Arnon Grunberg



They are gone, my godson and his mother. The kid took his trains and puzzles with him.
My computers won’t be used anymore for playing games on Finally I will be able to work.
But the silence in the apartment is now somehow eerie.
The Indian guy who sells me The New York Times every morning will ask tomorrow: “Where is the boy?” Since I don’t have my godson’s charm.
Mother and son left with four suitcases, two bags and a buggy.
I turn people into gypsies.