The Other Language(45)

“I’ve had no time to do anything else but work. No time to water the garden, look … everything died, tomatoes, eggplants, peppers. Tutto morto.” Mina shook her head, pretending to be worried, but Lara could see that she was gleaming underneath.

In the adjacent room, through the half-opened door, Lara glanced at a flat TV screen. She could swear it had never been there before.

“Ben has to go to Venice for the film festival and he wants this ready for the press conference,” Mina said, holding a light gray linen jacket. “I have been up two nights in a row, the courier comes to pick it up tomorrow.”

Things had changed indeed, in the brief space of one summer: even Mina knew about film festivals and press conferences now.

Lara lowered herself into a chair. “That’s very exciting, Mina. Listen, though, do you think you could make me some curtains? Very simple job, I’ll give you the measurements and all you have to do is the hem at the bottom and—”

“Are you kidding? Eh no, bella mia!” Mina stopped her in mid-sentence, raising her hand. “See how much work I have to do? Look, he sent me a coat he wants me to copy. I’ll show you, it’s very expensive, molto signorile, it’s made in America …”

She opened the armoire and pulled out a huge black coat on a wooden hanger. She turned to Lara and brushed its lapels with an automatic gesture.

“He wants me to make him two of these—two!” She laughed. “He says all his friends compliment him on the clothes I make and now he wants me to stitch his whole winter wardrobe. Look at this …”

Mina put the ends of the sleeves of one of the jackets she’d made under Lara’s nose, pointing to the minute work around the buttons.

“These days nobody hand stitches like this anymore, it’s all machine work. By Chinese people! Ha!” She waved a hand in a dismissive gesture.

“Right. I see. Well, I guess you have no time for the curtains, then.”

“How? Look at me: I haven’t had time to do my hair, cook a decent meal. I am so tired, sometimes I fall asleep right at the sewing machine!”

Her throaty laugh went up an octave.

Lara stood and made a move toward the door.

“Okay, well … I guess this is good for you, Mina. I mean, it’ll bring you lots of work.”

Mina stood up from her chair and grabbed Lara’s elbow tightly. She lowered her voice. “Ben is going to buy that house I told him about. I had my cousin take pictures and I sent him the photos—you know, for his architect to see. He calls me and says, ‘Mina, I don’t need to see it again, I trust you, how much do they need for down payment? Ten percent? No problem.’ ”

Lara didn’t say anything.

“I made him cut a very good deal. He’s getting a local price, no tourist price.”

“Mina, he’s a millionaire!” Lara cried.

“Yes, of course. He’s very elegant, very stylish,” Mina replied, not picking up on the irony.

Lara stood motionless for a moment. She felt betrayed in a way that was difficult to explain. It wasn’t just the curtains. It seemed unfair that, while she had been lying in the shade of her rooms, feeling weak and indolent, just trying to stay in the moment, everyone else’s alliances had been speeding forward. And in her very own backyard at that. She disentangled her elbow from Mina’s grip.

“Okay then, see you around, Mina.”

Mina was already back at the table, her glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose, threading a needle. She barely looked at Lara when she said goodbye. She didn’t seem interested in her anymore, now that she had found a suitable replacement for the barons of her luminous past.



Ben Jackson’s film won the Special Jury Prize at the Venice Film Festival. It was a harrowing drama about a father who kills his child’s mother by accident and the difficult relationship that ensues between father and son. The critics raved about Ben’s performance (“at last Jackson seems to have found his maturity and gravitas”). The German director was a young, controversial, good-looking guy and the press had fallen in instant love with him because he was new and nobody had a reason to hate him for anything yet. By accepting a part in such a low-budget project, Ben had gained a brand-new innocence. The two of them made a cool pair: young independent European director and Hollywood star, each shining his own particular light on the other. Lara watched clips of their interviews, which ran for days on cable, the major networks and YouTube. Lara had to admit Ben looked slimmer and happier. Mina’s shirts and jackets fit him like a glove. Sure enough, there had been no sign of the wife with the sensible shoes anywhere on the red carpet, nor in any of the photos.

Every now and again Lara spotted a small portion of Leo hovering in the corner of a shot, behind a photographer’s camera or obscured by someone else’s arm or head. It would be either a fraction of his profile or the back of his head, at times just one eye and some lips. Only a percentage of him showed—10 percent or 20 percent of his body at the most—the same percentage, she thought wryly, as an agent’s commission. It was disturbing to see him only in fragments, though she couldn’t really tell exactly why.

He hadn’t called her since they’d left her house for Pantelleria. He had only sent a brief text message.

Thank you for the grand hospitality, dear sister!