![]() ![]() I was annoyed that he hadn’t bothered to read the book, because I was convinced that when he realized the child narrator’s father had been abducted and taken to a labor camp and would never return to the story, which the protagonist spends waiting for his return, when he was forced to question whether the young Djata really loves his father or whether he simply loves the idea of his father’s absence, he would never be the same again. I fiddled with the book on the table as if I hadn’t heard his question. I told him there weren’t many stories written about my homeland and gave him György Dragomán’s The White told him to read it slowly and think about its story, but he hadn’t even opened it. He’d asked me to lend him a book that would tell him about my homeland. In addition to a DVD and a carton of juice there was a book in the bag. I pulled him into the living room and put the plastic bag on the table. As he placed his open bag on the hallway floor I noticed he’d brought clothes and shoes with him, and I noticed they’d been thrown into his bag willy-nilly, that the shoes were dirty. ![]() He slipped his hand under my shirt, his thick, curved fingers gripped my bare skin, his teeth nibbled my lower lip, and he stood in front of me smiling. The following evening, he handed me a plastic bag and kissed me just the way he had before, as though six months hadn’t changed a thing. ![]()
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