Rain Village - Carolyn Turgeon [125]
“Isn’t that something?” he said. He shook his head. “I bet she was a sight.”
“Yes,” I said. “No one ever forgot her.”
“Well,” he said, nodding, “we’ve never seen another like her.”
“What about Isabel?” I asked. “Isn’t she like her?”
“Isabel,” he said, drawing out the word. “No, she’s not really like Mary. Never was. She’s a bit more . . . quiet, I guess.”
“Where did you say I could find her?”
He smiled, hesitated. “She lives in the forest,” he said. “Close to the river. If you follow the river west enough, you’ll come to a little cross. Where they found William. The Finns lived just north of it.”
I shivered slightly and nodded. The spot of that ancient tragedy. Just then the door opened and Costas walked in, freshly showered and holding his camera. His hair was still wet, combed back from his face.
“Ready to eat?”
“Okay,” I said, looking up at him. It struck me, how handsome he was. “Our host was just telling me how to find the Finn house.”
“Great,” he said. He nodded at the man, then put out his arm to me.
Outside, the rain seemed to lick and fizzle at our faces. I caught it on my tongue.
“It’s gorgeous here, isn’t it? I feel so relaxed,” Costas said.
“Yes,” I said, staring out at the hazy street, the fishermen tromping across the muddy road, to the river. Leaves seemed to be dangling over everything, and the trees hovered on top of us, the thick darkness of the forest. “It’s all leaves and water and mud.”
“Where I was raised, it was just flat and hot. Like nothing. It was like being in the middle of blank space. Here I feel embraced by something.”
He was practically glowing, I saw. The rain running down his face didn’t seem to bother him, while I found myself with my palm at my forehead, wincing. The line of shops stretched out in front of us, like a railway track, blurring in the distance. He raised his camera, capturing all of it.
Costas laughed as we arrived at the restaurant. I almost slid on the step, and he steadied me. The rain lashed over the wooden planks as we stepped inside. “Doesn’t it explain so much, just being here?”
We sat down at a table. His eyes were cat’s eyes. “You’re so much like her,” I whispered.
He reached over and put his hands on mine. I jumped slightly, then settled into his touch. So much was going through me, and it was hard to understand: how much was him, how much was her, how much was just what was inside me
We were quiet, taking each other in. The waitress brought us coffee, and I released his hands, took a long sip. The anxiety moving through me didn’t fade. I stared out the window, at the muddy street outside. I focused on a familiar-looking woman and for a moment my heart leapt, until I realized it was the black-haired woman from the riverboat. I looked around the restaurant at all the men and women eating and talking. Everyone’s eyes seemed to be bright blue or green, the colors of the river and the leaves.
“You knew her, Tessa,” Costas said then. “I never knew my mother or anyone related to her. I would give anything for just a few minutes with her. It was just my father and me, always, in the middle of nowhere.”
Something changed in the way he looked at me. I could feel myself blushing and glanced down, embarrassed. “I’m just afraid that you want too much,” he said.
The waitress set our eggs in front of us, and I looked up, met her eye. She smiled vaguely. I looked over at Costas and then back up at her. She was so pale, with long, black hair. She looked like Mary, and like Costas. You could tell they all came from the same part of the world. I had a strange, sudden sense of being all alone.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m wondering if you remember a girl named Mary Finn.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, squinting at me.
I nodded, tried not to show my disappointment. Costas began eating his eggs.
“She lived here a long time ago. Maybe you’re too young.”
“Actually, that name does sound familiar,” she said, wrinkling her forehead. “Finn. I know that name.” She held the name out