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riverin the sudden
thunderdarkness of the dayEstha was walking. He was wearing a crushed-straw-
berry-pink T-shirtdrenched darker nowand he knew that Rahel had come. Estha
had always been a quiet childso no one could pinpoint with any degree of accuracy
exactly when (the yearif not the month or day) he had stopped talking. Stopped talk-
ing altogetherthat is. The fact is that there wasn’t an “exactly when.” It had been a
gradual winding down and closing shop. A barely noticeable quietening. As though
he had simply run out of conversation and had nothing left to say. Yet Estha’s silence
was never awkward. Never intrusive. Never noisy. It wasn’t an accusingprotesting si-
lence as much as a sort of estivationa dormancythe psychological equivalent of
what lungfish do to get themselves through the dry seasonexcept that in Estha’s case
the dry season looked as though it would last forever. Over time he had acquired the
ability to blend into the background of wherever he was–into bookshelvesgardens
curtainsdoorwaysstreets–to appear inanimatealmost invisible to the untrained eye.
It usually took strangers a while to notice him even when they were in the same room
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On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedablkst