My grandfather came to live with me. There was nowhere else for him to go. What had happened to all his children? Death, decay, exile—I hardly know. My own parents died of pain. But I must not be too gloomy, at the beginning, or you will leave me, and that, I suppose, is what I dread most. Who would begin a story if he knew it were to end with a climbing chariot or a cross?
The landlady discovered an extra bed somewhere and put it in my room. She raised the rent from nine to eleven dollars. After all, she said, it’s another person using the bathroom. She was right. The poor old man had a weak bladder and he also had to spit frequently. I was surprised at how well he spoke English. I do not remember my parents speaking so well. When they came over, they promised each other that they would never speak another word of their mother tongue. “We begin again, all again,” my father said on
