The Boy in the Suitcase - Lene Kaaberbol [51]
“I’m Julija,” she said, holding out her hand. Sigita couldn’t release her grip on the table, so the woman’s gesture transformed itself into a small pat on the shoulder, presumably meant to be soothing. “We have a room ready for you. If you can walk, that will probably be the most comfortable for you.”
“I. Can. Walk.” Sigita hauled herself upright without letting go of the table. She began to waddle after the woman whose name was the same as Granny Julija’s. Then she discovered that Jolita wasn’t following. Sigita stopped.
Jolita was wringing her hands. Literally. One slim-fingered hand kept stroking the other, as though it were a glass she was polishing.
“You’ll be fine, darling,” she said. “And I’m coming back later.”
Sigita stood utterly paralyzed. She couldn’t mean … surely, she couldn’t expect Sigita to go through this alone? Unthinkingly, she reached for her aunt with a begging gesture she regretted seconds later. Jolita backed away, staying out of reach.
“I’ll bring you some chocolate,” she said, smiling with unnatural brightness. “And some cola. It’s good for when you’re feeling poorly.” And then she left, walking so quickly she was nearly sprinting. And Sigita suddenly realized why.
It was Thursday.
NINA PARKED THE Fiat in the narrow, cobblestoned part of Reventlowsgade, squeezed in between a row of classic Vesterbro tenements on one side and the Tietgensgade embankment on the other. On top of the embankment, the traffic moved past in uneven, noisy jerks.
The boy wriggled as she pulled the shorts up around his skinny waist, but he was apparently pleased with the slightly over-sized sandals. He picked at the velcro straps with his short, soft fingers, and Nina cautiously stroked his hair. She found the water bottles, unscrewed the cap of one of them, and held it out to him.
“Atju.”
The boy accepted the bottle earnestly, and drank with clumsy greed. Some of the water sloshed onto his chin and the new T-shirt, and he silently wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
The motion was so familiar that for a split second, Nina felt as if she might be sitting in a car with an ordinary child on their way home from a long day at the kindergarten. Slowly, she repeated the word to herself. Atju. Wasn’t that the same thing he had said when she gave him the ice cream earlier?
It had to mean thank you.
Nina recognized the slight nod and lowered eyes that most children learn to produce as an automatic reaction. “Thank you” was the first phrase taught by any parents with the slightest ambition to raise a polite child. It couldn’t be a coincidence, thought Nina. Both times, she had been giving him something. The word was clearly designed for such situations. So, thank you. It made her task a little easier, as “Mama” was probably a too universal to be much use.
Nina opened the door and got out of the car. Heat still clung to the pavement and brick walls, and the heavy diesel fumes rising from the central railway station stung her nostrils with every breath. A faint puff of wind whirled a scrunched-up cigarette pack along the curb, until it came to rest against a tuft of yellow grass poking up between the paving stones.
The boy permitted her to lift him from the car only with reluctance, and once out, insisted on walking himself. He became tense and unmanagable in her arms, arching his spine and throwing back his head in silent protest, and when she gave in and let him slide to the sidewalk, she thought she had caught a glint of triumph in his tired eyes. He landed neatly, his new sandals meeting the pavement with a crisp and satisfied smack. Then he reached for her hand as though that was the most natural thing in the world. He was used to walking this way, thought Nina. He was used to holding someone’s hand.
THEY WALKED UP Stampesgade and turned right along Colbjørnsensgade, and then on to Istedgade. The boy’s hand rested in hers, lightly as a butterfly, as they slowly moved past Kakadu Bar and Saga Hotel. There