than a jail cell the morning after. I knew he was trying to drag me into the fight, so I held my tongue. I refrained from pointing out that Gabi was not our servant, that she only kept house for us out of the goodness of her heart (and because she was allergic to dust). It was obvious to me that he missed her a lot, not merely as a cook or a laundress but as our Gabi; he was used to her being around the house,to her never-ending chatter, her emotional outbursts, and the jokes he tried not to laugh at.
And he also missed her, I knew, because she made it easier for him to be with me.
Why this was so, why the two of us needed Gabi to feel close to each other, I canât explain. We both just knew it was good to have her there, because she made us, him and me, into a kind of family.
So then weâd have a few more days of sulking and grumbling. And eventually Dad would try to find a pretext to engage her in friendly conversation at work, and she would harden her heart and say that unfortunately his subtleties were lost on her, due to a certain pathological condition of her hide. And he would beg her to return and promise to be nicer, and she would answer that his request had been duly noted and that he could expect her final decision within thirty days. And Dad would shout, âThirty days, thatâs insane! I want to make up with you here and now!â And Gabi would roll her eyes and announce in a voice like the one over the loudspeaker at the supermarket that before entering any agreement, she would present him with her NRPâs, or New Relationship Provisos; whereupon, with head held high, she would exit the room.
And phone me right away to whisper that the old grouch had surrendered unconditionally once again, and we would all be going out for dinner.
On these peacetime evenings Dad seemed almost happy. His eyes would shine after a few beers as he recounted the old stories we knew so well, like the one about busting the Japanese con man with the fake jewelry, or about the time he had to share a kennel with a dog for three days, a boxer bitch from Belgium with a pedigree and a million fleasâso he could catch a dognapper whoâd crossed the sea to steal the priceless canine. From time to time Dad would interrupt the story and ask suspiciously whether heâd ever told it to us before, and we would shake our heads and say, No no, please go on, and as I watched him I could see that onceâ upon a time he had been young and adventurous.
I sat in the train, thinking it would take me weeks to absorbeverythingâthe policeman and the prisoner entering the compartment, raising their handcuffs over me, asking me to decide whether the prisoner had looked into the policemanâs eyes or not, and handing me a gun, and the way my finger twitched on the trigger when I thought the prisoner was about to escape through the window.
In short, I felt like a couple of kids coming home from the movies, saying, Remember when this, remember when that.
But unlike these young film buffs, I was not at all pleased. And the more I thought about what had just happened, the more furious I grew. How could Dad stay with a person like Gabi for so long, I wondered. If Gabi had been a real mother, she would have understood what such a prank might do to a kid like me.
My pride was injured, too, not so much because she had fooled me but because I suddenly realized I was still a child, and grownups could plan things behind my back.
Dad was definitely an accomplice. While Gabi directed the performance and wrote the actorsâ lines, he was in charge of production. First sheâd had to convince him that it could be done, and when he remained skeptical, she said it truly amazed her to see a man like him getting so worked up about such a simple operation. Iâm sure she used the word âoperation.â She knew that would get him. And still he hesitated, I know he did. In some respects he knows me better than she does.