The Other Language(12)

“Emma swam to the island and back with the English boy,” Monica said. She had been waiting all along for her retaliation to take place. The father turned abruptly to Emma, astonished.

“Did you?”

Emma feigned a smile; she wasn’t sure whether his question meant he was proud of her feat. She nodded. He slapped her. Hard. Then turned to Luca.

“And where were you?”

“I … I was …”

“He was with Nadia in Kastraki. They both left me here,” Monica said.

The father slammed his fist on the table and stood up.

“I’ve had enough of you two. I’m sick and tired of this!”

Emma covered her burning cheek with her hand. The father took Monica by the hand and left Emma and Luca without another word.

They looked at each other. Emma felt a terrible loneliness overcoming her all at once. She and Luca had been drifting more and more apart all summer to the point of becoming almost estranged. She understood something frightening was happening. Without their mother, there was no more center, no focus to hold them together. Pulled by an unknown centrifugal force, they were all breaking away from one another. Nadia, Mirella, the English boy, were only the beginning of their disintegration.

She opened her hand and moved it across the table. Luca took it.



Later that evening Mirella reappeared at the restaurant with the hesitant step of a convalescent. She looked around, sluggish and pale. Emma saw her approach in her peripheral vision, while she was letting Monica win at backgammon. The father was sitting next to them, immersed in his book. Peace and order had been silently restored. The girls exchanged a glance when the father reluctantly put his book away and stood up as if he had been summoned. Emma watched him and Mirella as they moved away along the beach into the blue light of dusk. She remembered being startled by the same image a year earlier, but now the scene had converted itself into a quieter, somber version of the previous summer. They were walking with caution, heads down, careful not to look at each other. Mirella seemed to be insisting on something the father would not agree with. They suddenly stopped and faced each other. The father made a couple of exasperated gestures, while Mirella, pleading and submissive, had the air of an obstinate victim. He took a step forward, leaving her behind. Mirella ran after him him and touched his arm. He shook her away. The father’s gesture seemed so harsh and yet so intimate that Emma had to pull her eyes away from the scene. It pained her to see how desperate a woman could become.

It was late when the father came back. He was in a black mood and didn’t make any effort at concealing it. He said he was sorry he had hit Emma earlier, though what she had done was dangerous and irresponsible. He said he needed her and Luca to look after Monica and he also needed them to help him with domestic tasks, as they were not children anymore. They were to be a team now. He articulated each word carefully, like someone rehearsing a speech. The way he was addressing them made them feel important, as if they’d been offered a promotion. He then said he felt it was time to head back home. He realized it was only mid-August and they were supposed to stay till the end of the month, but he was tired of the village. He didn’t bother to come up with an excuse, a lie about work or some pretense emergency.

“You should please pack tonight so we can leave early tomorrow.”

The children didn’t protest. They had been brought up to do what they were told. Mirella didn’t show up for dinner. They would never see her again.



Later that night Emma and Luca sat on the wooden floor of her room while Monica was fast asleep in her bed. Emma watched him open a tin box and pull out a cigarette. He lit it, blew out the smoke in one go and coughed.

“Since when do you smoke?”

“I do it only after dinner.”

She watched him inhale again. He was such a beginner and the gesture made him look silly, just the opposite of how he was hoping to look. She decided not to tease him.

“That English boy. David, the blond one. He said something,” Emma said. “Something crazy.”

“What?”

“Something about Mom.”

Luca tensed like a cat arching his back.

“Why was he even talking about her?”

“He said he’d heard a story.”

“From whom?”

“His … his mother. You can’t repeat it, though.”

Luca’s voice softened, like he knew what was coming.

“I won’t. Tell me.”

Emma knew that once she’d actually said the word, it would be between them for the rest of their lives. But there was no reason to keep it a secret anymore at this point. Everyone knew, they must. The aunts, the schoolteachers, the neighbors, even Penny and the English boys, Nadia and her large Greek family. And the father, of course. She knew Luca knew, just like she did. They’d just agreed never to say it out loud.

Emma glanced over to the bed where Monica was sleeping. She didn’t know yet, Emma was sure of that, but in a few years she too was going to find out. Luca noticed Emma’s fleeting look at their little sister. He gestured toward the door.

“We should have this conversation on the beach,” he whispered.

Outside it was pitch-black, save for a sliver of moon high in the sky. Nobody was around and the only sound was the gentle lapping of the water. They sat very close on the cool sand, their shoulders and arms touching. They did need air, space—they needed darkness, to be able to talk about what they’d been avoiding for so long.