The Loser
György Konrád
1982
Grandfather scurries from cupboard to cupboard in his black coat; he looks in every corner, checking for bread crumbs in my treasure drawer, under my crystals and shells. He rummages through Grandmother’s drawer, too; he might find some crumpled biscuits under our baby pictures. This time he disregards the photographs of dimple-bottomed infants in…
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