Читать книгу The President’s Room - Ricardo Romero - Страница 9

From the window of the room I share with my younger brother, we can see the street. The small front garden, the little metal gate with its peeling white paint, the pavement and the street. On the pavement right opposite our house, there’s a tall laurel tree, with a lot of dark leaves. My brother, who’s still little, sometimes climbs it. I’ll be sitting at my desk, doing my homework, and when I look up I see him tucked away among the branches. At first, without fail, I always think he’s spying on me. But then I realise that it’s not me he’s spying on. He’s spying on the president’s room. So then I wave at him, but he doesn’t wave back. I know my parents talk about him more than they do about my older brother and me. And when they do, they do it in hushed tones. They’re worried. For some reason, they seem to prefer to do it in the kitchen. As if that were the place in the house for talking about those things that need to be talked about in hushed tones. They talk about my little brother more, and they talk to my older brother more. I’m the middle child and I’m always in the middle. Conversations aren’t normally directed at me. I don’t mind. It means I can do things like go to the attic and nobody will disturb me for hours.

Nobody knows, or at least I don’t think anybody knows, but I’ve also climbed the laurel tree to peer into the president’s room. Right now, I’m not doing that. Right now, as I’m sitting at my desk and looking at the laurel tree from my bedroom window, I’m wondering what the tree looks like from the president’s room.