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We marked Papa’s grave with flowers and a small white cross that had an inscription giving his name, date of birth and the day he died. Forty-seven years. People said it was too young. I think it sounds too long.
After the funeral, Mama became an ancient figure, draped in black, staring at the walls. She spent weeks lying in their metal-framed bed in a darkened room with the door closed. I used to press my ear against the cool wood and hear her crying.
Aunt Polina cooked our meals, washed our clothes and told us stories about her time in Italy.
‘When you were strawberry picking,’ I said.
Polina smiled. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Papa.’
‘I did lots of jobs.’
‘And you had a boyfriend,’ I added.
‘Many,’ she said. ‘I was very popular.’
Each mealtime, we put a tray outside Mama’s door and collected it later, untouched.
‘She has to eat,’ I said. ‘What if she gets sick?’
‘She’ll eat,’ said Polina. ‘Give her time.’
I began sneaking into Mama’s room, where I found her propped up in the corner of the bed, elbow wedged against the wall. The sunlight threw shapes on the floor and spent the afternoon inching towards her pillow. Mama was like a life-sized statue of herself, wasting away, with no light in her eyes, no spark, no joy. I tried hard to make her happy. I picked flowers, and made cards, and drew pictures, but whenever she looked at me I felt something stir in her, a tremor, barely detectable, that made her small brown eyes brim with rage.
Polina was right. Mama did return to us. She left her room and moved through the house as though wading in chest-deep water. She ate. She slept. She cooked. She cleaned.
Papa’s funeral used up the last of our savings; what Mama called our ‘rainy day money’, although I’ve never understood why the weather made a difference. My English teacher Mr Joubert told me that I take things too literally and fail to see symbolism or hidden meanings. It’s like when we studied Othello. He said Desdemona’s handkerchief was supposed to symbolise her fidelity, but why couldn’t she just want to blow her nose?
When school began, other children avoided me – all except for Mina. They whispered that Papa had died because he upset Mr Berisha and that now my family had a blood feud and compensation had to be paid – an eye for an eye, a life for a life. ‘If only there was a son,’ people said, as though men were the solution to every problem.
When the rent became due at the end of August we had no money to pay Mr Berisha. He came to the house. I was at the kitchen table doing my homework. Agnesa locked herself in the bedroom.
Mr Berisha was a fat man with a second chin, which turned into three when he dropped his jaw to his chest to look over his half glasses. And he made a clicking sound in his throat whenever he disagreed with what someone was telling him.
Mama asked for more time to pay the rent.
‘Are you working?’ he asked.
‘I’m looking for a job.’
‘What about your daughter, Agnesa? I could find her a position.’
‘She’s still at school.’
‘She could work in my office. I like having a pretty face to greet customers. She couldn’t be pregnant, of course. Not when she’s unmarried.’
Mama’s knuckles whitened as her hands closed into fists.
‘Is your son going to marry Agnesa?’
Mr Berisha chuckled. ‘This is not some Cinderella story.’
‘She was underage. He raped her.’
‘She tricked him into sleeping with her.’
‘I’ll go to the police. Let’s see what they say.’
