was obvious as soon as the car was in motion. On sharp bends, it listed to port or starboard â it felt likesitting in a bowl of custard. Fortunately, the engine was incapable of reaching any great speeds, only of making a great deal of noise.
Two details about the interior should be enough. The design of the gearstick was unique, utterly unlike the popular floor-mounted gear stick (sports cars), or those tucked behind the steering wheel (Dodge, Chevrolet). Our gearstick, a metal lever embedded in the dashboard, looked as though it should have been on the control panel of the flying saucer in
Plan 9 from Outer Space
rather than a car. And the seats were designed around a metal frame that dug into your flesh when you sat down. The only practical solution was to sit with the metal rod carefully aligned with the cleft of your arse, unless you wanted another crack in your buttocks or a bad case of scoliosis. Sleeping stretched out on the back seat felt like what Indian fakirs must feel lying on a bed of nails. Maybe it was during his frequent naps in the back of the Citroën that the Midget developed his taste for the ascetic.
Lastly, and most glaringly, our Citroën was a lime green colour which, on a cloudless day, when the sun hit it just right, could blind even the most experienced driver.
But please donât read any contempt into this description of our steel (aluminium? who knows?) stallion. Our Citroën was a noble beast. It never failed us, not in the beginning, nor at the last. We loved everything about it, even bizarre features like the roll-down roof through which we liked to pop out and launch projectiles at other cars with the precision of a Panzer tank.
Every word I write about it is written with love; not the wide-eyed infatuation that makes virtues out of flaws, but genuine love, a precise sense of the importance it had â and still has â in my life.
I would like to think that if Iâve learned anything during my odyssey, it is to be true to those who have been true to me.
13
ENTER THE MIDGET
The Midget was waiting for us in the car. He was sitting in his usual place, curls falling into his eyes, wearing his check pre-school smock. He didnât react when we climbed into the car, as if we hadnât yet arrived, as if he operated on a time-frame different from ours, similar but not identical.
I didnât want to disturb him. He was still absorbed in his thoughts. Two minutes later he split my head open with his lunchbox.
According to scientists, a black hole is a dark region of space whose gravity traps all matter and radiation that comes within its field. Sort of like an intergalactic Hoover. Though they have not yet been able to prove it exists, there is irrefutable evidence to corroborate the phenomenon: the Midget is one indicator â he is a singularity of negative energy.
The Midget destroyed everything that came within his field. He did not seem physically violent, things simply disintegrated the moment he touched them. Though he turned them with infinite care, the pages of the books I lent him tore in his hands. Though he did nothing but twirl it around, pieces dropped off my Airfix model Spitfire as though it was suddenly struck with metal fatigue, as though the glue had turned to water. Though my medieval soldiers never left my side, the accessories that came with them â helmets, pikes,swords, shields â gradually disappeared. I never found them again, even after an intensive search and repeatedly pleading with mamá and papá to buy me a gold panning sieve and a Geiger counter.
It was impossible to ignore the phenomenon. Even mamá, who always tried to downplay it to mitigate the impact of my various losses, must have had a hard time trying to come up with a rational scientific explanation. Yet the Midget, this Lord of Chaos, was deeply attached to certain objects and certain rituals. He liked
these
sheets and
these
pyjamas, which had to be
Two details about the interior should be enough. The design of the gearstick was unique, utterly unlike the popular floor-mounted gear stick (sports cars), or those tucked behind the steering wheel (Dodge, Chevrolet). Our gearstick, a metal lever embedded in the dashboard, looked as though it should have been on the control panel of the flying saucer in
Plan 9 from Outer Space
rather than a car. And the seats were designed around a metal frame that dug into your flesh when you sat down. The only practical solution was to sit with the metal rod carefully aligned with the cleft of your arse, unless you wanted another crack in your buttocks or a bad case of scoliosis. Sleeping stretched out on the back seat felt like what Indian fakirs must feel lying on a bed of nails. Maybe it was during his frequent naps in the back of the Citroën that the Midget developed his taste for the ascetic.
Lastly, and most glaringly, our Citroën was a lime green colour which, on a cloudless day, when the sun hit it just right, could blind even the most experienced driver.
But please donât read any contempt into this description of our steel (aluminium? who knows?) stallion. Our Citroën was a noble beast. It never failed us, not in the beginning, nor at the last. We loved everything about it, even bizarre features like the roll-down roof through which we liked to pop out and launch projectiles at other cars with the precision of a Panzer tank.
Every word I write about it is written with love; not the wide-eyed infatuation that makes virtues out of flaws, but genuine love, a precise sense of the importance it had â and still has â in my life.
I would like to think that if Iâve learned anything during my odyssey, it is to be true to those who have been true to me.
13
ENTER THE MIDGET
The Midget was waiting for us in the car. He was sitting in his usual place, curls falling into his eyes, wearing his check pre-school smock. He didnât react when we climbed into the car, as if we hadnât yet arrived, as if he operated on a time-frame different from ours, similar but not identical.
I didnât want to disturb him. He was still absorbed in his thoughts. Two minutes later he split my head open with his lunchbox.
According to scientists, a black hole is a dark region of space whose gravity traps all matter and radiation that comes within its field. Sort of like an intergalactic Hoover. Though they have not yet been able to prove it exists, there is irrefutable evidence to corroborate the phenomenon: the Midget is one indicator â he is a singularity of negative energy.
The Midget destroyed everything that came within his field. He did not seem physically violent, things simply disintegrated the moment he touched them. Though he turned them with infinite care, the pages of the books I lent him tore in his hands. Though he did nothing but twirl it around, pieces dropped off my Airfix model Spitfire as though it was suddenly struck with metal fatigue, as though the glue had turned to water. Though my medieval soldiers never left my side, the accessories that came with them â helmets, pikes,swords, shields â gradually disappeared. I never found them again, even after an intensive search and repeatedly pleading with mamá and papá to buy me a gold panning sieve and a Geiger counter.
It was impossible to ignore the phenomenon. Even mamá, who always tried to downplay it to mitigate the impact of my various losses, must have had a hard time trying to come up with a rational scientific explanation. Yet the Midget, this Lord of Chaos, was deeply attached to certain objects and certain rituals. He liked
these
sheets and
these
pyjamas, which had to be
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