My name is Jennie, and I am seven years old. I love The Children of Bullerbyn Village and The Smurfs, and I have two dogs.

Tonight, I am relaxing in our living room with the newest Donald Duck comic book in my hands. It’s late, almost nine o’clock, but my mother let me stay up longer today. My mother is sitting in her favourite armchair, immersed in her newspaper.

I am about to begin reading the new Donald Duck story when I suddenly recall something. “Mother?” I ask innocently. “Can you help me? I need something for school. Homework.”

She sighs. “For tomorrow?”

“No, for Wednesday. I have to bring a sword. It can be wooden.”

My mother raises her eyebrows. “A sword? Shouldn’t it be made of metal?”

Her question puzzles me. “I don’t know.” I rack my brains to recall my teacher’s instructions. “Wooden will be better,” I decide.

“I hope it’s not for a religion class.”

The doorbell rings. My mother walks off to the main door. This must be my father, he told us he would stay longer in his office.

Suddenly, I hear a scream. I bolt out of the room. My mother is standing at the door now, her face is blanched, her eyes are wide open. So this is not my father.

“You are mistaken, sir,” I hear her calling at someone I cannot see.

“This is not a mistake,” responds a cold, male voice. “Out of my way, woman.”

Someone pushes my mother aside, and she almost loses her balance. In a twinkling, our hall fills itself with strangers. There are two giant men in tracksuits, they both look like Mr Proper from tv commercials. There is one man, who is about twenty years old, dark-haired and handsome. And finally, there is a dark-haired, stout man with black eyes  and a well-trimmed beard. If it weren’t for a thick golden chain around his neck, he would look like Porthos from The Three Musketeers. I know the last man. This is Mister Ivanski, a companion of Uncle Benny, who is my least-liked relative.

Mister Ivanski takes off his hat,  throws it to Mr Proper and sighs ostentatiously. “Where is your husband, woman?”

**

A minute later, we are ushered back to the living room. Mister Ivanski takes the best armchair. Two giants stand behind him, like knights protecting their king. The younger man slides into another armchair.

Mister Ivanski folds his hands into a steeple. “I was directed to you, Mrs. Meier. It seems that Mister Meier owes something to me.”

My mother and I exchange puzzled glances. Whatever can be said of my father, he is not a spendthrift. Father is a man who is fond of books and newspapers, and who spends most of his free time in the garden, tending to our plants. He has very little in common with Mister Ivanski and his companions.

As a well-brought-up girl, I decide to solve this misunderstanding. My mother buys women’s newspapers, and the journalists always recommend solving conflicts before they appear.

I slowly raise my hand. “Excuse me?” I ask politely. “Are you sure you want to talk to my father? Meier is a very popular surname.”

Mister Ivanski glares at me. “Are you suggesting I am wrong, child?” he asks in an offended voice.

I drop my glance. “No, sir.”

“Good.” Mister Ivanski snaps his fingers. “I am hungry,” he announces. “You should bring me some food. No, not you. Let the child do it.”

My mother holds her breath.

“Do you want cake?” I ask amiably. “We have some cheesecake.”

“Can be,” decides Mister Ivanski. “Be quick about it.”

I return after a minute, with a tray of cake, a bottle of lemonade and a teapot. I could not find matching glasses, so I brought two glasses and two mugs. I hope Mister Ivanski won’t pay attention to it. My mother is sitting on a chair opposite Mister Ivanski, immobile like a statue. I put the plates on the table, pour the lemonade and arrange some napkins. Elegant people always have napkins on their table. I think it’s a nice touch. We need to stay elegant, even for unforeseen guests.

Mister Ivanski takes a sip of tea. “Good. By the way, do you have any newspaper?” he asks.

“It’s on the other table.” I march to the other table, grab the paper and hand it over to him. “There’s an article about you, on the second page.”

“Why not on the first page?” demands Mister Ivanski. He grabs a piece of cheesecake and stuffs it in his mouth. “Tasty.” He wipes his fingers against his trousers and skims the newspaper. “Police are searching for dangerous criminals.” He lets out a little laughter. “Dangerous criminal, that is how they call me.”

Suddenly his smile curdles. “Oh, no.”

He points at a black and white photo. “What an awful photo! How dare they put such a photo of me. I look so ugly. Am I truly that ugly?”

A hush falls.

I dare to have a closer glance at the photograph. As a good lady, I am determined to dissolve the tension among our guests. “No, sir, I think you look better in person. Much better. Next time, you will have to smile on your police portrait.”

“Probably.” My words soothe Mister Ivanski. He smiles and elbows his younger companion in the side. “They have your photo too, brother.”

I beam at the younger man. “So you are Mister Tracz, sir. Suspected of drug trafficking and illegal weapon trade,” I read aloud.

My mother gasps and moves her lips in a wordless prayer.

Mister Tracz stares gloomily at me.

“You look very well on this photograph,” I say politely. “You resemble Aladdin. You are very handsome, sir.”

Mister Tracz chuckles.

**

An hour passes, and my father is still not there. As my mother is still in the state of shock, I step into her role as the hostess of our home. I know it is impolite to let your guests get bored. They write so in the newspapers. A good host has to cater for his guests. Therefore, I offer our unexpected guests a chance to play domino. Mister Tracz politely declines, but Mister Ivanski is fascinated by the game. He orders his guards to sit beside him and play with him.

I take the deck and cut it several times before handing the cards to Mister Ivanski.

“Do you like your job, sir?” I ask the closest Mister Proper. The adults often talk about their jobs, so I think this is a good conversational topic.

Mister Proper shrugs his shoulders.

The doorbell rings again. This must be Dad, finally.

“Shall I?” I rise from my chair.

Mister Ivanski nods.

I dash to the door and open it. As I have expected, the person behind the door is my father.

“You’ve got guests,” I inform him.

“Guests?” he glances at me, puzzled. “Who?”

I hear sounds behind me. Mister Ivanski is now standing at the opposite wall, his arms folded, his face inscrutable. His giants are standing by his side. Mister Tracz is there as well, leaning against the wall.

My father glances back at me, and all colour is gone from his face. “Who are they?” he whispers.

Mister Ivanski beckons at Mister Tracz. “Are you sure this is the guy?”

Mister Tracz takes a few steps forward. He narrows his eyes and looks Dad up and down. “No,” he says. "This is not the guy.”

Mister Ivanski heaves a deep sigh. “Next time, check your addresses, brother.” He rolls his eyes. “At least, the dessert was tasty.” He turns to my mother. “Pack that cheesecake for me, will you, woman?”