. I was pissed, cursing him to high heaven. “What’s he even doing here?” I thought. “Why doesn’t he go down south to the sea or some lake, or better yet a swamp, closer to nature and preferably some wild animals?” The kid kept ignoring me—he wouldn’t speak to me or open the front door for me (he’d just stand on a chair and look at me scornfully through the peephole); he’d protest by making a big show of refusing to eat whenever I sat with them in the kitchen and blast his music whenever she talked to me on the phone. I even started to respect him for it. “He’s taking a real stand on this one,” I thought. “Actually, he’s completely harmless,” I assured myself. “Everything’s gonna be just fine.” But none of my attempts to reach out to him got anywhere. He really didn’t look like a trusting, defenseless child; he had a grating personality and grown-up toys—pockets stuffed with indelible pencils and office supplies (I once saw him trying to staple my shoelaces to the floor—she didn’t believe me, obviously), a used pepper-spray can he’d gotten from his dad (well, she thought it was all used up), an empty cigar case he’d gotten from his grandpa (I told her it didn’t smell that empty to me, but she really didn’t want to hear it), a stethoscope he found somewhere (“What does he need that for?” I asked anxiously), some borrowed shotgun shells, a Swiss Army knife he’d stolen from me (he stubbornly claimed it was his—she seemed to believe me again, but she didn’t make him give it back). Worst of all, she’d practically stopped talking to me, although sometimes she’d stop by for a bit, keeping the apartment door ajar, as though she was always on the lookout—whenever I’d try to catch her on the stairs, strike up a conversation on the street, or lure her into some dark, cozy corner, she’d tense up immediately, turn falsely carefree, obtrusively friendly, or ostentatiously earnest. He was constantly lurking—waiting for her on the balcony, calling her as soon as my hand touched hers, waking up as soon as I tapped on her door in the middle of the night, cutting himself or burning his tongue, ripping his clothes on loose nails and getting in fights with the neighborhood kids, sticking spoiled food in his mouth and bringing stray dogs home—whatever he could think of to shift her attention away from me, get her back on his side, and elicit sympathy, tears, laughter, love, or at least frustration. She’d get mad at him constantly and fight with him more and more openly, perfectly aware of what was going on. “Well, what’s the point of arguing with him. He’s a smart kid; he’s in the right—I’m the outsider here, and Dasha should be getting mad at me, not him.” Nevertheless, it was him she got mad at. We gradually established an odd relationship based on leaving the kid with nothing. She’d try to call me after work so we could walk home together. At night, she’d send me texts, asking me about the weather and any breaking news stories. In the morning, she’d drop by for a second, just to say hello, and then vanish, leaving the sweet smell of freshly baked bread in her wake. The kid knew what was going on, he mounted a defense, setting clever little traps all over the place, taking her phone to bed with him, patrolling the neighborhood, plugging up the lock of my apartment door with playdough (good thing it was just playdough), and leaving me notes containing black spots and voodoo curses. All of this stuff wore me out, and I lost sleep and my peace of mind over it; at one point, I even thought about moving back home. I felt bad for the kid, as I was clearly bugging the hell out of him, her, as she was stuck in the middle of our feud, and myself, but I don’t even want to get into that. That’s how the summer started, and that’s how all my hopes and dreams died.
On Friday, she stopped by in the early evening, running straight to my apartment and tossing her purse on the couch—business cards, notebooks, and her contact case spilled all over the floor. She paced around the room, consciously trying to avoid my eyes, talking about the heat wave that had hit the city, about the birds that kept her up at night, and about the water shortage. I tried to stop her, but she stuck her hand out rather forcefully, as if to say, “Stay right where you are,” and then she got to it: