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Back then, I was innocent enough that I still had fantasies of a better life. I had seen movies likeSleeping BeautyandThe Swan Princesswhere the prince and princess were betrothed by their parents, but their love was genuine.
So when I heard that Rocco was coming to see me, I imagined he might be handsome and sweet, and maybe we would write letters to each other like pen pals.
When he approached me in the garden, I was pleased to see that he was tall and dark-haired, slim and pale with the look of an artist.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m Zoe.”
He gave me an appraising look, not answering at first. Then he said, “Why are you reading?”
I thought it a strange question. Not, “Whatare you reading?” but “Whyare you reading?”
He tilted his head, looking me up and down, unsmiling. “Are you trying to impress me?”
I shook my head, confused and wrong-footed.
“I always read on Saturdays when there’s no school.”
I didn’t tell him there was nothing else to do at my house—Cat and I weren’t permitted to watch TV or play video games.
He picked my novel up off the bench, examined the cover, and contemptuously tossed it down again, losing my place. I was annoyed but tried not to show it. After all, he was my guest, and I was already aware that our futures were meant to entwine.
“You’re pretty,” he said, dispassionately, looking me over again. “Too tall, though.”
If that meant he wouldn’t want to marry me, I was already starting to think that mightbe a good thing.
“You live in Hamburg?” I asked, trying to hide my growing dislike.
“Yes,” Rocco said, with a toss of his dark hair that might have been pride or disdain—I couldn’t yet tell. “Have you ever been there?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
I noticed little black flecks in the blue of his eyes, like someone had spattered his irises with ink.
“What’s that noise?” Rocco demanded.
A parrot was screeching in the orange tree, swooping low over our heads, and then returning to its branch.
“It’s annoyed because it has a nest full of babies up there,” I said. “It wants us to leave.”
Rocco reached inside his jacket and took out a pellet gun. It was small, only the size of a pistol. I assumed it was a toy gun, and I thought it was childish of him to carry it around.
He pointed it up at the small green parrot, following its flight path in his sights. I thought he was play-acting, trying to impress me. Then he squeezed the trigger. I heard a sharp puff of air. The parrot went silent, cut off mid-cry, dropping like a stone into the flowerbed.
I cried out and ran over to it.
I picked the parrot up out of the earth, seeing the small dark hole in its breast.
“Why did you do that?” I shrieked.
I was thinking of its babies up in the nest. Now that the parrot wasn’t squawking anymore, I could hear their faint cheeps.
Rocco stood next to me, looking down at the moss-colored bird. It looked pathetic in my hands, its wings folded and dusty.
“The chicks will wait and wait,” he said. “Then eventually they’ll starve.”
His voice was flat and expressionless.
