My invisible friend
When my father wants to tease me a little in front of my children, his grandchildren, he likes to tell the story of my childhood friend «Lupidi». «Who was Lupidi?» the children ask. «Lupidi», and at this point my father can almost stop laughing, «that was your father's invisible friend ».
«Why was he called Lupidi?» asks my daughter, apparently less concerned that I had imaginary friends than that they had such strange names. And then I have to tell my children the story of Lupidi.
When I started kindergarten, I had two problems. I hardly spoke any German (my family is Swedish-speaking and we had only recently moved). And I didn't know any of the other children. But luckily I wasn't alone. Because I had my invisible friend with me: Lupidi.
It was Lupidi with whom I replayed the decisive scenes of the day on the way home.
I don't know where he came from or why he had that name. But he was there. Lupidi wasn't an incredibly inspiring guy; he wasn't a good protector or a brave go-getter either. But he was the one with whom I replayed the decisive scenes of the day on the way home.
In therapist style, we reflected on the embarrassing moments and in our retelling, small disasters became glorious triumphs. Once there was freshly baked bread in the kindergarten, and when the warm, fragrant loaf was taken out of the oven, the children shouted wildly and begged for the slice of bread, called a «Knust» in this region of Germany. I, barely able to speak the language, shouted in chorus: «I want the Knust!, I want the Knust!», without knowing what it was all about.
The kindergarten teacher, endeavouring to integrate me, gave me the slice of bread with a loving smile. I was completely perplexed - why did they give me this stupid end piece? I wanted a «Knust» after all! I fought back tears. Sitting next to me was a girl from the second kindergarten class, she had wild blonde hair and incredibly bright eyes and had already caught my eye on the first day.
She leaned over to me and said in a governess tone of voice: «You - have - the - knust», emphasising every single word as if she were talking to someone hard of hearing and pointing to the lousy end piece.
On the way home, Lupidi and I replayed the scene, but in our version, the governess put her arm around me at the end and gave me a kiss. Lupidi was like that, always there to brighten up the humdrum of everyday life.
For a long time, I thought I would be completely different when I grew up.
Then one day he didn't turn up. «Is Lupidi with you?» my father asked me when we were on our way to the summer holidays. «No,» I replied, «I don't need him any more.» That wasn't entirely true, of course.
For a long time, I thought I would be completely different when I grew up. I would never have thought that different layers of experiences would simply accumulate like shells around a core, but that the inside would remain unchanged: a four-year-old going alone to a new place where he knows no one. Accompanied by an invisible friend.
