Epilogue
The ball of wax is hardly a ball at all. He has only just begun it.
The grown-ups around him sense his nervousness.
And his excitement. The man in the strange, pointed mask, with narrow slits for eyes, seems very kind.
He is bending down as low as he can, ensuring that the wax from the huge candle drips only where it cannot hurt or burn a very small boy.
There is a skill to this and the man appears very skilled.
The child looks up at his parents and grandparents.
He seems to want them all to know how excited he is and what a time he is having, staying up so late in this distant yet somehow important country so far away.
He feels a yawn coming on and tries hard to stifle it.
In the process he almost blows out the flame of the candle.
The grown-ups smile. His grandmother takes his photograph then gives a tiny dance from her own long-ago childhood. His grandfather moves awkwardly yet contentedly to the beat of a drum.
And, even behind the mask, they can tell that the old man with the crinkly brown eyes, who seems somehow so familiar, is smiling too.
It is going to be a very special week.