The boy. The donkey. I slept, also. When I didn’t, I wondered what gives with the boy and with the donkey. Last seen by the writer heading towards a place where he didn’t want to go (the boy). That’s one problem. Leaving open the question of what then happens to the donkey.
Other elements: more reading in La Fête foraine d’autrefois (French carnivals and fairs in the nineteen hundreds – many of the circus people I know, influenced by these); and in Sacks’ Musicophilia, a passing comment about Nabokov’s gifts as a jester and ironist being such, it’s hard at times to know if a comment is meant seriously or not (as it turns out, Nabokov’s son confirms his father’s inability to recognize and enjoy music as anything other than ‘sounds’).
Irony. The double-edged nature of. A gift when it helps make light of moments unbearable without it. A – can’t find the proper word, one meaning a way of avoiding unpleasant truths that throw a nice party into serious disrepair.
Back to the boy. Who is he; why is he still in the story, and what does he want from it? Yes, I believe characters want something from a story, or they wouldn’t stick around in it. Yes, as a medical doctor once verified, I am aware the writer is the source of the characters. But, as for a host of other mind-triggered events (why this piece of music dredged up by the brain, and not that other, for example), your mind being the source does not mean you understand how the process works.
What does this boy have to do with the story? Why was he one of the first characters to show up (inspired by someone playing music at unbearable decibel levels, yet). Why the Polish name?
(The donkey is a sweetheart, as donkeys go. Although writers shouldn’t meddle with their own stories, there’s got to be a way to get him back to his home in the hills above Hautvoir.)