He pants at my door.”
“Who?”
“Von Swine.”
“The principal? When?”
“Call him von Swine.”
“Okay. When does von Swine pant?”
“In the middle of the night.”
“What does he want?”
“At three in the morning? To give me a new box of chalk.”
“Is the door locked?”
“The door has no lock.”
“Miss Tuyeni?”
“She sleeps heavy. Since we were girls. One morning my father hit her with a bottle.”
“So he pants?”
“Yes.”
“Why doesn’t he just walk in? It isn’t like he’s shy.”
“He’s being polite. He’s waiting for an invitation.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Do?”
“Can’t you call the school inspector? Report him.”
“The inspector? What would I say? My brother-in-law stands outside my door and breathes heavy?”
“Why not?”
“Like a dog out there, aching. I listen to him. I’ll give this to him: The man’s a revulsion, but he has rhythm. I sleep to him—huh, huh, huh.”
“Huh, huh, huh?”
“Huh, huh, huh, huh, huh.”