Now it is time to tour the entire house, as though to reclaim it perhaps. But my two guests are entitled to know all there is to know about this place, and for me, this is proving to be an important rite of retaking my heritage, my ancestry. I have not stayed or slept here, I don't know in how many years. After Greta left, I did stay here for a week, in my old bedroom, on Dad's insistence. He wanted me to feel supported. We have gone from the kitchen, to the dining room and into the living room. Now the hallway where one door opens to the den. It appears completely undisturbed, and I wonder if the tenants ever went in here. The red sofa bed is still here. A classic hideabed.
"Is this where I'll be sleeping tonight?" says Carl, removing the two cushions and pulling out the mattress. It is all made up with clean sheets and blankets, and now, on the floor near the corner, I notice the two pillows in white slips. I'm sure this hasn't been touched since the day Dad died.
"I'm giving you my room upstairs, Carl. And Francois will be in the other room upstairs. I will be sleeping in my dad's bedroom."
"Your father has quite an impressive library", says Francois, examining the wall perpendicular, full of book crammed shelves.
"He was quite the scholar", say I.
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