Funhouse. Sergio Kokis

      Printed on recycled paper.

       Set in Perpetua Designed by Scott Reid

      For André, Nicolas and Ilse,

      my companions

       They’re sleeping They’re all asleep They’re sleeping And their sleep is deep

      Manuel Bandeira

      1

      I’M STILL A LITTLE KID. Lili likes to rub against me when we take our afternoon nap. She pulls down her panties. They smell strong. It’s because the baby pissed on them, she says. It feels good and scratchy at the same time. I go along with it and say nothing. My aunt’s kind of cute, especially when she’s not angry, when she sighs and curls her damp legs around me. The room is warm and stuffy, and a strange feeling comes over me that makes me drowsy. The room smells of sleeping baby, sweat and Lili’s panties. When I wake up she’s gone, and I can’t remember a thing. Only the smells linger, mingled with the odour of mould that creeps across the walls. Slanting through the closed shutters, the sunlight carves bright columns of dust in the sultry half-darkness. I’ve got to piss, I can’t wait. Almost every day we play this game, then I get up, weary and lazy.

      There’s nothing to do in the house, there are no toys. I crawl under the beds or look out the window, that’s about it. The baby is too young to play with and my older brother doesn’t like my games. It’s always been that way, we’re the kind of family where everyone goes his own way. Later on, the baby will be my friend, especially when my big brother picks on him. We all live crammed into this apartment, and we all sleep in the same room. Only Lili sleeps on the floor in the living room. Something is missing, something that would make us a family. Everyone seems to be busy with his own troubles.

      Lili still lives with us, but at fifteen, she’s turning towards the street. As soon as she finishes helping my mother, she steps out for a breath of fresh air. Sometimes she goes out at night, too, when there are no cars on the avenue, but before the bars close. She lives in a state of constant irritation, something physical that drives her to anger the moment she puts the baby down. She’s the godmother. St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost causes, is the godfather, so that Lili will find herself a husband as quickly as possible. It’s strange how she can be so sweet when she’s not prey to temptation. But those occasions are rare. Since it’s better for her not to go out alone, and since the baby would get in the way, she takes me along when she goes out at night. I like that a lot, even if I have to be on my best behaviour and act like I’m not there. I do what I’m told because I know the cigarette-vendor will give me empty cigar boxes to play with behind the counter while he sits with Lili. Pretty, sweet-smelling boxes made of dark wood wrapped in colourful labels. I always bring home a few of them for me and my big brother. We turn them into ships, buses, houses or even monsters.

      The shop reeks of tobacco and the sawdust that covers the floor, and the stale beer that drips from the stacked-up barrels. I’m not supposed to get dirty or talk too much. But the more they laugh and tickle each other, the faster they forget I’m there. The customers who are drinking make a lot of noise, and some of them even fight. Others know Lili and give her lemon soda. Meanwhile, I pick up beer-bottle caps for my collection, edging away without her noticing. I go and chat with the drunks at their tables, the ones who are nice and who know I’m with Lili. Once I’ve got my cigar boxes, filled my pockets with beer-bottle caps and drunk my pop, time seems to slow down. It moves so slowly that sometimes I fall asleep in a corner waiting for her to stop chattering. Poor Lili, these outings wear her out. We make our way back home through the empty streets, the two of us, walking fast because it’s late, because I’m sleepy and she’s nervous. But I’m bringing back my booty; it’s been a good night for me. All Lili gets are packs of cigarettes. They’re small and easy for the guys to stuff them into the pockets of her skirt, all the way down, tickling her as they go. Everybody has their own games.

      I can’t figure out Lili. I don’t know how to stop her from getting mad. I don’t know what sets off her tantrums, so my best bet is to keep my distance. Then there are times, just as I’m expecting a smack in the face, when she’s as nice as can be. Take St. Anthony’s Day. We go every year. The place is scary. The convent of

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