"Do you want to continue? Try going to the bushes?" I said tentatively.
"I won't believe you next time." Will looked at the glass jar filled with nothing but air in the hallway. "What time is it?"
Next time I won't let you crawl all over the floor. A fatal mistake. "It seems that there is not enough time." I heard the sound of the door opening and closing in the house. "If you plan to wash the clothes."
"The clothes are yours!" he said, raising his voice again, with a ridiculous tone, like an opera singer being strangled. "And the pants too!"
He remembered it clearly. "Pants, too, I remember. Let's call it a day." I put the glass jar away and went up the steps, lantern in hand. Will followed, his insect net whirring and whirring. I suddenly felt like a babysitter. How many beatings had Will escaped because of my schemes? Perhaps only his rolling pin could tell.
I took Will inside, temporarily putting up with his stinky feet to avoid staining the floor. Before going upstairs, I glanced into the living room. Hanging on the coat rack were my father's black suit and a blue denim jacket. My father and a burly, bearded man sat in the living room, talking in low voices. For a moment, I thought it was Will's father. But the man had brown hair, an unusually muscular build, and a dark complexion—a far cry from Colin Walker's corpulent, alcohol- and tobacco-fueled frame.
Will raced up to the second floor, slamming the bathroom door. I leaned against the wall, listening to my father's conversation with the man. Eavesdropping wasn't new to me, but it wasn't common either. My attention was drawn to the unknown by pure chance. Sometimes, when I passed my father's study at night, or when I passed the balcony at teatime, the air seemed to convey important information to me in unusual ways, a strange rhythm to the sound. In storybooks about war heroes, the valiant Imperial agent always overheard Officer Tubbs's battle plan at the crucial moment, then exploited it with a clever ambush, wiping out the enemy in one fell swoop. Perhaps it was this gift for seizing the crucial moment that played a more important role in the stories than the machine gun itself. I held my breath, waiting for precious intelligence to reach my ears.
Their conversation seemed to have reached a fever pitch. The first thing I heard was my father's slow, fading melody, like the final melody before a symphony reaches its climax. The man spoke next, his voice rich yet slightly hoarse, a quality more suited to the cadences of a university professor. I couldn't see his movements, but I could detect a hint of panic in his words. The sofa creaked constantly. He probably used a lot of unnecessary body language as he spoke, a style that was completely out of place in the classical style of my father's meticulously crafted living room. Looking from the corner, I could see dried black oil stains on his dark blue denim jacket. I concluded that he was a worker in the small town.
"I actually saw the shell, it landed in the direction of the border! On a hill over there! And there was an explosion... The Tubbs are attacking!" He spoke at a speed so fast that it was almost inaudible. "What should I do, Mr. Fowler? I don't want to... I don't want to..."
He fell silent, and my father didn't respond immediately. I had a chance to savor his words. War had broken out on the border, and shells were landing on the hills near the town. Smoke rose ominously from the charred trees.
“It’s not necessarily a shell,” my father said. “I haven’t received any news of the Tubbs breaking through the border.”
"But the border war has already begun! Have you read today's newspaper?" the man continued. "Are we going to have to migrate again?"
I don't want to migrate. But if I have to, I will.
I don’t want to either, I muttered to myself.
"So, you don't think now is the right time? Then what should we do? We..." The man's speech slowed down strangely, as if he had been injected with a powerful sedative. The light in the room was just the right softness, giving people an inexplicable sense of peace.
Notify everyone and be prepared.
My father struck the final note. His voice, as steady as ever, held a calming magic. In this small town, wherever he chose to speak, he was at home. Just as my ancestors had been throughout the long migration, they were the backbone and leaders who united the people's resolve to move forward. They possessed precise judgment and exceptional leadership, navigating the muddy wilderness with the ease of a museum exhibit. The fourth movement of this treacherous border symphony concluded. The outcome was decided.
"Andrew! Come up quickly!" Will's crackling voice came from upstairs. I stumbled up the stairs and headed for the second floor. The light was on behind the bathroom door, and the mosaic glass reflected a blurry image of a fat figure. For some reason, the sound of the water was irritating to me.
That fat pig was using my bathroom. He was covered in the filthy dirt from the back porch and the sweat of a low-born, low-born person. I suddenly wanted to drag him out and give him a beating, just like his mother had done to him. But I couldn't do it, not even with a rolling pin.
On the cabinet outside the bathroom sat a laundry basket, Will's T-shirt and sweatpants crumpled inside. Inside, twisted into a pair of sweat-soaked brown boxers. He'd actually pulled his underwear off along with his pants. My hands clenched involuntarily, a heavy, suffocating feeling in my chest. The war was about to begin.
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