The Boy in the Suitcase - Lene Kaaberbol [81]
“This is Mrs. Orlovienė,” said Jolita. “Greta, this is my niece, Sigita.”
Mrs. Orlovienė nodded, with a certain degree of reserve.
“Mrs. Orlovienė rents the back bedroom,” Jolita continued her introduction. “So you can’t just move back in, if that’s what you are thinking.”
“No,” said Sigita, somewhat taken aback. “That’s not why I’m here.” Whatever had happened to the Aunt Jolita she remembered? The coal-black hair, the colorful makeup, the jazz music and the professor’s cigarettes? About the only remnant of that Jolita were the golden pirate-style hoops that still dangled against her wrinkled neck. They now looked absurd rather than exotic. How on earth could a person age so much in eight years? It was frightening.
“Perhaps you’ve come to apologize, then?” suggested Jolita.
“What?”
“Oh well, I was just thinking. It wasn’t completely inconceivable that you should finally feel a little guilty about the way you have spat in the face of a family that only ever tried to love you and help you.”
Sigita was so stunned that at first she couldn’t even defend herself.
“You … you … I… .” she sputtered. “I never spat in anyone’s face!”
“Eight years without a single word—if that’s not spitting, what is?”
“But… .”
“At first I felt sorry for you. In trouble like that, at such a young age. I wanted to help you. But you did to me exactly what you did to your parents. Disappearing like that, without ever looking back, without so much as a thank-you.”
Sigita stood there with her mouth open. She suddenly noticed how bright-eyed the little Mrs. Orlovienė had become, watching the drama with parted lips as if it were a soap opera.
“Your Granny Julija died, did you know that?” said Jolita.
“Yes,” Sigita managed. “Mama … Mama sent a letter.” Two weeks after the funeral. That had hurt, badly, but she had no intention of letting her aunt know that.
“Coffee?” offered Mrs. Orlovienė, holding out one of the unused cups. “Is it broken?” She nodded at the plaster cast.
“Yes,” said Sigita automatically. “And no, thanks. Jolita, did someone come here asking about me?”
“Yes,” said Jolita without blinking. “There was a man here, some weeks ago. He wanted to know your last name, and where you lived.”
“And what did you do?”
“I told him,” said Jolita calmly. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“He was quite polite,” nodded Mrs. Orlovienė. “Not entirely what I would call a nice young man, but quite polite.”
“What did he look like?” asked Sigita, although she was fairly certain she already knew.
“Big,” said Mrs. Orlovienė. “Like one of those—what are they called now?” She raised both skinny arms to mime a bodybuilder pose. “And hardly any hair. But quite polite.”
At long last, Sigita’s thoughts began to line up in an orderly fashion instead of tumbling over each other in random chaos. She knew that Aunt Jolita would never have taken in tenants unless she had been forced to. There was obviously no longer any Professor on Mondays and Thursdays. Probably no job, either. And yet here were sherry and cakes and a brand new percolator.
“Did he give you money?” she asked Jolita.
“Is that any of your business?”
That meant yes. Sigita spun and seized the old coffee tin Jolita usually kept noodles in. Noodles, and certain other things.
“Sigita!” Jolita tried to prevent her, but Sigita had moved too quickly. She hugged the tin against her chest with the plaster cast and wrested the lid off with her right hand. When Jolita tried to tear the tin away from her, it clattered to the floor, sending little macaroni stars shooting off in all directions across the worn linoleum. Sigita instantly put her foot down on top of the brown envelope that had also been in the tin.
“What the hell were you thinking?” she screamed,