VICTORI.He was difficult from the beginning. Difficult is such a useful, vague word, but in this situation its lack of specificity is intentional. This is because almost everything about Victor—every interaction, every exchange, every rite of childhood—seemed particularly fraught, and even the basic facts about him that should have been easy to ascertain became the subjects of labyrinthine explorations and investigations. There are children who make life difficult for themselves through their bad behavior or lack of personality or common sense, and there are others for whom—through genetics or circumstances—life is already difficult. It should be said that although Victor eventually became a member of the former category, he began life with me as a member of the latter.Take, for instance, his age. It was no surprise to me that Victor’s father (or whoever he was) did not know or care how old his child was. The first time I was able to hold him and regard him closely—to scrutinize the smeary eyes, the distended stomach, the scrubby scab of dirty hair, the colonies of glistening, plump lice, each as fat and slick as a grain of buttered rice—I guessed him to be six or so, although an early childhood of malnourishment and disease gave him the appearance of a three-year-old.
