In Our Infancy
Paul, in the bathroom which connected his room with his mother’s, listened tensely at her door. He could hear only her singing, the same old song: he knew it by heart. She had chosen the hotel suite they had had the year before; there was one room for her, another for him. He was seven, a pale, rather ugly child, undersized, with a large mouth, blue eyes slightly protruding, and dryish light-brown hair.
He tried the doorknob, seizing it firmly and turning it with intent stealth. He pressed against it and discovered that, as he supposed, she had locked the door. He undressed, filled with discontent, put on his pajamas, and washed. He dried his face and hands, straightened out the damp towel neatly on the rack, and went into his room, where he stood at the window for a long time looking at the landscaped lawn of the hotel. The yellows, blues, and pinks of the flowerbeds swayed in the early evening breeze.
About the Author