The old man, Marko’s grandfather, pushed him around the perimeter of the yard picking blackberries, and Marko arrived at the end of the tour with blue-stained lips and fingers and a sweet tingling on his tongue asking for more. The old man handed him a soft peach. He bit into it, juice gushing and spilling down his chin, onto the front of his shirt. The old man freaked out about that, shuffling as fast as he could—which wasn’t very fast—into the kitchen to grab a wad of napkins, which he thrust, scowling, toward Marko’s face. Marko was too busy loving the flavor in his mouth to stop the drool. The rough invasion of the napkin caused Marko’s arm to fly up and knock the old man’s arm away.
“Stop that,” Marko said, spitting out a little more peach in the process. The old man stumbled backward and looked at Marko. His expression was a collage of shock, anger, and hurt. It settled and solidified—wounded, like a chastised puppy—and the old man slunk away into the house. Marko’s mom came out.
“What happened?” She looked after her father, concerned, and then back at Marko.
“Why is this so good?” Marko asked and took another bite of the peach. She smiled.
“It tastes like sunshine, right?”
“Light, it tastes of light,” the old man said, wandering back again. “You musn’t spill the light.” He came back at Marko with the napkin, and this time, Marko let him wipe the juice and pulp from the front of his shirt. Kali walked out and Marko was left alone in the room with the old man. His face, so close to Marko’s as he cleaned his shirt, was there for the studying. His eyebrows were bushy white caterpillars with a few coarse black hairs throughout. His face was deeply lined. His breath smelled sweet and slightly rotten. His nose was wide and red. Up close, taken separately, his features were completely alien. Marko had never seen anything like them. But when the old man stood and looked down at Marko from a bit of distance, there was deep familiarity that seemed much older than the generation separating them.
“What happened with you and Grandma?” Marko asked. The old man sat down at the table and faced the window so that Marko was looking at his profile. He sighed and slumped a bit. Marko waited but the old man was silent. “You haven’t lived together for a long time,” Marko said. “Are you divorced? My parents are divorced.”
“No, not divorced,” he said and paused. “To keep a relationship on course, there is a need for secrets and lies, for hiding and hoarding. We didn’t follow those rules. There has never been a secret between us. No relationship can survive that.”
Marko felt feelings number six and fourteen. He watched the shape of them rising in his body and felt the dark body press close.
“Can I have another peach?”
The old man smiled. “You’ve consumed too much light; you’re very bright. I need sunglasses to look at you.”
“That’s just it. I need its lightness so I’m not so heavy. I read this novel of my mom’s? Called The Unbearable Lightness of Being? And it’s about the heavy, physical body versus the light body, the metaphysical body. Like the soul? Anyway, my friend Malik told me that. He read it too.”
The old man looked at Marko. His eyes looked like glass, they were so still and unblinking. “Did your mother give you that book?”
“Sort of,” Marko said.
“That is no book for a boy to read.”
“I’m not a boy. I’m almost fifteen. I’m practically a man.”
The old man smiled. Even his smile looked like a frown.
That night, Marko’s mom tucked him in. He was to sleep on a mattress on the floor in the den—the room that had been his grandfather’s office. Just outside of it and around the corner were the stairs, and under the stairs, the long-awaited second dream bed portal. Marko lay and listened for the sounds of footsteps in the house to stop. Then he listened for a long while more until he was sure everyone was asleep. When he was certain, he dragged himself to his chair. Marko wasn’t used to getting into his chair from the floor. He could transition easily from his bed, but found that he could not from the floor. He had no choice but to drag himself to the portal.
Marko moved slowly, trying hard not to make too much sound. But the sounds of his legs dragging and the floor creaking under the weight of his hands were as loud as explosions. He arrived at the small door beneath the stairs and opened it. Inside, the space was filled with books. Stacks and stacks of books. Looking at them, Marko had a sense of déjà vu. There was no way he would fit in there. He’d have to remove the books first.
“Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
Marko startled and whirled. It was the old man. He stood near the bottom of the stairs, staring down at Marko.
“Sorry, I . . . I couldn’t sleep,” Marko said.
“Looking for something new to read? All of those books are in English.”
“Yes, actually,” Marko said. He reached in and took out a book. Timaeus. It was by Plato. Marko was not at all interested in reading it, but he saw the way the old man’s face brightened when he recognized it.
“Ah, yes, that book is a must-read. You’ll be an expert on the world soul and the nature of the universe.”
“Thanks,” Marko said and tucked it in his waistband before dragging himself back to his room. His grandfather followed slowly behind.
“An old friend very dear to me gave me those books many years ago. He passed away before you were born. Those books are all that’s left of him,” his grandfather said. Marko looked at him blankly, not knowing what to say. Did the old man want him not to take the book? He pulled it out of his waistband and held it up to him.
“No no, you go ahead and read that. You seem to be reading well beyond your years, so this should suit you fine. Goodnight,” the old man said.
“Goodnight,” Marko said.
Marko lay awake a while longer, listening, but all he heard were the howling dogs outside. The city was overrun with stray dogs, his mom had said, and they gathered in the foothills every night to howl at the moon. He didn’t hear a sound in the house. It was as if the old man were a ghost.