23
She’s sweeping the terasa when Tatiana turns up, beach bag on her arm and a lovely little sundress covered in toucans.
‘Coming?’ she asks.
‘Sorry,’ she replies cheerfully, ‘not today. I working.’
Tatiana bursts out laughing.
Stops, abruptly.
‘But I want you to show me that cave.’ Her tone is incredulous. ‘With the mermaids.’
‘I sorry,’ she says, regretfully. ‘I cannot.’
In the bar, Larissa, replacing votive candles in the holders, stops singing and listens. Mercedes, sharply aware that she’s under surveillance, starts to sweep again. Her late return yesterday wasn’t appreciated. There’s no way she’s getting away today.
Oh, to spend the summer doing what you like. How blessed they are, these people. Such golden, fortunate lives.
Tatiana sounds annoyed when she speaks again. ‘I thought we were friends,’ she says.
We’ve only known each other two days.
‘Sure,’ she replies. ‘But I have to clean the tables.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ says Tatiana. ‘Don’t you have people to do that stuff?’
Mercedes stops sweeping. ‘We are the people who do that stuff.’
Tatiana raises her voice, petulantly. ‘But it’s your restaurant!’
‘My papa’s restaurant,’ says Mercedes.
‘Well, exactly,’ says Tatiana.
She starts sweeping again. ‘I would like. Sorry.’
She’s about to stamp her foot, she thinks. She really is. ‘But I want you to!’ she says.
Mercedes shrugs. I wish I had the English, she thinks. To explain to this girl that other lives are different from hers. But I think maybe even if I did, she wouldn’t really understand.
‘So you don’t want to be my friend?’
She stops sweeping again. ‘No! No! I want! I just … ’
The glass door slides back. Larissa stares at them, arms folded. ‘Mercedes?’
‘Sorry, Mama.’ She starts sweeping again.
‘When you’re done with that, come inside,’ says Larissa. ‘I want you where I can see you. You can polish the glasses.’
‘Si, jala,’ says Mercedes.
Larissa throws a sweet, chilly smile at the girl in the street and speaks in her faltering English. ‘Hello! Today Mercedes working.’
Tatiana looks thunderous. Stands for a moment in the sunshine, glaring as though summoning a thunderbolt to smite Larissa from the clear blue sky. Then she turns on her heel and marches back to the yacht without another word.
Donatella brings the slops reservoir from the Gaggia to empty into the bar sink. Larissa’s attention swings away. ‘L’ostia!’ she snaps. ‘What’s that on your face?’