61 | Robin
The Re del Pesce is almost two hundred metres from the marina gate, but Robin sees him the moment he appears from her bedroom lookout. He’s a big man. She only realises how big when she sees that the burden he’s carrying is another human being.
The crowd parts like the Red Sea as he strides towards the restaurant, and for a moment she thinks he’s carrying some oversized doll. A naked marionette. But then she sees that the puppet is clinging to him like a drowning man to rocks, that her face is pressed into his chest like a frightened infant. And then she sees the mop of crushed curls that bounces as he strides, and the long, skinny limbs, and something – the umbilical connection that has never really broken – tells her that what she is seeing is her daughter.
She only vaguely hears herself shout out her name.
He carries her daughter like a sack of flour, his forearms hooked under her knees and armpits. She’s only marginally conscious. Her head lolls on her neck as though it has come loose. And she is crying.
Larissa has the street door open by the time Robin hits the bottom of the stairs. Gestures her to stand back. And, though every nerve in her body screams to throw herself upon her baby, she forces herself to press herself against the restaurant wall and let them pass.
In the sala, Larissa snatches up a shawl to throw over the couch. Gemma is a mess of sweat and snot and tears and blood, and the smell of aged ammonia hangs in the air around her. Something has chafed her ankles and wrists badly enough to draw blood, and her lips are cracked and swollen.
Paulo lays her down, as gently as if she were fragile glass, and she curls into herself, draws her knees up, tucks in her elbows. A baby, trying to get back to the womb. Naked and bruised and dirty. Robin wrings her hands and waits her turn.
The man steps back.
Oh, my girl. My darling, my baby, what have they done to you?
‘I’ve got to go,’ he says. ‘Got to get back. It’s not over yet. You can take her from here, yes?’
‘Mercedes … ’ says Larissa.
‘There’s no one at the house,’ he says. ‘I need to get back.’
‘Thank you,’ says Larissa. ‘Thank you, Paulo. Mersi milli. You will find your reward in heaven.’
He looks startled. Then doubtful. ‘She’ll be okay,’ he tells them. ‘She’s tougher than she looks.’
Robin can’t tell from his words whose daughter he’s talking about.
She finds her voice. ‘Thank you.’
He nods, curtly. Somewhere else in his head already. ‘I’ll come back when I can,’ he says. ‘Check up on her.’
‘I’ll let you know. Thank you. Thank you for everything. I don’t know you, but you are a good man. We will owe you forever.’
Paulo goes scarlet. Looks for a moment as though his next words will be a struggle. These tough guys. It must take a toll on them.
‘Right, well,’ he says, and leaves.
Larissa nods at her. ‘Go on,’ she says. ‘She needs you.’
Suddenly, she is reluctant. A little frightened. Of how they will even begin. She looks at the huddled figure doubtfully. She hasn’t needed me for a year, she thinks. Maybe I’m the last thing she needs. This skinny young woman, face rubbed and raw, blackened eyes, lips so swollen they have cracked and shed blood: I don’t know her. She’s a stranger. With a familiar face, but a stranger.
But when did that happen? How long ago? I was assuming I knew her, but I didn’t. It’s our fault. Mine and Patrick’s. So caught up in knowing best that we lost sight of knowing her at all.
She steps forward, lowers herself to her knees by the side of the bed. A whole world of unshed tears waiting to fall.
‘Gemma? Sweetheart?’
Gemma lies there. Staring at the air. Then something – something in the tone of her mother’s voice – brings her back to the world and she looks up.
‘I suppose you’re going to say you told me so.’