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bears.
    â€œOf course they will, eat up!” He tosses a piece of licorice into the air and catches it between his teeth.
    On my way down the stairs I have to lean against the wall for support. When we cross the courtyard, I throw up in different colours. When my dad gets home, I’m lying on my bed, clutching my stomach. I turn my back to the door and pretend to be asleep.

T here’s a poster on the wall of a teddy bear holding a big toothbrush between its paws; other posters show teeth eaten up by cola. We’re sitting in the dentist’s waiting room. There are building blocks on a small table and a pile of comics. Goldfish swim around in an aquarium, nibbling fish food that floats in the water.
    My dad holds my hand; I’m trying not to cry. A toothache kept me awake last night. I told my dad about the boy in the courtyard, about the games, about Squeeze the Rabbit and Bear with No Eyes. I told him about all the sweets we’d eaten. My dad smiled and said that you don’t get cavities that quickly, that it’s good that I’ve made a friend. Even a bad friend. Often they’re the ones who teach you the most. And yet it feels like a punishment. I vow never to see the boy again. Never ever. He can wait for me in the courtyard all he wants; I’m not going down there.
    I pick up a Donald Duck comic from the table, but I can’t read the words. I’ve got tears in my eyes and I don’t care if Uncle Scrooge loses all his money.
    â€œThe dentist will have a look at it,” my dad says. “I’m sure it’ll be all right.”
    I want to believe him, but we haven’t spoken to anyone since we arrived. We just sat down on the last empty chairs in the corner. I don’t understand how the dentist will know when it’s our turn.
    My dad takes my hand and says: “ Virtute et armis .”
    I reply: “With bravery and weapons.”
    He says: “ Iacta est alea .”
    â€œThe die is cast.”
    â€œAnd who said that?”
    â€œCaesar.”
    â€œAnd he was?”
    Slowly the waiting room empties while we go through the Ads, such as Ad infinitum , ad libitum , ad notam .
    We’ve reached Ad vitam aeternam . I say: “Towards eternal life.”
    We’re now the only two people left. My dad gets up and takes my hand; I follow him past the door to the secretary and into the surgery. We stop in the doorway; we see the dentist, busy putting out tools on a metal table. He looks my dad’s age, possibly a little younger. He has dark hair and high temples. A cigarette is smoking itself in an ashtray on the windowsill; he glances up at us.
    â€œYou need to make an appointment with my secretary. We’re closed for today.”
    My dad crosses the threshold, and says: “I’d like you to examine my boy.”
    His voice is almost pleading.
    The dentist looks up again, rather surprised that we’re still there. He takes a drag of his cigarette and stubs it out in the ashtray.
    â€œI can’t help you if you haven’t got an appointment.”
    â€œMy boy’s in pain.”
    â€œI’m sorry . . .”
    We enter the room, my dad at the front, me right behind him.
    â€œYou can see that he’s in pain.”
    â€œI’m sorry, but . . .”
    â€œI don’t have a health insurance card and I haven’t got any money so I can’t pay you. But I know that you’ll want to help us.”
    The tone of my dad’s voice has changed; it’s now a friendly demand. The dentist is about to say something, but my dad starts speaking again. “All those years of study just so that you can tick boxes and live in a nice house . . . ?”
    The dentist looks a little confused; he opens his mouth, but he doesn’t say anything. My dad holds his hand a few centimetres from his arm, so close that he can almost touch the white fabric of the dentist’s coat.
    â€œYou want to help us.”
    My