The unfairness of it all
Anja turned three yesterday. For her past two birthdays, I’ve given her dresses. This time around, I gave her a box of Play-Doh, because, as I told Dada, what kind of gift do you give to a three year old deaf-mute?
Anyway, E. was at the birthday party as always. We found out that he’s already 70 and therefore in possession of a senior citizens’ card, which he kindly let M. use so that she could get 10% discount on pizza. As always, with E., talk is ironic, intellectual and depressing - the state of the country, the stupidity of youth, the traps of history, inflation, the stillness of his house when his wife’s at work, the unfairness of it all, etc. etc. But he’s always fun to be with, even though I loathe that word to describe him. He likes detective fiction, it turns out. So I promised to leave a Henning Mankell novel in his pigeonhole if I drop by the uni some time. Mankell is Swedish and he’s Bergman’s son-in-law, hence the existentialist, bleak drama in the series, I said. With Bergman, he said, even if you’re not depressed, you’ll get depressed. And that’s why, I said, I keep putting off seeing his films! When we were leaving, he let himself be kissed by Anja. He bent on his left side so that the little girl could plant a kiss on his cheek. Until now, such gestures from him - which shows that this combative, bitter old lecturer of my anxiety-filled college years is fit to be a grandfather - still surprises me.