“One day you’ll understand,” she whispered, “what it’s like to see your eyes in someone else’s face. To see yourself reflected back, and simply not know how to tame it.” She shuddered, lips tightening. “Or maybe you won’t ever have to see that. And if you’re lucky enough, you’ll never have to do the things I do for you.”
“And what things are those?” I shot back, my voice breaking as the tears ran hot down my cheeks. “Ignoring me? Making me feel dirty? Keeping me from the one thing I’m good at, the one thing that’s best in this stupid, tiny fishbowl life? Thanks so much for all that care, Jasmina, but I could really do without.”
She dropped my chin and stepped away from me, swiping a hand over her mouth. Her back straightened as if the stays had been drawn tight on some invisible corset.
“Pull yourself together, and then get back out there,” she ordered. “We have a customer waiting outside. And send Nevena back in on your way out.” She elbowed me away from the eggs and almond flour, not roughly but none too gently either, adding, “I hope you enjoy putting yourself on display like that. Certainly the men who see you will have a treasure trove of thoughts to tide them over once they’re home tonight. Seems unfair that they should have all the fun.”
“That’s a bit rich, coming from you,” I said, my voice still wavering. “You flirt with everyone.”
Her shoulders twitched, but she didn’t turn. “It’s not the same. None of them could ever have me, and they know it. They wouldn’t dare touch me. Unlike you.”
“Are you telling me to go home and change?” I hated myself as soon as the words were out. I didn’t want to do it—didn’t want to pander to her—but now I actually felt as good as naked.
“Oh, no,” she replied. The fire had been tamped down, and we were back to our usual purgatory. Just cold and ashes, with only the lingering tang of smoke to show that there’d ever been a spark at all. “Don’t go to the trouble on my account. Who knows? Maybe you’ll even draw us a bigger crowd today. Dessert and a show—it could be our new calling card. Now go see what they want. And at least try not to walk like you belong in those clothes.”
FOUR
IT DOESN’T MATTER.
You hate her, too.
She only hurts you if you let her.
I looped the mantra in my mind like a prayer wheel. If I told myself these things enough, they all might become true. Still, fresh tears welled in my eyes, and I blinked furiously as I edged by Mama to go see to the customer outside. I found myself locking my knees as I walked, trying to suppress the slight, natural sway of my hips. As soon as I noticed it, I forced myself to stop. I wasn’t going to let her change the way I walked, on top of everything else.
Nev caught my hand as I pressed by her, pulling me back. She made a little moue of sadness at how cold it was, and clasped it against her chest. The wealth of sympathy in her eyes, much warmer than blue eyes had any right to be, made me feel like I’d swallowed a mouthful of glass. I nearly pitched myself into her arms just for a second, to steal that one breath of comfort. To let someone else hold me, for once.
But that would have been weak. And moments of weakness grew into habit too quickly.
“Are you okay?” she whispered. “That was . . . even for her . . . I just don’t understand it.”
“It’s fine,” I said, swallowing hard. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? I could talk to her, I could—”
“No, please. That’ll only make it worse. She’ll hate that you even heard that, and she’s not going to let up on me, not even for you.” I gave her a wobbly smile. “I just need a minute, and there’s someone waiting at the tables. She needs you back inside, she said. You should go.”
Nev let me loose uncertainly, stealing a last concerned look over her shoulder as she disappeared back into the kitchen. My hands were still shaking as I approached the one occupied table beneath our awning. I took a deep breath and stilled my fingers, so that our one-sheet menu wouldn’t tremble as I laid it down in front of the old woman who sat at the table.
“Good morning, ma’am,” I said, my voice sludgy with tears. I cleared my throat, eyes fixed on the table. “We don’t have everything that’s on the menu, but what do we have is marked off with the little stars. And I can tell you about all the other—”
“No need,” the woman said, and I glanced up at her in surprise. Her voice had no trace of age to it, but was low and smooth, startlingly sweet. What I could see of her face was young, too. A large and sleek pair of sunglasses hid her eyes, against the bolt of sunshine that slanted over her even beneath the awning, but her delicate jawline was taut, her mouth pillowy and upturned. No crow’s-feet or sagging jowls; even the skin on her neck was clear as a mirror.
It was the hair that had fooled me, pure white and almost dazzling in the sunlight. I had never seen white hair that seemed lush and healthy as snow-fox pelt. Twisted back from her temples, the rest of it fell loose, draped over one shoulder like a stole. She was stroking it as she watched me, and I couldn’t blame her; I practically had to curl my fingers into fists to keep from reaching out and touching it myself. It was even brighter against her blouse, which was the exact azure of the water in the bay.
“You have really pretty hair,” I said stupidly. “Is it dyed?” Of course it wasn’t, idiot. No bleach in the world turned your hair into white silk.
“It isn’t, and thank you,” she said. “Yours is beautiful, too. And you have a very exceptional face to go with it, has anyone ever told you that?” She smiled at me, and to the surprise of no one, her teeth all but sparkled. I couldn’t help smiling back, even though my insides still wobbled. “No, don’t answer that. I’m sure you’re sick of hearing it.”
I wasn’t, actually. Our father was Japanese, Mama had told me and Malina once in a rare, raw moment of softness. A sailor, on a week’s leave in Cattaro, long gone by the time our mother even realized she was pregnant. Our black hair and the tilt of our eyes came from him, though where on Malina it came across as Eastern European, on me it was unmistakably Asian, at startling odds with my gray irises. My high, round cheekbones were his too, prominent as apple halves beneath my skin. Because of my face, I’d heard “alien” and “geisha” and “Japanka,” which simply meant “Japanese woman” but could be whetted into a slur sharp like a fishing hook.
But I definitely hadn’t heard “exceptional.”
Maybe that was why Mama’s prohibition on love had never felt all that difficult to bear. Who was ever going to look at me here, anyway, in this sea of faces that looked not even a drop like mine, and see anything but strangeness?
“Just like a vila,” the woman continued. “A Montenegrin fairy queen in the flesh.”