forgotten to marvel at: ant nests, balloons,
juicy coloring pens, snails, earwax,
the roar of a plane at take-off, going underwater in the bath . . . He is an
enthusiast of a class of uncomplicated things which have, unfairly, become
boring
to adults; like a great artist, he is a master at renewing his audience’s
appreciation of the so-called minor sides of life.
He is a particular fan, for instance, of “bed jumping.” You’ve got to have a
long runway, he explains; it’s best if you can start
out in the corridor with the
bed covered with a huge pile of pillows and the sofa cushions from downstairs.
It’s crucial that you get your arms properly up in the air as you run towards the
target. When older people like Mama and Dada have a go, they tend to hold back
and keep their arms down by their sides, or else they do that halfhearted thing
where they kind of clench their fists and keep them up near their chest. Either
one reduces the payoff quite a lot.
Then there are the many important questions that need to be asked throughout
the day: “Why is there dust?” “If you shaved a baby gorilla, would it look like a
human baby?” “When will I stop being a child?” Anything can be a good
starting point for curiosity when you haven’t yet got to the stifling stage of
supposedly knowing where your interests lie.
He’s not
worried about seeming abnormal, for there is as yet, blessedly, no
such category in his imagination. His emotions remain unguarded. He is not
afraid—for now—of humiliation. He doesn’t know about notions of
respectability, cleverness, or manliness, those catastrophic
inhibitors of talent
and spirit. His early childhood is like a laboratory for what humanity in general
might be like if there were no such thing as ridicule.
Sometimes, when the mood strikes, he likes to wear his mother’s heels and
her bra and wants to be addressed as Lady William. He admires the hair of his
classmate Arjun and tells Kirsten with considerable excitement one evening just
how much he’d like to stroke it. Arjun would be a very nice husband to have, he
adds.
His drawings add to the sweetness. Partly it’s their exuberant optimism. The
sun is always out, people are smiling. There’s no attempt to peer below the
surface and discover compromises and evasions. In his parents’ eyes there’s
nothing trivial whatsoever about such cheer: hope is an achievement and their
little boy is a champion at it. There’s charm in his utter
indifference to getting
scenes “right.” Later, when art classes begin at school, he will be taught the rules
of drawing and advised to pay precise attention to what is before his eyes. But
for now he doesn’t have to concern himself with how exactly a branch is
attached to a tree trunk or what people’s legs and hands look like. He is gleefully
unconcerned with the true and often dull facts of the universe. He cares only
about what he feels and what seems like fun at this precise moment; he reminds
his parents that there can be a good side to uninhibited egoism.
Even William’s and Esther’s fears are sweet, because they are so easy to calm,
and so unrelated to what there is truly to be frightened of in the world. They’re
about wolves and monsters, malaria and sharks. The children are, of course,
correct
to be scared; they just don’t have the right targets in mind—yet. They
aren’t informed about the real horrors waiting for them in adulthood:
exploitation, deceit, career disaster, envy, abandonment, and mortality. The
childrens’ anxieties are unconscious apprehensions of the true midlife terrors,
except that when these finally have to be confronted, the world won’t find their
owners quite so endearing or such fitting targets for reassurance and a cuddle.
Esther regularly comes into Rabih and Kirsten’s bedroom at around two a.m.
carrying Dobbie with her and complaining of some bad dreams about a dragon.
She lies between them, one hand allotted to each parent, her thin legs touching
theirs. Her helplessness makes them feel strong. The comfort she needs is
entirely within their power to provide. They will kill the daft dragon if he dares
to turn up around here.
They watch her fall back to sleep, her eyelids trembling a little, Dobbie tucked
under her chin. They stay awake awhile, moved because they know their little
girl
will have to grow up, leave them, suffer, be rejected, and have her heart
broken. She will be out in the world, will long for reassurance, but will be out of
their reach. There will, eventually,
be some real dragons, and Mama and Dada
will be quite unable to dispatch them.
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