Of Bees and Mist (10 page)

Meridia knew for a fact that this was not true, but kept her silence. One thing she had not noticed before had absorbed her attention: Patina’s hobble was becoming more pronounced the closer Eva came to her.

“You’ll see there’s no better teacher than Patina.” Eva let go of Meridia’s arm and pushed her steel blue hair behind her ear. “I will be in the garden if you need me.”

She left to oversee the workmen dismantle the canopies. As soon as the door closed, Patina offered Meridia a bowl of vegetable soup and a generous slice of bread.

“You must be hungry,” Patina said with her toothless grin. Her brown eyes were as soft as a baby’s, yet something in those fathomless depths seemed ravaged by grief. Meridia thanked her and ate standing up. After she finished, Patina fetched an apron from the side of a cabinet and tied it around her waist. At that moment, Meridia began to understand her standing in the family.

M
eridia began her new life with the best of intentions. After the cold of Monarch Street, Orchard Road was warm and bustling, practical in habits, definite in aims, and simple in structures. Although Ravenna had never trained her to cook, embroider, plant bulbs, or polish silverware, she picked up the skills readily from Patina and Gabilan. In early morning and late afternoon, the three worked together in the kitchen, making lunches and dinners according to Eva’s instructions. Midday was reserved for gardening, afternoon for cleaning, evening for sewing. Patina never said more than the necessary words, but her guidance was steady and reassuring. It was she who taught Meridia to bring Eva chrysanthemum tea every morning, and at mealtimes, to serve everybody in the family first before she ate. In this way, Meridia was inducted into a world of customs she now saw as the backbone of every family but Ravenna’s. Her victories, though small, were concrete: the smiles Eva gave her, Patina’s nods, the proud gleam in Daniel’s eye when Eva announced that his wife was to be thanked for the beautiful dinner they were about to consume.

Elias, she thought, was a curious head of household. A short bald man with drowsy eyes and a lazy mouth, he deferred all do
mestic matters to Eva and desired nothing more than to be left alone. After work, wrapped in a blanket and accompanied by the caged birds, he would sit in his rocking chair on the terrace and immerse himself in books. As hours passed and the birds grew hoarse from singing, he remained engrossed in his reading of metals and minerals, flora extinct and fauna exotic, volcanoes in faraway lands, and famed discoveries of oil and gold. With the same insatiable hunger he studied the topography of the moon, inspected ancient navigation charts, and devoured tales of heroic expeditions until the dinner bell rang. Eva, armed with a basket of knitting, often tried to speak to him, but it required a great deal of effort on her part to extract an answer out of him. It was not uncommon that she had to chase him across seas and continents, tunnel through layers of earth and labyrinths of caves, to impress upon him the fact that Malin had come down with a cold or that the roof needed replacing before winter. The only person who could rouse him from his trance was Permony. All the girl had to do was call him, and he would materialize from the most remote corner of the universe without delay.

“Why do you bury your nose in books, Papa?” Permony once asked him.

“So your mother can’t find me. The only problem is I can still hear her no matter where I am.”

This bond between them rankled Eva to no end. Many times she complained to Meridia about how the two were always keeping her in the dark. “Every time I come near them, they act as if they’ll shoot me for trespassing. No doubt it’s me they’re talking about. It’s tragic, really. Malin is so much smarter and prettier, yet he gives her half the attention he gives Permony. Just look at them! From the way they stare at each other, you would think she’s the one who wakes up smelling his farts every morning!”

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.