“Knock knock,” he says, “is there anybody in there?
The child is not upset. We are in the subway, in the middle of the afternoon, with the wagon practically empty. There are free seats. The mother and child occupy the one in front of mine. The woman’s question worries me. Could it be that there was no one inside that body or, worse yet, that there was a different child than the one she expects to find? If someone asked me the same question, she would answer right away:
-I’m.
It’s what we answer when they knock on the bathroom door.
-I’m.
Everyone is “me”. But who am I?
The mother, after checking the mobile messages for a while, returns to the attack:
“Knock, knock, is there anyone in there?”
The boy continues impassive. The woman and I looked at each other, we smiled.
“There’s no one,” I tease.
“Don’t say that,” she replies. Can you imagine the body of an empty child?
The idea of the empty body disturbs me again. I am able to imagine an empty house, an empty room, an empty coffin, but not an empty body. At this the boy, as if he had read my thoughts, says:
–The dead are empty. There is no one inside them.
“You’re with the dead again,” the mother complains. Then, turning to me, she clarifies:
He loves to play dead.
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“It’s not that I love it,” the kid protests, “it’s just that I’m dead, that’s why no one answers.”
The woman and I smile again, but my smile is very pale. I am truly scared. At that moment we arrive at a station that is not mine, but where I get off anyway.