The Story of Silence (Book 3)

Chapter 3

Blahdy blah, same place as before. July 10th, 1990:

Jonathan’s life at the orphanage was enjoyable. There was nothing wrong with it, nothing that he wanted to change. Everything he needed he had and there was nothing that he could think of that he needed, besides more books.

He loved to read. Whenever he had a free moment he would curl up somewhere in the church, where it was normally always cool and quiet, and just read. Reading was where he learnt everything. He learnt to write by reading, and by age nine he could write better than most of the children in the village.

And he loved to talk. Well, not really talk, but talk without speaking. Talk with the use of pen and paper. If there was someone next to him he would bring out his pad and write a note saying ‘hello’. A lot of the time the person next to him would pay him no attention, and if that happened, he would just put away his pad and pen and let it be. If they didn’t want to talk, that was fine.

He was at the moment sitting in the church reading one of the books that Doctor Faloni had brought for him. He liked Doctor Faloni, who would always drop by whenever he had a spare moment and see how Jonathan was doing and ask what he’d been up to.

He was just in the middle of an exciting part of the story when there was a knock upon the doors of the church. It was just a single knock, and then there was another shortly after, like the person knocking wasn’t sure if they should be knocking.

From his seat at the front of the church, near where it reached the stage, he watched as Father Demetre walked to the door, taking his time. It looked like he was battling with himself if it would do him good to answer it. It was kind of silly to Jonathan, if there was somebody at the door, you should answer it. He turned back to his book; it was more interesting than somebody knocking on the door.

Jonathan had been right though. Father Demetre had been battling with himself about whether or not it would do him good to answer the door. He knew it was silly to think that, no-one ever knocked on the door if they didn’t want something that he couldn’t give. Some advice desperately needed? A place to stay for the night, food and drink, a book he could lend? Those were just some of the things he could do.

Finally when the knocking had started up again after a long break, Father Demetre reached the door and opened it. The man that stood before him on the steps was large, not overly large, and Demetre didn’t think that it was fat that made him large. The man held a red and white cap in his hands which he twisted nervously round in a circle; he had a big moustache and bushy eyebrows which seemed to hide his eyes.

The man took a step back and did a sort of half bow when the door was opened.

‘Sir, uh, Father,’ he said, recognising the robe and the white strip around Father Demetre’s neck. The man had a deep American accent and his voice positively rumbled.

‘What can I do for you, my son?’ inquired Demetre; he was taken aback by the large man before him. What could he do for this man? Demetre knew English, it was important to in his line of work. All sorts came to him and it was always good to be able to talk to them in English. Almost everyone spoke English in the village, so he was glad that he had taken the lessons.

‘I heard the, uh, orphanage is here?’ the man's voice rumbled.

‘Um, yes, it is here,’ replied Demetre, now worried. No-one ever came asking for the orphanage, especially strangers. ‘May I ask why you are interested?

‘I’d like ta adopt a child. I have all the necessary paperwork in here,’ the man said, holding up a briefcase that had Demetre hadn’t noticed before; he couldn’t take his eyes off the man’s size.