This man just picked up his children from school – a girl of about 13 and a boy of about 11 – and took them for a snack on the covered terrace where I have my mid-afternoon coffee. He is one of those divorcees who appear liberal and doctrinaire at the same time on the day they have to become parents. He tells the kids to order whatever they want, but warns them of the danger of industrial pastries. In the end the children order toast with butter and jam and a drink.
“With soft drinks,” he warns, “be careful: they all have sugar.”
The brothers exchange a meaningful look, but say nothing. After the waiter has served the order, the adult clears his throat, a sign that he is preparing to say something important for the children’s education. I’m listening to see if I too can benefit from the teachings of this well-built individual.
“Let’s see,” he begins, “do you clean your belly button when you shower?”
—What do you say? – asks the girl with the toast halfway between the plate and her mouth.
“The belly button,” the father continues, “is a repository of shit.” It smells bad to most people.
The children seem surprised, a situation which the adult takes advantage of to invite them to insert their index finger into that fundamental hole and bring it closer to their nose. The girl and the boy look to the side and secretly stick their hands under their clothes. They soon smell the result and both look disgusted.
—Terrible, isn’t it? – exclaims the parent.
“Well yes,” the girl admits out loud while the boy nods.
I come home, go to the bathroom and do the same thing to see what my belly button smells like. It smells like my dead mother, I think. The fact is that a few tears shed my eyes.
