8

    I found my father lying in his pyjamas on the kitchen sofa. He had his glasses on and was reading a book. He did not raise his head as I entered. My mother told me that Burhan had been looking for me again. I said nothing. I sat down at the table with my forehead in my hands.
    I had a headache.
    "Where have you been?" my mother inquired.
    "I went for a walk in town," I replied coldly.
    My father said nothing. Looking at him on the sofa reminded me of Mira’s father, who had lain beside him in the field hospital. I tried to imagine my father as a partisan. Even now when the weather was damp he would complain of the aching caused by the scar.
    "Take Doko sends his greetings," I said suddenly.
    He didn’t hear me. I repeated what I had said. My father raised his head.
    "Take Doko? Is that right?"
    My father put his book down. He stretched his legs, stood up and wrinkled his brow.
    "Take Doko? I think I remember him," he said with his eyes fixed on the wall.
    "I met him by chance and he told me to convey his greetings to you. You were together in a partisan field hospital," I said.
    "Oh, yes! We were both wounded on the same day. We were together in one trench. We were shooting at the Germans and at the National Front. A shell exploded right next to us and we were both wounded. That was a quarter of a century ago. Take Doko! He was a good fighter. Quite the hero! Why didn’t you invite him home? We could have talked about old times," said my father, lost in memories.
    I was fiddling with a pencil on the table, deep in thought.
    "If only you had invited him over," said my father.
    I raised my head slowly and looked my father in the eyes. He looked back at me. We seemed to be studying one another.
    "I should have invited him over?" I asked without blinking. "I couldn’t have. I would have been too ashamed," I said.
    A nerve twitched on my father’s face, near his nose.
    "What do you mean, ashamed, Arthur?"
    "I would have been ashamed, father. You have wounded Take Doko to the quick!" I said.
    "We were both wounded by the same mortar shell. You are talking nonsense!" said my father.
    "Take Doko is Mira’s father."
    My father blushed. He ran his fingers through his hair and wiped off the droplets which were breaking out on his forehead. I studied him in silence. His face turned redder and was already covered in sweat. He sat up slowly on the sofa. The redness on his face vanished and he grew pale. My mother became anxious. She knew nothing about Mira’s troubles. She bit her lip and looked at me reproachfully for having upset my father. She came over and laid her hand on his shoulder.
    "You had better lie down, Demo!" she said and turned to me. "What is wrong with you, Arthur? Must you always upset your father? The two of you are constantly at one another’s throats."
    "We weren’t fighting. I spoke quite calmly," I noted.
    "Calm words can hurt all the more," she said.
    My father rose again, speechless, opened the door, gave me a look full of pain and suffering and turned away. My mother, unnerved, followed him into the bedroom.
    The clock on the kitchen table was more audible than ever. I sat there counting the ticking. From the bedroom I could hear my father’s low voice, a succession of sighs and lamentations, interrupted only by my mother’s own sighing. The clock talked to me in the only words it knew: tick tock