I WAS WATCHING the boys and thinking. Loukas was writing silently, his eyebrows furrowed, still angry, while Vrasidas, with his hands in his pockets, was pacing back and forth, sitting down and getting up, whistling and singing, making a fuss, trying to show that he was having a good time. But he was terribly bored. Sleepy, I followed him with my eyes, closing one eye then the other, and I pondered. Why did I dislike Vrasidas so much? What was it about him that I didn’t like? His pursed lips? His sluggish walk? Or maybe his gaze that never looked you straight in the face? Was it his flashy ties? His pomaded hair slicked to his forehead? Or simply his contrast with his cousin, Loukas? Because that contrast was great. Loukas, lean, thin, always a bit thoughtful, with his wide blue eyes that looked straight into your heart, his short curly hair brushed back, revealing his forehead. Vrasidas, a year older, fat, soft, clumsy, talkative, a spoiled brat.

But why did all this matter to me and why did it bother me? Why did his presence hurt me so much that I couldn’t take my eyes off him? Time passed and Loukas kept writing. In the end, Vrasidas got properly bored, went up to him and said with an air: — Come on, finish your lesson and let’s go down to the orchard. — Go alone, Loukas replied. I’m not playing with you. — Oh, what are you saying? Vrasidas mocked. Loukas jumped up. “Now there will be a fight,” I thought to myself, and I was a little glad, because I knew that even though he was a year younger, Loukas would give him a good beating. But he held back and sat back down at his notebook. — I don’t play with people who swear, he said. Vrasidas laughed.