44
Theywill turn their backs on us all. See? They already are. They will shun us all year for this, but I don’t care. I don’t care …
They kneel at the bottom of the steps. Feet step over her sister’s legs as though they’re flotsam on the beach. Faces turn away, skirts are pulled aside. Larissa and Mercedes don’t look up. Block out their neighbours’ contempt. All they see is their lovely Donatella. Broken.
‘Oh, my lord, oh, my lord. Oh, my darling, my darling,’ Larissa moans. And Donatella lies still, curled in on herself, and tears wash dirt and blood back into her wounds.
The square clears. The bell stops tolling. The great arched door slams closed and they are alone. Mercedes tugs on Donatella’s filthy white hem to pull it down to cover her thighs. Slaps her own tears from her eyes with the back of her hand.
I hate them, she thinks. I hate them, But she doesn’t really know who she hates, for there are so many.
*
A sound from above: the door opening. Just a little, just a crack. Just enough to release the priest’s voice, droning, the sheepish ululation of response. And then it cuts off again as the door closes and all there is is the shouting from the festa in the market square. And then she hears footsteps.
Mercedes looks up. Paulina Marino descends the steps. Carefully, to avoid slipping on the blood in her Sunday shoes.
She reaches them and kneels beside them.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘I don’t know what I was thinking.’
Larissa’s tears explode. A loud, unfettered howl. Donatella opens her swollen eyes, looks up at her grieving mother, silently. Her nose is broken and her wrist, blackened with bruising, is bloating in the July sun.
They wait until the howl has passed. Then between them they help their sister-daughter-godchild to her feet and half-carry her through the unforgiving streets.