The Boy in the Suitcase - Lene Kaaberbol [92]
When she pushed the doorbell, a ripple of cheerful notes sounded on the other side of the door, a cocky little tune somehow out of sync with the tall white walls, the endless lawns, the heavy teak door. She heard footsteps inside, and the door opened.
A boy stood in the doorway. She knew at once who he must be, because of his likeness to Mikas.
“Hi,” he said, and added something, of which she didn’t understand a single word.
She couldn’t answer. Just stood there looking at him. He was dressed in blue jeans and T-shirt, with a pair of shiny racing red Ferrari shoes on his feet, and a matching red Ferrari cap on his head, back to front, of course. He was slender and small for his age; no, more than slender, he was bonily thin. In spite of that, his face looked oddly bloated, and his tan couldn’t conceal a deeper pallor, particularly around his eyes. One arm sported a gauze bandage under which she detected the contours of an IV needle that had been taped to his skin. He was ill, she thought. My son is very, very ill. What has happened to him in this alien country?
Again, he spoke, and from his intonation she thought it might be a question.
“Is your mother or father home?” she asked in Lithuanian, unable to absorb the sudden knowledge that of course he wouldn’t be able to understand. He looked so much like Mikas, and she could see a lot of Darius, too, in eyes and in his smile. It seemed absurd that she wasn’t able to talk to him.
“Is your father at home? Or your mother?” she tried again, this time in English, though she thought he would be too young to understand any foreign language. But he actually nodded.
“Mother,” he said. “Wait.”
And then he disappeared back into the house.
He returned a little later with a delicately built woman who looked to be in her mid-forties. Sigita looked at the person who had become her son’s mother. A pale pink shirt and white jeans underlined her pastel delicacy, and there was something tentative in her manner, as if she were uncertain of her bearings, even here in her own house. Like the boy, she was fair-haired and quite tanned; the superficial likeness was such that no one would ever question their relationship.
“Anne Marquart,” she said, offering her hand. “How may I help you?”
But the moment she saw Sigita’s face properly, she froze. There was clearly the same jolt of recognition Sigita had felt on seeing the boy. The genetic clues could not be erased. This woman saw her son’s traits in Sigita’s face, and was terrified.
“No,” she said. “Go away!” And she began to close the door
Sigita advanced a step. “Please,” she said. “I just want to talk. Please… .”
“Talk … ?” said the woman. And then she reluctantly opened the door. “Yes, perhaps we’d better.”
THE WINDOW STRETCHED for the whole length of the living room, from floor to ceiling. The sea and the sky flooded into the room. Too much, thought Sigita, especially now that the wind was stronger, and the waves showed teeth. Had they never heard of curtains, here? Houses, after all, had been invented to keep nature out.
The space was huge and cavernous. At one end was an open fireplace, with a fire that Anne Marquart turned on with a remote control, like a television. The floor was some kind of blue-gray stone unfamiliar to Sigita. In the middle of the room, with several meters of empty space on all sides of it, was a horseshoe shaped sofa upholstered in scarlet leather. Sigita knew that this was the kind of interior that magazines begged to photograph, but it surfeited even her need for order and clean lines, and she felt ill at ease, sitting here in the middle of this stone and glass cathedral.
“His name is Aleksander,” said Anne Marquart, in her neat British accent that sounded so much more correct than Sigita’s. “And he is a wonderful boy—loving and smart and brave. I love him to pieces.”
Something uncoiled itself inside Sigita. Ancient knots of guilt and grief came undone, and an instinctive prayer sprang to her lips. Holy Mary, Mother of God. Thank