first to imagine her brother connected to such an appalling crime, then, almost despite herself, lingering on the precise details, such as his date of birth and physical description, which banished all hope that it could have been a case of mistaken identity.
And who else could have been the son of the father mentioned in the article? Who else could have shown, in the midst of such horror, the immense kindness that the writer of the article singled out as being particularly despicable?
She started to moan, “My poor, dear Sony,” but immediately swallowed the words like a mouthful of spit, realizing that a woman was dead and remembering that she herself was a defender of women who’d died in such circumstances, one who felt no pity for their tormenters even if they were gentle, smiling, unhappy men who’d been in the grip of a devil since the age of five.
She carefully logged off from the newspaper’s Web site and walked away from the computer, eager now to get back as soon as possible to her father’s house to ply him with questions, almost afraid that if she lingered he might fly off for good.
She was crossing the terrace when she saw them—Jakob, Grete, and Lucie—sitting where they’d been before. They were being served bissap juice.
They hadn’t seen her yet.
The two little girls, wearing sun hats that matched thered-and-white-striped dresses with short puff sleeves and smock tops that she’d later regretted buying (though at the time having imagined her father would have approved of the choice, of the vague longing to transform the girls into expensive dolls), were chatting gaily, addressing the occasional remark to Jakob, which he answered in the same cheerful, level tone.
And that was what Norah noticed straightaway: their calm, ready banter. She was filled with a strange melancholy.
Could it be that the unhealthy excitement that she suspected Jakob of provoking and feeding was triggered by her presence, and that in the end everything went well when she was not there?
It seemed to her that she’d never been able to create for the children the serene atmosphere that she now observed bathing the little group.
The pink shade of the umbrella cast a fresh, innocent blush on their skin.
Oh, she thought, that unhealthy feverishness, was she perhaps not the source of it?
She went up to their table, pulled up a chair, and sat down between Grete and Lucie.
“Hello, Mum,” Lucie said, getting up to kiss her on the cheek.
And Grete said, “Hello, Norah.”
They went on with their conversation, about a character in a cartoon they’d been watching that morning in their room.
“Have a taste of this, it’s delicious,” said Jakob, pushing his bissap juice toward her.
She found that he’d already gotten a tan, and that the long fair hair that hung over his forehead and down the back of his neck seemed even more bleached by the sun.
“Go up and get your things,” he told the girls.
They left the table and went into the hotel with their arms around each other. One girl was fair and the other dark. Their closeness had never seemed entirely credible to Norah, because, while they got on very well, they were always silently jockeying for the first place in Norah and Jakob’s affections.
“You know my brother, Sony,” Norah hastened to say.
“Yes?”
She took a deep breath but couldn’t help bursting into tears, into a flood of tears that her hands were powerless to wipe away.
Jakob picked up a tissue, dried her cheeks, took her in his arms, and patted her back.
She suddenly wondered why she’d always had the vague feeling, whenever they made love, that it was work for him, that he was paying for his and Grete’s keep, because, at that moment, she felt great tenderness in him. She held him tight.
“Sony’s in prison,” she said quickly, her voice breaking.
Glancing around to make sure the children were not back, she told Jakob that four months earlier Sony had strangled his stepmother,
And who else could have been the son of the father mentioned in the article? Who else could have shown, in the midst of such horror, the immense kindness that the writer of the article singled out as being particularly despicable?
She started to moan, “My poor, dear Sony,” but immediately swallowed the words like a mouthful of spit, realizing that a woman was dead and remembering that she herself was a defender of women who’d died in such circumstances, one who felt no pity for their tormenters even if they were gentle, smiling, unhappy men who’d been in the grip of a devil since the age of five.
She carefully logged off from the newspaper’s Web site and walked away from the computer, eager now to get back as soon as possible to her father’s house to ply him with questions, almost afraid that if she lingered he might fly off for good.
She was crossing the terrace when she saw them—Jakob, Grete, and Lucie—sitting where they’d been before. They were being served bissap juice.
They hadn’t seen her yet.
The two little girls, wearing sun hats that matched thered-and-white-striped dresses with short puff sleeves and smock tops that she’d later regretted buying (though at the time having imagined her father would have approved of the choice, of the vague longing to transform the girls into expensive dolls), were chatting gaily, addressing the occasional remark to Jakob, which he answered in the same cheerful, level tone.
And that was what Norah noticed straightaway: their calm, ready banter. She was filled with a strange melancholy.
Could it be that the unhealthy excitement that she suspected Jakob of provoking and feeding was triggered by her presence, and that in the end everything went well when she was not there?
It seemed to her that she’d never been able to create for the children the serene atmosphere that she now observed bathing the little group.
The pink shade of the umbrella cast a fresh, innocent blush on their skin.
Oh, she thought, that unhealthy feverishness, was she perhaps not the source of it?
She went up to their table, pulled up a chair, and sat down between Grete and Lucie.
“Hello, Mum,” Lucie said, getting up to kiss her on the cheek.
And Grete said, “Hello, Norah.”
They went on with their conversation, about a character in a cartoon they’d been watching that morning in their room.
“Have a taste of this, it’s delicious,” said Jakob, pushing his bissap juice toward her.
She found that he’d already gotten a tan, and that the long fair hair that hung over his forehead and down the back of his neck seemed even more bleached by the sun.
“Go up and get your things,” he told the girls.
They left the table and went into the hotel with their arms around each other. One girl was fair and the other dark. Their closeness had never seemed entirely credible to Norah, because, while they got on very well, they were always silently jockeying for the first place in Norah and Jakob’s affections.
“You know my brother, Sony,” Norah hastened to say.
“Yes?”
She took a deep breath but couldn’t help bursting into tears, into a flood of tears that her hands were powerless to wipe away.
Jakob picked up a tissue, dried her cheeks, took her in his arms, and patted her back.
She suddenly wondered why she’d always had the vague feeling, whenever they made love, that it was work for him, that he was paying for his and Grete’s keep, because, at that moment, she felt great tenderness in him. She held him tight.
“Sony’s in prison,” she said quickly, her voice breaking.
Glancing around to make sure the children were not back, she told Jakob that four months earlier Sony had strangled his stepmother,
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