Читать книгу His Name is David - Jan Vantoortelboom - Страница 21
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‘DAVID? DAVID?’
‘What?’
‘Which is stronger, the lion or the tiger?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘They never meet in the wild, because they live in different countries.’
‘But what if they did meet?’
‘I really don’t know.’
‘But if you had to choose, which one would win?’
‘The tiger, I think.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s a bit bigger.’
‘David?’
‘What now?’
‘What’s the biggest animal?’
‘In the sea or on land?’
‘On land.’
‘The elephant.’
‘Could an elephant beat a tiger?’
‘Yes.’
‘So the biggest animal always wins?’
‘Not always, Ratface—sometimes many small animals can beat one big one.’
‘David?’
‘That’s enough now, I want to go to sleep.’
‘Just one more question, David. Just one. Please!’
‘All right then.’
‘What’s the biggest animal in the sea?’
‘The blue whale.’
‘Would it beat a killer whale?’
‘Blue whales are peaceful. Killer whales live in pods. They leave each other alone.’
He sighed, not satisfied with my answer.
‘Now go to sleep,’ I said.
He lay down, his white hair disappearing into the soft pillow. All I could see of him was the tip of his nose, and the bulge of the blanket where his feet were. At the foot of our bed was a wooden rack. I had built it for him. It had thirty-six compartments. We had pinned nuts and leaves to the backs of most of the compartments, and put the bleached skulls of at least ten different birds and mammals on the little shelves in front of them. There was also a dung-encrusted cow hoof clipping that Ratface refused to let me clean. All the things I’d collected for him during my walks through the woods. Our greatest treasure was the spine, skull and legs of a rat. We had cut out cardboard labels and carefully written the name of each object on them. The rack was almost full. Beside it were jars of owl pellets, lids tightly shut. He was proud of his collection. I heard his breath get slower, deeper. How strange to be lying in a room with bits of animals that had once been alive. I could almost see the birds fly, feel the wind rush through their feathers, the warm sunshine on their backs and wings as they flew high over the treetops or rested on a branch. I wondered what had killed them. A predator? Old age? Then I heard Father and Mother climb the stairs. Mother’s hair was going grey, especially on the sides of her head. And the occasional strand in her ponytail. Father’s wasn’t. Only his side whiskers had a dull white dusting.
