An orphan, I wandered in black and the vacant eye of the family in a staggered row displayed the festival tents, examined the future and what I would be, I loved the smell of the tramps, I forgot my companions around them. No shout of choruses, tears or tirades below, the drama required the holy hour of oil lamps, I wanted to talk to a kid too shaky to be counted among his race, in his nightcap he cut a figure like Dante’s companion, who returned to himself, the appearance of a slice of soft cheese, already the essential snow of peaks, the lily or the other whiteness of wings inside, I should have asked him to admit me to his superior meals, shared quickly with some elder, sprung against a canvas near train feats and compatible banalities of the day. Nude, spinning in his quickness, surprising nimbleness to me, him, who also began: “Your parents? I have none. Well, if you knew this farce, a father…even the other day avoided the soup, he made faces just as beautiful, as when the teacher threw the slaps and kicks. My dear!” And triumphed by raising his leg to me with glorious ease. “He amazes us, Dad” then bites into the chaste delight of the very young. “Your mom, you haven’t, maybe, you’re alone? Mine eats fiber and the world beats hands. You know nothing, parents are funny people who make us laugh.” The parade was excited, he went. I sighed, disappointed suddenly not to have any parents.