Of Bees and Mist (12 page)

“Did you hear Patina crying this morning, Gabilan?”

“Jerked me awake like a ghost’s breath, Young Madam. Every time.”

“This has happened before?”

“Oh, yes. Many times. Whenever she misses her.”

“Her?”

“Yes. Her daughter. Have you never heard the story?”

Meridia shook her head. Gabilan looked around warily before gesturing with her eyes. Meridia followed her behind a mulberry tree.

“She lost a child,” whispered the girl, leaning her broom against the tree trunk. “Many years ago. Malaria, I think. But to this day Patina believes that she was responsible for her daughter’s death. Sometimes she weeps while sleeping. ‘I’ve wronged my child,’ she’ll say. ‘I’ve wronged her and no power on earth can absolve me now.’ When it gets too awful, Patina sits up in bed and cuts her arms with her nails. Saps the soul right out of me when she’s like that. And no one’s more surprised than she is when she sees her own blood on her fingers!”

“What about Madam?” said Meridia. “What is her role in all this?”

“People said it was Madam who pulled Patina out of her grief,” said Gabilan. “I don’t know the particulars, but I find this rather hard to believe. Madam can be so”—she looked around anxiously—“hard and unforgiving. Don’t you think so?”

Not replying one way or the other, Meridia gently examined Gabilan’s face. “How long have you worked here?” she asked.

Gabilan counted on her fingers. “Six years. Patina is like a mother to me.”

“Do you have any family?”

The girl shook her head. “My parents passed away when I was little. I lived with my uncle for a few years—he was a gardener here—but then he, too, died from consumption. Madam said I could stay and work for her, so Patina took care of me. Whenever I felt low, Patina would take me in her arms and tell me that the dead will eventually tire of the living. I wish it was only true in her case.”

Gabilan lowered her eyes and resumed sweeping. The late sun had left a crimson gash in the sky. Having nothing more to say, Meridia walked slowly back to the house.

TROUBLED BY WHAT SHE
had seen on the front lawn, Meridia began to notice things that had previously escaped her. For one, Patina was always given the shabbiest things to wear, her dresses patched up with rags and her shoes tattered with holes. For another, she was allowed to eat only after everyone in the house had finished, and by then, there might be nothing left but soup and bones. For a room, Eva assigned her a tiny windowless space behind the kitchen, and even this she shared with Gabilan. On hot nights the two abandoned the narrow cot for the floor and slept with the door open, their skin sticky with foul-smelling ointments in order to repel mosquitoes.

Nevertheless, Patina seemed oblivious to her conditions. Despite her advanced age, she worked harder than a horse, fulfilling Eva’s demands from dawn to midnight, subsisting on her scraps of food without complaint. Her hobbled bones ached in the morning, but not once had she protested when Eva refused to refill her medication. The loyalty she showed her mistress baffled Meridia to no end. Since Patina spent most of her time in the kitchen, it would be so easy for her to set aside food for herself, but the thought never seemed to cross her mind. It was Meridia who pilfered for her, stowing away cakes and dishes in silver canisters, but Patina quickly put a stop to this. When Meridia used her allowance to buy her clothes, Patina declined them. “Madam provides me with everything I need,” she said. “Please give these to those who are less fortunate.” Often, Meridia was moved to wrap Patina’s thin body in her arms, but even this small comfort, she was sure, would only distress the woman further.

O
ctober brought no relief from the marigolds. With every drop of autumn rain, the intractable flowers intensified their assault on the roses. Eva developed a headache whenever anyone mentioned the marigolds, and to console herself, she succumbed to long baths perfumed with aromatic oils. Convinced that the marigolds posed a direct threat to the family fortune, she turned her superstitious habit of cutting fresh roses every Monday morning to hang above the shop door into a daily ritual. “The business will fold without my roses,” she warned somberly at dinner. “This table will serve its last meal when they all have been eaten alive.”

Despite Elias’s assurances, she was convinced that their customers were abandoning them by the droves, and sooner rather than later, they would have to sell the house, move to the dark heart of town, and live next door to strumpets and lowlifes. It was this fear that prompted Eva one day to turn the house upside down in search of things she could sell. For the first time in years, she cleared out the stacks of magazines that cluttered the hallway and sold them for a good price to a much-harassed junkman. She also harvested old china from the hidden corners of the kitchen, exhumed dusty
records from the attic and surplus linens from under the bed, and turned them into money. Emboldened by her success, she told her husband and daughters the following:

“Tomorrow I’ll look through all our things. The only way to survive this hardship is to stand together as a family. I promise I won’t touch anything that’s dear to you.”

Eva did not directly enlist the newlyweds in her campaign, but that night when they were alone, Daniel said to Meridia, “We should help Mama as much as possible. There must be a few things in that closet that we can spare.”

Meridia contributed Daniel’s old suits and a number of her dresses to the cleaning. On that rainy Saturday, starting with the sisters’ room, Eva dredged out every item she could find and determined its fate without consulting its owner. The first to go were old uniforms and childhood toys, shoes, hairpins, ribbons, and boxes of school crafts. Malin escaped with two fewer dresses and all her figurines intact. Permony did not blink when her dolls were sentenced to the pile, but when Eva began rifling through her picture books, she turned at once white and shuddered. “I’d like to keep those, Mama,” she pleaded. “They’re dear to me.”

“Aren’t you a bit old for these books?” said Eva, forgetting her promise and tossing them into the pile. Permony bit her lip and did not dare look. It was Meridia who used her quick hands to save many of the books, hiding them under the bed when neither Eva nor Malin was looking.

Although Elias guarded his bookshelves like a sentinel of death, Eva managed to walk away with a dozen encyclopedias. From the living room she swung the campaign upstairs to her room, where she yanked Elias’s ties and belts from the hangers with the zeal of an avenging angel. She then fed the pile with clothes she had not worn in years, shoes that seemed to have come from another century, and scarves so colorfully patterned they cast a dizzying spell on Meridia. For every three of Elias’s possessions, Eva sacrificed one of her own. Her dressing table she left completely alone—her bottles of perfume,
her brushes and jewelry box, and those powders and miracle creams so indispensable to her skin. Faced with such riches, Meridia wistfully recalled the monastic contents of Ravenna’s dressing table—a bowl of pins to construct her implacable knot in the morning, and a boxwood comb to undo it before bedtime.

From the back of the closet Eva produced several hatboxes. One box, decorated with drawings of ladies in muslins, was covered in dust so thick the elegant dames must have been tempted to sneeze for years. Seizing this, Eva vigorously blew on the dust.

“Heavens, I thought I’d lost them years ago!” She sat on the floor and dumped the contents onto the rug. Faded family photographs, some colored, some black-and-white, spilled all around her.

“Would you look at them? How priceless they are!”

Meridia, sitting down next to her, lifted one by the edge. “Is that Permony?”

It was indeed Permony, crawling on the floor naked with drool hanging from her chin. In countless photos, Malin varied from scowling to hissing at her own birthday candles. Meridia laughed at one of little Daniel in a clown’s suit, his hair green and his face painted with grinning monkeys. There were pictures of Eva and Elias in their early years—she was slender with dark-rimmed eyes and elaborately made face, and he was fit, dapper, and thick-haired. “What silly lovebirds we were!” Eva roared with laughter when she found one of the two of them embracing. “I believe we kissed for the last time that night, a good two years before Daniel was born.”

With nostalgic tears, Eva rescued more pictures from oblivion. Listening to her talk, Meridia came across a black-and-white photograph of a young woman with a little girl on her lap. The woman wore a high-collared dress with banded sleeves just above the elbows. The girl, no more than three or four, had on a white summer frock. Their heads were tilted to the same angle, their wide smiles brighter than the pearls around the woman’s neck. Meridia identified the woman as Patina, for no one else had eyes as pure as hers. The little girl, then, must have been her daughter, the one she had
lost to malaria. Just as she was about to show the picture to Eva, something froze Meridia on the spot. She glanced at Eva, looked back at the picture, and felt a chill shoot through her spine when she saw the smile vanish from the little girl’s lips.

“Look at this.” Eva extended a picture in her direction. “Daniel in primary school. Wasn’t he the gangliest little boy you have ever seen?”

Forcing herself to laugh, Meridia slipped the other picture into her pocket.

SHE SHOWED THE PHOTOGRAPH
to Daniel as soon as they were alone.

“Why didn’t you tell me Patina’s your grandmother? That girl sitting on her lap is Mama, isn’t it? I never realized until now how much they resemble each other.”

Startled by her directness, Daniel took the photograph and examined it.

“Where did you find this?”

“In Mama’s hatbox when we were cleaning. If Patina is your grandmother—”

“Stepgrandmother,” he corrected. “Mama’s only her adopted daughter.”

“Only?
But wasn’t Patina the one who raised Mama?”

“She was.”

“And she took care of her as she would her own?”

“She did.”

“Then I don’t understand. Why does Mama treat her like a slave?”

Daniel, who had not seen his wife in this state, was taken aback. “Why are you upset? For one, I don’t think Mama treats her like a slave.”

“How can you not? She keeps Patina on her feet day and night, dresses her in rags, and gives her scraps to eat. And have you seen
the inside of Patina’s room? It’s hardly fit for a cat to live in, let alone your grand—pardon me—your stepgrandmother.”

“But it was Patina’s idea to stay here and help Mama,” said Daniel. “She refused to be paid, and whenever Mama bought her clothes, she declined them outright. Patina decided that everyone in the house should eat before she does, and it was she who refused to sleep in the sitting room upstairs, saying that the storage room was good enough for her. Mama never forced her to do anything. Ask Patina and she’ll tell you the same.”

“Who told you this? Mama?”

“Yes.”

“And you believe her?”

“Of course. She’s my mother.”

“I see.” Meridia studied him a moment, unable to argue with his simple loyalty, and then said, “You’re hiding something from me. I’ve seen how Mama treats her. Besides, why would Patina do this to herself?”

Daniel smiled and gave the photograph back to her.

“Do you know how pretty you look when you’re agitated? It reminds me of the time we found that coffin on the beach. Your cheeks were all aflame then, too, and I couldn’t resist kissing you. If only I’d known that I would be marrying a woman with such boundless curiosity…” He laughed good-naturedly and reached for her waist.

“What did Patina do that was so unforgivable?” Meridia went on, ignoring both his touch and the amorous twinkle in his eye. “She behaves as if she’s doing penance. But for what?” Meridia frowned, then met Daniel’s gaze intently. “It’s the other baby, isn’t it? Her real daughter, the one who died from malaria.”

“I told you there’s a long history between Mama and Patina.” Daniel knotted his hands on the small of her back and brought his lips close to hers. “Leave it alone.”

For the first time in their three months of marriage, she pulled back and pierced his boyish good nature with candor.

“I won’t leave it alone,” she said. “So you might as well tell me.”

Daniel cocked his brow and smiled, yet her burning gaze resisted his effort to capture her. After a moment he sighed and untied his hands from behind her back.

“Very well. But don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.” He drew her to the bed and sat down. “You want to know about Patina’s daughter? The poor thing died when she was a year old. For weeks, Patina couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t speak, except to howl out her loss. In his despair, her husband, a goldsmith, consulted a diviner. The man told him that unless another baby girl could be produced within three days, Patina would die from heartache. Terrified, the goldsmith scrambled about town looking for a baby girl, and by a stroke of luck managed to procure one. That baby was Mama. The second she laid eyes on her, Patina dried her tears and became a mother once more.

“For sixteen years they lived happily. Then one morning, eight days after Patina’s husband died, a mysterious woman showed up at the house when Mama was at school, claiming she was Mama’s mother. Patina screamed and shooed her away, threatening to have her arrested if she ever set foot in town again. Mama later heard about the incident from a disgruntled maid. She was furious when she found out that she wasn’t Patina’s real daughter, and that Patina had kept her mother from seeing her. She suspected that Patina’s husband, the goldsmith, had procured her through some despicable act. When Mama confronted Patina, Patina denied everything. That day Patina’s feet began to twist like vines—from guilt, Mama said. Since then Patina has been devoting herself to Mama, to earn back the love she had squandered. But a broken heart is difficult to heal, and Mama’s a woman who doesn’t forgive easily.”

Something cold and sinuous fastened around Meridia’s heart while Daniel spoke. When he finished, she shook her head in disbelief. “I don’t think Patina is capable of meanness,” she said. “That woman doesn’t have a cruel bone in her body.”

“You asked me, that’s all I can tell you.”

“Do the girls know?”

“Malin might suspect something. She’s a clever girl. But I don’t think Mama’s told them yet. She didn’t tell me until a few years ago. I always thought Patina was just a maid.”

Meridia stood up and stared at him with narrowed eyes. “It doesn’t trouble you?”

“What doesn’t?”

“That your stepgrandmother is slaving away to atone for a wrong she committed years ago?”

Daniel sat back, an arm folded behind his head. “Then you don’t understand Patina. Can’t you see the joy in her face when she works? You call it penance, but I call it love. Patina is happy where she is, close to Mama and taking care of her every need. Leave her alone.”

“If she’s so happy, then why does she wail for her dead daughter?”

Daniel leapt from the bed suddenly.

“Let’s not talk about this anymore. It’s such a miserable story. I can think of a better way to spend the afternoon.”

With a grin he wiped every unpleasantness from his mind. Slipping one hand beneath her skirt, he traced her leg up to her hip and then moved his fingers to the space between her thighs. “Daniel,” she protested. His knowing smile slid between them like a bolt of iron. In the second before his lips silenced her, she was disturbed by the idea that many future arguments would be ended in this same way.

On the bed, the forgotten photograph rustled, although there was no wind in the room. Without anyone noticing, the smile had returned to the little girl’s face.

TWO DAYS LATER, MERIDIA
saw Patina whispering to a woman in the backyard. Dressed in a yellow tunic, the stranger looked to be in her forties, tall and slim with long white hands and upswept hair
the color of grain. As they talked, Patina darted anxious glances at the house; before many minutes passed, the stranger slipped a small package into Patina’s hand and drowned her objections with a hug. Visibly distressed, Patina hobbled back into the kitchen. The stranger watched until the screen door closed before exiting to the front of the house.

Meridia went after her. Though she had no idea what she would say, some unnamed instinct compelled her to action. She did not at once catch up with the stranger, who kept her head down as she hurried past the battling flowers to the street. The woman only slowed once she turned from Orchard Road, signaling for Meridia to approach.

“You must be Daniel’s wife,” she said. “You’re more beautiful than I imagined.”

She had a wistful oval face, apricot-shaped eyes, and a tiny crescent birthmark on her chin. She spoke in a quiet voice, and her tunic of bright yellow silk gave off the pleasing scent of lilac.

“You’re too kind,” said Meridia. “Forgive me if I startled you.”

“Not at all. I’m Pilar, Patina’s sister. I have been hoping to meet you for ages.”

Her handshake was firm and steady. Her prolonged glance gave Meridia the impression that there was more to her words than she revealed.

“Patina never told me she had a sister.”

Pilar smiled grimly. “Of course not.
She
makes well sure of that.”

Meridia drew forward with alarm. “What do you mean?”

“I’m talking about that ungrateful, cruel, treacherous, two-faced viper. If you only knew what my sister has sacrificed for that reptile!”

“Do you mean Mama?” Meridia whispered.

“The very child my sister loved more than if her own had lived! To think that snake had fed on Patina’s milk and nestled for warmth in her bosom! Do you know that she was nothing but a street baby,
condemned to die in the gutter if my brother-in-law hadn’t taken pity and brought her home? Oh, you should have seen the care my Patina lavished on her! She wouldn’t let that baby cry, and she gave in to all her demands instantly. Every morning she rubbed coconut oil into her hair, massaged her skin with almond milk and rose powder, and worried if a crumb of dirt got between her toes. Patina had just then lost a child, you understand, so when this one showed up—this blasted serpent slinking in from the darkest pit of hell—Patina confused it with a gift from heaven. Little did she know that it would grow to bite the hand that fed it!”