Back home Grandmother suddenly began again to warn me again about strangers who might try to talk to me on the street. Sometimes it was gypsies, sometimes American pederasts, once in a while Chinese organ dealers, but whoever it was, things always ended badly.
Even so, I already had the impression that despite herself Grandmother had begun to relax. She was amazed that a man who looked Mediterranean had brought one of the neighbor’s children back to the home in top health after finding the child on the street, lost. Another person, who likewise had traces of a violent ethnicity in his face, had gone to great pains to bring back Grandmother’s wallet, which she had left somewhere while shopping and had complained it had been underhandedly stolen. He’d turned down a reward as well as a package of chocolates, and Grandmother couldn’t get over it for days: “An Arab, and yet upstanding.” During this time she stopped locking the door every night with a chain.
When she suddenly started again to warn me, I tried to act dumb: “What if the stranger just asks for directions?”
“Get away. Especially if he knows you name.”
“How could a stranger know my name?”
“How should I know?” Despite all the practice she was still not a good liar.
“What if it’s a woman?”
“It won’t be a woman. Definitely not with you. In any case, just get away.”
“But then she’d think I was weird.”
“She’ll think that either way.”
“And what if she says I’ve inherited a million?”
Grandmother’s facial expression irritated me. I’d already forgotten a little what it was like when she worried about me.
“What does he look like, your stranger I’m not to answer?” I asked placatingly.
She avoided looking at me. “I don’t know what he looks like now.”
“Now? What did this guy used to look like?”
“I’ve forgotten.”
“You never forget anything.”
“Red hair,” said my grandmother wearily. “Nose. Glasses. Ugly as the night. Leave me alone, I really don’t know anything more.”