Pompilio made us wash our hands before saying hello. We weren't even going to touch him. He just wanted to see clean hands. For peace of mind. Then he slowly spread his arms and turned halfway round to show off his new outfit. We Magikitos stopped drying our hands. Bloody hell. He looked magnificent.
A plum suit, a waistcoat, brass buttons. They'd even sewn in a tiny pocket for his lucky acorn. He'd saved for months. He kept checking his reflection in a spoon, unable to stop himself grinning. We wanted to give him a hug.
“Careful! You'll crease it.”
We lowered our arms. He'd settle down. There was a picnic in the clearing that afternoon, and Nela was coming home after months away. Pompilio had asked three times when she'd arrive. Now he was asking whether pollen left stains.
His lordship cannot bend his backside
First he ruled out sitting. Then dancing, because of sweat. When somebody offered him a croquette, he stepped back with his hands up as though it were a loaded weapon. The path was muddy, branches might snag him, sunlight might fade the cloth. Within ten minutes he'd banned practically the entire forest.
We had to find a solution. We lifted the shed door off its hinges and laid it flat. Pompilio climbed aboard and stood in the middle. Four of us took a corner each. Whenever we hit a bump, he clutched our hats. He'd spent a fortune turning himself into an anxious piece of furniture.
A snail tried to say hello on the way. Pompilio asked us to overtake. The gentleman's dampness worried him. Our arms were killing us, and we had an idiot in formalwear giving traffic instructions.
At the clearing, we lowered the door onto two rocks. Nela dropped her backpack and ran towards him. Pompilio's whole face lit up. He took a step, noticed her dusty sleeves and stopped.
“It's just that I'd have to send this away for cleaning…”
Nela lowered her arms. “Oh. Right.”
She didn't tell him off. Somehow that was worse. She picked up her backpack and came to help us with the plates. Pompilio smoothed a lapel that was already perfectly smooth. He stopped looking at his reflection.
The pig couldn't give a toss
Hoping to rescue the afternoon, he produced a beef sandwich wrapped in a fine handkerchief. It had cost a ridiculous amount. He offered it to Rufino the pig, explaining where every ingredient came from. Rufino sniffed it and went back to nudging Nela's hand. He wanted her to keep scratching behind his ear. He knew exactly what he'd ordered.
We laughed. Pompilio let out a little laugh too, then swallowed it when he felt a seam tighten. That was when we really felt for him. This was the same brownie who used to dance until a shoe flew off. Now he was guarding his elbows while his friend stood three paces away, somehow miles out of reach.
One of us began humming our walking-home song. The one we'd sing, tired and out of tune, whenever the road seemed endless. Nela tapped a plate along to it. Pompilio's foot started moving. He pinned it down with the other one. The poor sod tried.
Then Nela held out her hand.
“Are you coming, or should I ask the suit?”
Pompilio looked at his sleeve. Then at her. His mouth trembled between a laugh and something he'd been holding in for a while. He stepped off the door, knelt on the grass to put down the sandwich and stained his trousers. We froze.
“Well, that's that. Fuck it.”
He hugged Nela so hard her hat ended up backwards. She squeezed his back. We let out an appalling cheer. We'd got the silly bastard back!
We danced, ate and soaked up a little sunshine. The door became our table. The suit was still beautiful, with its fine stitching and its green stain. Pompilio loosened his waistcoat, shared the sandwich and stopped telling us what everything cost.
After the last croquette, he wiped his fingers, felt his pocket and looked horrified.
“My acorn. I've lost my acorn.”
We all dropped to our knees to look. It wasn't worth a penny. We had to find it.
