Eva had a talent for finding faults, even when none existed, and no one suffered from this more than Permony. Often, when Elias was out of the way, Eva would call her younger child and point out one deficiency after another as if she were reading from a list. If she saw nothing wrong with Permony’s hair, then she would take offense at her posture; if the girl’s hands were disappointingly clean, she would scold her for wearing a particular dress. Permony’s lavender eyes were a permanent topic of castigation, for Eva believed that this was the color most identified with sloth, selfishness, and to an indeterminate degree, satanic possession. Her tirade ceased only when she went out of breath, or became so engulfed by her own emotion that she lost all train of thought.
Permony never defended herself. Shy and gentle, she weathered her mother’s storms in the manner of one overcome by a celestial vision—head thrown back, eyes awestruck, hands locked in a supplicating prayer. This “pose of martyrdom” often drove Eva to the brink of hysteria. “Don’t fall for it,” she sternly advised Meridia. “The guilty always keep their silence. I learned this from your father-in-law.”
Eva’s devotion to Malin was equally mystifying. The girl was always sullen and difficult, to Eva more than anybody else. A mealtime would not be complete without Malin pouting at her plate, and Eva’s day would be uneventful without her older daughter shouting at her. Yet not only did Eva tolerate this, she went the extra distance to pacify Malin. She bought her dresses and candied fruits, added recklessly to her figurine collection, and held Permony responsible whenever Malin devastated the house with her tantrum. This devotion puzzled Meridia even more when she considered that it was Permony who took after Eva. While Malin was pale and languid, Eva and Permony had the same dark skin, animated eyes, and robust frame. They both laughed with their entire bodies, and their hands were constantly busy with one thing or another. When Meridia mentioned her confusion to Daniel, he kissed her nose and teased her for imagining things. “Mama doesn’t play favorites,” he said. “She loves the girls in different ways.”
Malin proved more ruthless than her mother. Her favorite pastime was to recline on the sofa with a tin of butter cookies and torment Permony about her birth. She insisted that their mother almost died when she delivered Permony. “Mama was in labor for one hundred and thirty-seven hours, and her screams could be heard from desert to sea. At one point, she was bleeding so much that blood was seen trickling out the front door. On the morning of the fourth day, Papa and the midwife begged her to save herself and give you up, but she set her teeth and told them to go to hell. Twice they pronounced her dead, but just as they were about to cover her face, she opened her eyes and shouted, ‘I’m still here, you fools!’ When you finally decided to stop torturing her and slip out on your own, it was the midwife who nearly fell dead. ‘Move back!’ she yelled. ‘The devil has spoiled the baby’s eyes! I must gouge them before the venom spreads.’ Mama was so ill and exhausted, yet she mustered her last strength to whack the woman across the face. ‘I will carry you feet first before you do that!’ she swore. This was how Mama saved you from blindness. And in return, you continue to give her nothing but pain.”
Halfway through the story, Permony was guaranteed to cry, her plump body trembling with guilt and terror. If Eva was present, Permony would come to her like a puppy and tell her how sorry she was. Impatient, Eva always stopped her on the spot.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Permony! How could I bleed for one hundred and thirty-seven hours and still be alive? It was eighty at most.”
Following Eva’s tirade, Permony would weep quietly in her room while she pretended to read. It was here that Meridia discovered the girl’s passion for fantastical tales and, reminded of her own lonely upbringing, did her best to nurture it. In the beginning Meridia read to her, acting out characters until they became flesh, but soon she ran out of books and resorted to inventing her own stories. She recollected those magical images she had seen with Hannah during the Friday night projections at Cinema Garden, and from them she fashioned her own elf kings and dragon queens, mermaids and pirates, love-torn statues who embraced in the night, and preternatural princesses who lost their souls in ice and rediscovered them in fire.
The sisters’ room, with its unsettling collision of colors, seemed the perfect setting for these tales. Malin had laid claim to three-quarters of the room and decorated it in smoldering orange: bedspread, carpet, and lampshade blazed with the ferocity of the two o’clock sun while her figurines commandeered a massive tangerine shelf. In contrast, Permony’s side was fitted in apple green, her favorite color, the lacy drapes and pillows bringing to mind the tranquillity of arbors and pastures. Thus Meridia flew her preternatural princesses over the valley of the girl’s bed, charged her knights to scale the shelf, and set loose her dragon queens upon the burning plain of Malin’s carpet.
Inevitably, the well of her imagination would dry up whenever Malin walked into the room. Perhaps sensing the girl’s surliness, the elf king froze with his scepter in midair, and no amount of persuasion could make the mermaids flap their tails again. Despite Meridia’s efforts, Malin remained cold toward her. The girl answered her inquiries with studied politeness, was never openly rude, yet her most casual gesture seemed laced with hidden hostility. After some time, Meridia left her alone. When she hinted to Daniel about his sister’s behavior, he told her it was nothing to worry about. “Give her time. Malin was eight when she first cracked a smile at me.”
One Sunday at the end of August, Eva and Elias came home from a long afternoon of shopping. Attired in a floral dress and a multicolored stole, Eva was in the best of spirits, while Elias, his dark suit rumpled and soaked with perspiration, retained just enough energy to sink into his rocking chair. Clutching her packages, Eva bustled into the living room, where Gabilan was painting Malin’s nails. She greeted her daughter happily, placed the packages on the table, and then sent Gabilan to fetch Meridia and Permony. A minute later, the two emerged from the bedroom, a dozen longhaired nymphs still dancing in Permony’s eyes. Eva smiled and handed Meridia a necklace of turquoise beads.
“Something I picked up. It will match your blue dress splendidly.”
Meridia gasped in surprise. “It’s beautiful!” She took the necklace and admired it. “Thank you, Mama.”
Eva insisted that she put it on. Visibly moved, Meridia fastened the clasp behind her neck. Then she heard it—Malin, without moving her eyes from her nails, let out a faint snort, audible only to Meridia, that sounded even more disdainful than Gabriel’s.
“There,” said Eva, twirling her around. “You look fit for a ball. Now, girls, don’t think I’ve forgotten you!”
Eva turned back to the parcels and took out a velvet-trimmed handkerchief, a satin purse, a heart-shaped orange hand mirror, and a picture book ablaze with colors. She lined these on the table before Malin and explained to Meridia, “Since Malin is older, she gets to select first.”
Malin lifted her long lashes and glanced at the offerings with boredom. Permony, who had been holding her breath since she sighted the picture book, averted her eyes. Malin smiled thinly, and with excruciating slowness chose the handkerchief, the purse, and the mirror. Permony sighed with relief.
“Then the book’s yours, Permony,” said Eva. “Now, if everyone is happy—”
“I want the book,” said Malin, tossing the handkerchief back on the table.
Eva was unfazed. “Changed your mind already? Fickle girl.” She clacked her tongue in mock exasperation. “In that case, you may thank your sister for that handkerchief, Permony. I prefer it myself to the book.”
When the girl, crestfallen, failed to speak or move, Eva reproved her at once.
“What’s the matter? Aren’t you happy with your present? If you don’t want it, there are plenty of other girls who do. Why, Meridia, have you ever seen such an ungrateful child in your life?”
Permony quickly took the handkerchief, but her eyes held no glimmer. When Eva excused her a moment later,
Permony went to her room and sat on the edge of her bed. “Malin doesn’t even like books,” she repeated in confusion. Meridia tried to distract her with her wittiest elves, but Permony remained inconsolable, until the door opened and she heard her father’s voice from the hallway.
“I think I know what will make my dove smile again.”
Elias went in with a grin and another picture book in his hand. Permony sprang from the bed, squealing with joy, and threw her arms around her father.
Elias hushed his daughter but lapped up her kisses. “Shh, don’t tell your mother,” he chuckled. “She won’t let me rest if she thinks I’m spoiling you.”
He coughed when he saw Meridia, then stroked his bald head with embarrassment. The impression, however, had sunk in. In the years to come, even when circumstances insisted otherwise, Meridia would remember that moment as an unbreakable testament to the good in Elias. As she turned to leave the room, another revelation hit her. Elias was aware of Eva’s treatment of Permony, but for reasons known only to himself, he thought it best to leave it be.
WITH THE FIRST DRENCHING rains of August, Meridia found herself alternately baffled and seduced by her mother-in-law. A woman of epic impulses, Eva possessed the talent to summon winter with an arch of her brow, and then dispel it with summer with the first crackle of her laugh. It was not unusual for her to weep when she learned of a stranger’s death, and, in the same breath, to refuse Patina medication for the pain in her legs. When she was happy, she made the whole house laugh with her; when she was upset, everyone suffered twice as much. At times she was superstitious to a fault, consulting fortune-tellers for the smallest matters, and at other times she made important decisions at the drop of a hat. Permony was the most frequent and unfortunate recipient of her extremes. When the girl least expected it, Eva would clutch her to her bosom with all the force of her maternal passion, but as soon as she began gasping for air, Eva would scold her, saying no man would look at her twice if she kept breathing with her mouth open.
In her mission to save money, Eva religiously scanned housekeeping magazines for coupons and cost-cutting tips, which explained the stacks cluttering the hallway, since her hoarding instincts prevented her from throwing anything out. From these she learned how to make a bar of soap last longer than advertised, to devise meal plans for six on a budget for three, and to use ammonia and vinegar for cleaning instead of patented products. Eva’s inventiveness at first shocked and then impressed Meridia, for Gabriel and Ravenna, though they disagreed on other matters, had reared her on this principle: “People lie, but money doesn’t. When in doubt, purchase the most expensive item.” When she confessed their viewpoint to Daniel, he gently took her aside and told her, “Don’t mention it to Mama. You’ll be better off spitting on her directly.”
No place in town showcased Eva’s bargaining prowess more than the market square. Twice a week, arms bared to the sun and basket wielded like a shield, she would take Meridia with her. When Eva approached a stall, she never browsed or wavered off course, but told the merchant straight out what she wanted. She would snort like a bull at his opening price—no matter how low it was—plant one hand on her hip, and tell him may God have mercy on him if he thought she was born yesterday. She would not budge until the merchant discounted his price several times, and even then, she would take out less money from her purse than was asked. “That’s all I have,” she would say, shrugging her handsome shoulders indifferently. The merchant, more often than not, would bellow that she was robbing him blind but still take her money.
In the beginning, Meridia was mortified by Eva’s behavior, for Ravenna had never bargained for anything in her life. But when she saw how Eva got the butcher to give her the best cut of meat for half the price, and the grocer to throw in free flour with her purchase of sugar, she thought no one was smarter than Eva. One day, after she watched the fruit vendor capitulate with six extra oranges, Eva surprised her by saying, “We need trout for dinner. You do the haggling.”
Before she could protest, Eva steered her right up to the fishmonger. Meridia choked, stammered over her words, but Eva firmly coached her from behind. The pressure of Eva’s hand on her elbow was like a current that left her breathless. She had no idea what she said, but before she was aware, money had changed hands, the trout were placed in her basket, and Eva’s nod told her that she had done well. At that moment, without feeling the slightest disloyalty to Ravenna, she glowed with pride and embraced Eva with her whole heart—her tenacity and boldness, her prodigious energy, her extraordinary power to convince and make herself heard. But most of all, she embraced the sound of Eva’s laughter, warm and free and exultant as it erupted from the depths of her bosom.
NOT LONG AFTER THAT day in the market came Meridia’s first brush with the bees. Early one evening, Daniel came home from work and called her into the bedroom.
“Mama’s upset. She’s talking to Papa on the terrace. What do you say we go out for dinner?”
Meridia took his suit and hung it behind the door. “Why is Mama upset? She just woke up from her nap a moment ago.”
Daniel shook his head. “I don’t know. Something about a mongrel from hell. If we don’t clear out before the storm breaks, I won’t have any appetite left.”
He winked and slipped into the bathroom, leaving his wife to ponder his remark. Meridia picked up his shoes and went out to the hallway. She was about to polish them in the kitchen when she heard a noise coming from the terrace. The front door was ajar, and as she crept toward it, she felt the air shiver with foreboding. She cocked her ear and listened hard, and stopped in her tracks when she recognized the noise. It was the bees buzzing, drilling and persistent and just below range, the same noise she had heard coming from the master bedroom on her wedding night. She put the shoes down and stole up to the door, passing the sisters’ room on the way. Both girls were doing their homework, and neither one seemed bothered by the noise. On the terrace Elias was sitting in his rocking chair, Eva standing behind him, both their backs facing her. The sound of buzzing was coming from Eva’s mouth, causing the caged birds to twitter with fright.
“How much longer must I endure this agony? For two weeks that cursed dog next door has been barking at my windows every afternoon, causing me an immeasurable mental anguish, not to mention the rudest disruptions to my afternoons. For how can I run the house and pay the bills in the sitting room, care for my family and take my rest in the bedroom, while that relentless noise born in the bower of hell tears at my nerves every chance it has? That hellhound is destroying my comfort in my own house, assassinating all prospect of quiet and serenity, and what’s worse, the second I think it’s finally wearied and dropped to sleep, up it barks all over again, sending me, I’m sure, to an early grave, and if you, Elias, think I will put up with this for a minute longer, you are sorely mistaken. I did not marry you and bear you children only to live next door to a dog pound, owned, I’ve no doubt, by a despicable man who clearly has so little respect for you, Elias, the esteemed jeweler, that he dares to mount this insult on me, your loving wife and devoted mother of your children, and expects you to take it lying down like a coward and an idle. You must not let this pass, not while the honor of our family, the very status and dignity we have labored so hard to attain, is at stake, is at this very moment being butchered and stomped on and spat at as if it matters less than cow dung…”
A loud creak from Elias’s chair sent Meridia back to her room. Once inside, she sat down at the desk and waited for Daniel to finish. She had heard the neighbor’s mastiff bark on occasion, but did not recall hearing it more than usual in the past two weeks. Eva’s windows, however, were the only ones facing the neighbor’s yard, so it was possible the noise disturbed her more than anyone else. When Daniel stepped out of the bathroom, hair damp and skin ruddy from washing, Meridia decided not to say a word about what she had heard. She laid out a fresh shirt and trousers for him and dressed herself.
When they passed Eva and Elias on the terrac
e, the two did not notice them at all. Eva had taken the second rocking chair, confronting Elias at a right angle, while he determinedly buried his nose in a book. The air was oppressive with the sound of buzzing, yet the only concession Elias gave to the bees was to flick them irritably every few seconds. Eva gave him no reprieve, charging the insects to hunt him in every gorge and ravine of his book. Meridia, dumbstruck by the spectacle, could not move until Daniel pulled her wrist and rushed her to the street.
The couple dined modestly on tomato soup and egg sandwiches at the bookshop café. From the moment they sat down, Daniel began talking volubly. An eccentric customer, he said, wanted to purchase twelve bracelets that differed in styles and sizes but weighed exactly the same. “Down to the ounce! I spent the entire afternoon weighing every bangle in the vault and found only three that met her standard.” Before Meridia could sympathize, he was off telling her about a man who had been coming to the shop for ten years to look for an engagement ring. “Until he finds the perfect ring, he won’t ask any woman to marry him. Papa thinks he should try asking a man.” And so it went, Daniel tense and racing to the next topic. Once when Meridia mentioned the bees, he waved his hand and told her, “Don’t worry. It will blow over when we get back.”
The terrace was lit though empty when they returned. The birds’ cages were shrouded in black, the two rocking chairs nodding to each other like exhausted souls. Entering the front door, Meridia quickly brought her hands to her ears. Inside, the sound of buzzing had reached a deafening pitch, coming from the living room, where Eva and Elias usually sat after dinner. Before Meridia knew what was happening, Elias had flung a book at the wall, jumped out of his chair with the violence of an awakened giant, shot past her and Daniel out the door, down the steps of the terrace, over the cobblestone wall, and disappeared into the unlit part of the neighbor’s garden.
Of Bees and Mist Page 10
