He stared down at me, his mouth partially open, narrow eyes impassive. His bamboo-thin body was clad only in a flimsy tunic and loose pantaloons, more like rags than clothes. “Koma-yah,” I said, “mul isso?” Boy, do you have water? The boy turned his head slowly and pointed. “Choggiisso.” Over there. “Katchi ka,” I said. Let’s go together. Last night, I’d found refuge in this small shed that must’ve once been used to house an ox. All valuable farm animals, of course, had long since been confiscated by the collectives. However, individual livestock pens like this one, high up in the hills on the fringes of arable land, still stood. This was the third shed I’d slept in in as many nights. Strangely, the boy wasn’t afraid of me. He reached toward my beard and grinned. “Halabboji dok-katte.” Just like a grandfather. “Nei,” I said, rubbing the rough stubble. “Halabboji pissut hei.” Yes. The same as a grandfather. From a rusty pump, the boy poured me water in a dented metal pan.
