It was my tenth birthday. Ma, as usual, was taking the reins.
Everything was in chaos. Dishes were overturned and soaking in pails of water and detergent. Curtains were being hung. Ate Maring was mumbling to herself while mopping the floor tiles.
While Ma was busy, she left me to my own devices. Which meant that I would have to go and look for Papa.
He was seated on one of our rusty makeshift chairs in the patio. "You've grown an inch," he says.
When I grinned, he laughed. "Or so you would like to believe." (Darn that old man.)
He held a square package wrapped in torn newspaper pages in his hands. I didn't know then how apt the packaging was to the present it contained.
"You know I was never inclined to ceremonies. Open it, my darling girl." (No, this is not bad fiction. Papa always used to call me his darling girl. )
"What's in it?"
" An octopus. A parachute. Maybe a star." An indolent grin pops out of his wizened face, reserved for this occasion.
I unwrapped the gift as carefully and as slowly as I could. He never liked seeing me in a hurry.
I knew it was a book. It was always a book.
On the cover, it said LOLITA by Vladimir Nabokov.
I flipped through the pages before looking at him. By that time, I was already used to reading books containing pure text. They weaned me out of picture books when I was 8. But this book was different. The letters were smaller. The words, closer to each other. Starting from page one, there were words I did not know how to pronounce.
The whole novel looked like a marketplace on a Sunday morning.
I did not look at him. They may have taken my interest in pictures away but this looked downright boring.
Because she probably realized that she was engaged in motherly chores, Ma decided to relax and joined us in the patio.
"Nabokov? That's a mouthful."
"We'll see," said Papa, grinning.
For the next 10 years, he never stopped saying "We'll see." To everything.
Thanks, Pa.
Everything was in chaos. Dishes were overturned and soaking in pails of water and detergent. Curtains were being hung. Ate Maring was mumbling to herself while mopping the floor tiles.
While Ma was busy, she left me to my own devices. Which meant that I would have to go and look for Papa.
He was seated on one of our rusty makeshift chairs in the patio. "You've grown an inch," he says.
When I grinned, he laughed. "Or so you would like to believe." (Darn that old man.)
He held a square package wrapped in torn newspaper pages in his hands. I didn't know then how apt the packaging was to the present it contained.
"You know I was never inclined to ceremonies. Open it, my darling girl." (No, this is not bad fiction. Papa always used to call me his darling girl. )
"What's in it?"
" An octopus. A parachute. Maybe a star." An indolent grin pops out of his wizened face, reserved for this occasion.
I unwrapped the gift as carefully and as slowly as I could. He never liked seeing me in a hurry.
I knew it was a book. It was always a book.
On the cover, it said LOLITA by Vladimir Nabokov.
I flipped through the pages before looking at him. By that time, I was already used to reading books containing pure text. They weaned me out of picture books when I was 8. But this book was different. The letters were smaller. The words, closer to each other. Starting from page one, there were words I did not know how to pronounce.
The whole novel looked like a marketplace on a Sunday morning.
I did not look at him. They may have taken my interest in pictures away but this looked downright boring.
Because she probably realized that she was engaged in motherly chores, Ma decided to relax and joined us in the patio.
"Nabokov? That's a mouthful."
"We'll see," said Papa, grinning.
For the next 10 years, he never stopped saying "We'll see." To everything.
Thanks, Pa.
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