And then he would stroke my hair with his cold hands and say, “Papa has to go now, my fawn. Run along.” She takes the photograph back to the other room and returns, fetches a new pack of cigarettes from a drawer and lights one. NW: That was his nickname for me. I loved it. I used to hop around the garden—we had a very large garden—chanting, “I am Papa’s fawn! I am Papa’s fawn!” It wasn’t until much later that I saw how sinister the nickname was. EB: I’m sorry? She smiles. NW: My father shot deer, Monsieur Boustouler.
