The Other Language Read Online Free PDF Page A

fugitive in a detective story, who needed to erase any trace of his past before getting caught, it was imperative to get rid of any trace of accent for her transformation to be complete. The visit to the boys’ house, the way she’d felt at ease with their parents, understanding every word of their conversation, had made her extremely proud of herself and excited. She had stepped through acurtain into another realm, a wide, mysterious landscape that she had only begun to explore.
    Her father, Luca and Monica were already sitting at their usual table under the string of tiny lightbulbs with Mirella next to her father wearing a blank canvas face and absent smile.
    “Papà said we didn’t have to wait for you. We ordered our food already,” Monica said emphatically, as if this were some kind of privilege their father had just bestowed on her and Luca.
    “Emma, just go and order your food in the kitchen,” her father said.
    “I’m having a cheese omelette,” Emma announced when she came back.
    “They don’t make omelettes for dinner,” Monica objected.
    “Maria is making me one especially. I’m tired of eating Greek salad and meatballs.” After her tea and Marmite toast experience she felt her food choices should be more idiosyncratic.
    “You are such a snob,” Luca said.
    “Shut up and mind your own business,” she snapped back.
    “Why are you saying that, Luca?” the father asked.
    “Emma thinks the Greeks are all peasants.” Luca had acquired a dense cluster of blackheads on his nose. At times Emma felt she could never love her brother again because of them.
    “That’s ridiculous, Luca. Don’t make assumptions about what other people think.” The father sounded annoyed.
    “She thinks she is so—”
    “Stop it, I said.”
    The father was beginning to grow impatient with them. It had been more than a whole year now of taking nonstop care of them and of an empty bed at night. He was beginning to think he too had a right to his share of happiness. Although Mirella was not the answer—he wasn’t even attracted to her—he was beginning to appreciate her tenaciousness. Sometimes, especially in the middle of the night, during the hours when dreams and insomnia mergeinto a spiral of gloom and paranoia, he worried his children might end up growing into indifferent, self-centered adolescents, and he realized he had no idea how to prevent this from happening. The exteriors of their bodies were changing so rapidly—every day another bulge, a new ripeness—and soon he wouldn’t be able to look at his daughters in their underwear. How could he foresee what was to happen underneath the surface? But more than that, who—now that their mother was gone—was going to help him shape or straighten their personalities in the event they veered in the wrong direction? What if the terrible accident had forever frozen them? And what if he ended up disliking them, once they would be set in their ways? What did he need to do or learn to raise emotionally sound children, who would turn into generous, independent and confident adults? In the morning these fears dissolved and his children went back to looking like lovely normal kids. He felt guilty and blamed his angst on difficult digestion, knowing, however, that those thoughts would be waiting for him until he found some answers.
    Mirella had been waiting for the tension to dissolve. When she thought it had cleared, she recited the lines she’d been preparing all evening.
    “I was thinking we could all go on a little trip tomorrow and visit the ancient amphitheater in Epidaurus.” She looked at the children expectantly. It felt as if this idea was part of a bigger plan that involved doing things all together—as if she were now part of the family.
    Monica and Luca exchanged a look and remained silent.
    “Would you like to do that, children?” she added, perhaps a bit too loudly.
    Monica and Luca turned to Emma, but she kept looking at her plate.
    “Mirella has