The Boy in the Suitcase - Lene Kaaberbol [49]
That seemed to be a signal Mrs. Mažekienė had been waiting for for a while. She was sitting outside on her own balcony, surrounded by a jungle of tomato plants and hydrangeas.
“Oh, you’re home,” she said. “Any news?”
“No.”
“The police were here,” she said. “I had to make a statement!” She sounded proud of the fact.
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them about the young couple, and about the car. And … erh … they asked about you, too.”
“I imagine they would.”
“If there were other boyfriends, and so on. Now that you’re on your own again.”
“And what did you tell them about that?”
“God bless us, but I’m not one to gossip. In this building, we mind our own business, is what I told them.”
“I think you know that I don’t have a boyfriend. Why didn’t you just say so?”
“And how would I know such a thing, dear? It’s not as if I watch your door, or anything. I’m no Peeping Tom!”
“No,” sighed Sigita. “Of course not.”
Mrs. Mažekienė leaned over the railing. “I’ve made cepelinai,” she said. “Would you like some, dearie?”
The mere thought of doughy yellow-white potato balls made nausea rise in her throat again.
“That’s very kind of you, but no thanks.”
“Don’t forget your stomach just because your heart is heavy,” said Mrs. Mažekienė. “That’s what my dear mother always used to say, God rest her soul.”
My heart isn’t heavy, thought Sigita. It is black. The blackness was back inside her, and she suddenly couldn’t stand another second of Mrs. Mažekienė’s well-intentioned intrusions.
“I’m sorry,” she said abruptly. “I have to… .”
She fled into the flat without even pausing to close the balcony door. It wasn’t nausea that seized her, but weeping. It ripped at her gut and tore long, howling sobs from her, and she had to lean over the sink, supporting herself with her good hand, as though she were in fact about to throw up.
Several minutes passed before she could breathe again. She knew that Mrs. Mažekienė was absorbed in the spectacle from the vantage of her own balcony, because she could still hear a soft litany of “There, there. There, there, now,” as if the old lady were trying to comfort her by remote control.
“There is no harder thing,” said Mrs. Mažekienė, when she heard the sobbing ease a little. “Than losing a child, I mean.”
Sigita’s head came up as if someone had taken a cattle prod to her.
“I have not lost a child!” she said angrily, and marched over to close the balcony door with a bang that made the glass quiver.
But the double lie cut at her like a knife.
AUNT JOLITA WORKED at the University of Vilnius. She was a secretary with the Department of Mathematics, but in reality her job consisted mostly of assisting a certain Professor žiemys. The reason she and Sigita’s mother were no longer on speaking terms became obvious fairly quickly. Every Monday and every Thursday, the Professor came to see Jolita. On the Thursday Sigita arrived, Jolita had just kissed him goodbye by her front door. It had been his cigarettes Sigita had smelled.
At first, Sigita couldn’t understand why this should shock her so. Jolita wasn’t married and could do what she wanted. This was not Tauragė. The Professor did have a wife, but surely that was his business.
In the end she came to the conclusion that the shocking thing was that it was all so petty. She had always known Jolita had done something awful, something Sigita’s mother could not condone in the depth of her Catholic heart. Jolita had sinned, but no one had been willing to explain to Sigita precisely how and why. As a child, she had vaguely imagined something to do with dancing on a table while drunken men looked on. She had no idea where that peculiar vision had come from. Probably some film or other.
And now, the reality had proved to be so mundane and regulated. Every Monday, every Thursday. A bearded, stooping man more than fifteen years her senior, who always forgot at least one pair of glasses if Jolita did not remind him. She might as well have been married, or nearly so. It might