My middle son, four-year-old Kaas, is imperturbably himself in our family. First of all, he looks different from his brother and sister. They are robust, with full cheeks, lots of hair and thick skin that tans easily. Cheese is short, pale, narrow, with a freckled nose, green eyes, and straight, wispy hair. You fold him up like a package, his wrists are fragile. He is our sparrow child.
While the rest stand on their heads to receive applause from the others, he sits in a corner, whispering, petting the cat. When there is fanatical dancing, he moves phlegmatically, like a mocking mime, between us. If you ask him what he likes or likes, he answers with sparkling eyes ‘nothing’. Not because he doesn’t really like anything, but because he gloats about anything that smacks of absurdism or, even more fun, nihilism.
Recently we were on the beach with a friend. Where we tried to throw gobs of sunscreen at our struggling children, he wore a pearl necklace, a flapping silk blouse and Versace glasses. Leaning on his elbows, he stared at the horizon, his long hair in a ponytail, as cool as a late thirties can be. Kaas was now at a distance from his brooding parents, crouching in the surf with his slim body, stirring the sand.
But after half an hour he suddenly came walking towards the base camp, his hands full of shells and stones. He ignored us and carefully laid his treasures in front of the friend, like a sacrifice, he almost bowed to it. They talked together about the shapes and colors, the whole interaction unemphatically to an unwitting passerby, a child and a man, some chatter. But we were watching the scene with wide eyes. Because reverence, let alone admiration, are normally strange to Kaas.
Back in the car, sister and brother were snoring, he sat quietly pondering, until suddenly, clearly and decisively, he announced that he also wanted to become a rich pirate.
And I envisioned it. The rudder of a ship, the kind with a curly wood frame, a languorous mermaid on the prow. He with a red beard, two stiff legs, while he scans the waves with his sea eyes, looking for monsters and sharks. That there would be a long table behind him, with the most delicious dishes piled high on it. Raspberry pies, a hen with a golden skin. That the crew sings songs during dinner and he sits at the headboard, slightly amused. That he lies on the deck at night to look at the stars. That afterwards he puts on his rough silk nightgown in his cabin and puts his emerald rings on the bedside table.
I decided not to tell him that the world is full of rich pirates these days. That they run big companies or even be presidents. That they eat everything, lock it away, take it away.
I looked at him through the rearview mirror. He looked back kindly.
And I knew: I didn’t have to explain anything to him.