Grandpa Anton, he took a match and he looked at me (I was sitting on the coach, parallel to his sofa chair, eleven years old) and he looked me, then turning away struck the match on his shoe with a quick pompous gesture, drew heavily on his wooden pipe, then at last-shot a puff of smoke into the air- and then another and another until the tobacco was red hot inside the chimney of the pipe. Satisfied, he continued on, his right hand gasping the pipe, between his index and second finger, resting the side of his palm on the sofa chair, his legs now halfway crossed, his small body pressed backward into the softness of the chair, a wee unshaven. He mumbles in a confidential tone of one who relates to an unbelievable moment of quiet-the television in front of him, no more than four feet away, he's watching 'Gunsmoke' (he loves cowboy movies); it's nine o'clock in the evening. At this moment his thumb moves, he's checking the stuffed burning tobacco in his pipe, so do I-but from a distance.
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