Missing Rose (9781101603864) (3 page)

4

T
HE KITCHEN WITH
its medicine cupboard seemed so far away. Every day, the house appeared to grow larger and larger to Diana; the distances from the living room to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the bedroom and from the bedroom to the bathroom were all getting longer. For a month now, she hadn't gone down to the basement where the swimming pool was located, nor climbed to the top floor with its terrace and art studio, so she had no idea whether the ways there had become longer, too. Nor did she have any desire to find out.

When she finally reached the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of water and drank it in one gulp. Then another. And a third, this time with two aspirin dissolved in it.

She journeyed back to the living room. As she headed for the sofa once again, her phone rang. It rang a second time, a third, a fourth . . . After the seventh ring, she decided to answer it.

“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy—” howled a young man's voice.

Diana immediately cut the connection, and threw the phone onto the table.

Was it true? Was it really her birthday? Why did anyone have to remind her of that?

In the past, she always used to count the days till her birthday and make plans for it in advance, preparing a list of people to thank afterward in the order they'd feted her. And the first name on that list had always been her mother's.

This would be the first birthday she would spend without her. The first of all the rest of her birthdays.

Her eyes filled with tears.

She went to the cabinet and searched through several drawers before she finally found her diary. Sitting on the floor, she opened it and began to write.

 

My beloved Mother,

You said you were always with me . . . If you are, then why do I miss you so terribly?

I just learned that today is my birthday.

Oh, Mom . . . Where are you?

Forgive me, Mom, for not having replied to you sooner. It's just that this is the first time I've opened my diary since you went away.

No, I'm not angry with you because of your confession. Maybe in the beginning I was a bit cross, perhaps even a little bit heartbroken, but it didn't last long. I'm sure you had good reasons for keeping the truth from me.

But I'm sorry, Mom, I never searched for Mary. I'll never forgive her for causing you to live your last days in worry and fear. And—can you believe it—I didn't even read her letters. Maybe she's already been dead a long time. Forgive me . . .

You know what hurts the most, Mom? Because I broke my promise to you, I feel like I can't even keep you alive in my heart. Everything always reminds me of you, but this only makes it all worse. I feel like I can't remember you in peace . . . If only she hadn't showed up, things wouldn't be like this.

And I'm not interested in knowing about that man, either. I'm sure you had every reason to believe that he was as good as dead to both of us.

Anyway, let me answer your questions, Mom . . .

Today is the last day of school. I'll still be graduating among the top three of my class. The ceremony is on 19 May at 5 p.m. You can't imagine how much I wish you could be there . . .

To be honest, I haven't been taking my evening walks. But don't worry, I'll start again as soon as I feel less tired.

As far as my job applications are concerned, last week two of the best law firms in the city offered me a job. They both want an answer by the end of the month, but I haven't decided yet which to accept.

I know, you'd tell me to turn them down and become a writer instead. I really wish I could do that, Mom. But you know as well as I do that you're the only one who likes my stories. Everyone else thinks they're no good.

Anyway, I only dreamed of being a writer because of those wonderful stories you used to tell me. It was your stories that added meaning to my life. But now you're gone. And so are your stories. You can never tell me another story and if I did write a book, you could never read it. You could never say, “Oh, that was amazing, Diana.”

That's all my news for now, Mom. I hope, somehow or other, you'll know that I'm doing okay.

D
IANA'S EYES STAYED
fixed on her diary for a while. She'd written because she couldn't help feeling that her mother was expecting some news from her. But that was ridiculous! The dead couldn't read letters written to them any more than they could receive the news that their daughters were okay.

She closed her diary and walked to the silver frame her mother had had made especially for her as a birthday present. A month before she died, she'd handed her this frame, which had a handcrafted black rose motif on each of its four sides. “Happy birthday, my darling,” she'd said. Diana had immediately realized what her mother hadn't put into words and had refrained from mentioning—that there were still two months to go until her birthday.

She stroked the four black roses that decorated this most precious remembrance of her mother. Then she read aloud her mother's poem written inside the frame:

No, it's not what you think:

You have not lost me.

I speak to you through everything,

From behind the remembrances . . .

A tear ran down her cheek. “No, Mom, it's not what
you
think,” she whispered. “I have lost you. And you don't speak to me.”

5

D
IANA SAT DOWN
next to the package to open it in the hope that perhaps it had been sent by her mother. She was amazed that not even this gift-wrapped parcel had reminded her of her birthday.

Inside it was a bottle of champagne, a heart-shaped crystal, a birthday card and a love letter with no name on it. Before she had the chance to get up and throw the items into the bin, the doorbell rang again. It seemed there was to be no peace for her today.

On the viewing screen she could see that the uninvited guests were her “close” friends, Isabel and Andrea. These “close” friends were only interested in how she did her hair, what she wore, how entertaining or how popular she was. But Diana also knew that it was through friends like Isabel and Andrea that she felt admired, through them that she felt special, and through them she'd become
the
“Diana.”

Given what she owed them, now that they'd come she couldn't very well refuse to invite them in, tell them to come later or shout through the keyhole, “I don't want to see anyone!”

So she opened the door.

“Happy birthday to you; happy birthday to you; happy birthday, dear goddess; happy birthday to youuu!”

Their display of joy ended abruptly when they took in her disheveled appearance.

“What happened to you, Di?” Isabel asked.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to mix your drinks, Di!” Andrea said. Then, perhaps thinking that the view from the living room wasn't good enough for her, she caught Isabel's hand and drew her quickly toward the steps up to the terrace, as she started firing questions: “Aren't we having a birthday party tonight, Di? Why weren't you at school? So what's the plan?”

As soon as they stepped out onto the terrace, Isabel ran her finger along the edge of the teak furniture. “There, Senhora Oliveira! This dust is sufficient proof that although the whole city lies at your feet, you've given up enjoying the view. Isn't that right, Andrea?”

“Indeed!” Andrea said.

“Well, Di,” Isabel continued, “you haven't answered Andrea's question. What's the plan for tonight?”

“I don't think I'm going to do anything.”

“What?!”

“I never like to disappoint you, you know that, but I went to bed really late last night and my head's splitting, so—”

“But today's your
birthday
, Di!”

“I really don't feel like—”

“What's got into you, Diana?” Isabel said, looking at her sternly. “You used to be the one who brought everyone together, but now we hardly ever see you. We know you're going through a tough time, we all understand that. But do you think shutting yourself up in the house will help you get over it? Do you think that's what your mother would have wanted? Pull yourself together. You're a strong girl.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“I'm weak.”

“No, you're not. You can't be. You have a long way to go, goals to achieve, dreams . . . But if you keep behaving like this, you'll never—”

“What dreams?”

“Well, didn't you dream of becoming a successful lawyer?”

Heaving a sigh, Diana first looked at Isabel and then Andrea. They really had no idea, did they?

“I never dreamed of becoming a lawyer, Isabel.”

“What do you mean?”

“I only ever dreamed of being a writer.”

“Oh, right,
that
dream!” Isabel said.

“Oh, come on, Di,” Andrea said. “We're not kids anymore. When I was little, I wanted to be a singer. But when I grew up, guess what, I realized I have the voice of a crow!”

Neither the friendly expression on Andrea's face nor her attempt to laugh at herself was enough to mask what she was really trying to say.

“Don't worry, Andrea,” Diana said. “I already know that I write like a crow.”

“I didn't mean it like that, Di, I just—”

“Well, girls, now isn't the time to argue,” Isabel said. “What about tonight?”

Neither Diana nor Andrea replied.

“Di, we should really get going now,” Isabel continued. “We have to go try on our graduation outfits. But we'll call by this evening to pick you up, let's say at around 8 p.m. Try to be dressed and ready so we're all on time. And then we'll take you to Olympia—or what about Da Mario? And if you like, to Pulana, okay? A few calls and the old gang will get together. How's that for a plan?”

“I'm in!” cried Andrea.

“Well,” Diana said, “thanks a lot, both of you, for coming. But today, I really do want to be alone.”

6

W
HEN
I
SABEL AND
A
NDREA
had gone, Diana stayed on the terrace for a while longer, thinking how little they knew her. For years they'd been friends; they'd laughed and had fun together, sharing so many good times . . . So how was it that these two girls didn't truly know her or understand her dreams? But then, what did it matter if no one understood a dream she'd decided to let go of?

She thought of the question her mother had asked in her letter. “What is it really, darling, that's preventing you from pursuing your greatest dream?”

Diana knew that if she had a thousand lives to live, in every single one of them she'd still want to be a writer. The only reason she'd chosen law was because of the dreaded scenario she envisaged for herself if she were to become just a mediocre writer . . .

To begin with, those around her would think she'd wasted her qualifications. In spite of this, however, they'd politely conceal their real opinions and tell her what an interesting and exciting profession she'd chosen. But there would always be a hidden disapproval and disdain behind their words and soon she would become the subject of gossip. People would whisper the news about the heiress of the international hotel group and one of the most prestigious hotels in Rio de Janeiro—“the unfortunate Diana Oliveira”—who had once been the envy of all the young people in the city, admired by everyone, but who eventually ended up as a writer whose books nobody read. Those who would once have given everything to be in her place would pity her, thinking that she'd wasted her life.

Diana had never told anyone that it was only because she didn't want this scenario to come true that she'd chosen a career which those around her would approve of. So maybe it was her own fault that her friends didn't know how she really felt. But hadn't she tried to tell them about her hopes and dreams? Of course she had.

Yet whenever she'd tried, they'd judged her. It was as if they knew what was best for her and always swamped her with advice about what she should do, how she should think and even how she should feel. They never tried to understand.

How was she to face being left all alone in this world, with no one to understand her?

To still her tired mind, Diana eventually decided to take an evening walk in the park—as she'd always done with her mother.

7

T
HE PARK WASN'T
too crowded. To get as close to the sea as possible, Diana walked along the shore.

Just how many times in the past had she and her mother walked here together? What would she not give to have one more stroll here with her mother? Just one more . . .

Lost in her memories, she walked for perhaps another quarter of an hour. When she reached the marina with its sailing ships, she turned for home.

She usually chose to return home by way of a shortcut across the park, mainly because she enjoyed seeing the unusual people along the way: people with hair dyed every color of the rainbow; people with piercings on the least expected parts of their bodies; people with skin so decorated there didn't seem to be enough room on them for yet another tattoo.

As usual, the pathway was crowded with vendors of knick-knacks and kitsch, with tattoo artists, strolling musicians and beggars.

As Diana went past the beggars, she heard a deep voice: “Hey there, little lady!”

Not sure whether the voice was addressing her, she glanced around, but couldn't see anyone else who might answer the description. Then she caught sight of an old beggar staring at her. Once more he called, “Hey there, little lady!”

She had often seen the man with curly gray hair at this corner, sitting cross-legged on a piece of straw matting. What made him different from his fellow beggars was that, although his small black eyes seemed constantly to be searching the crowd for something, he never harassed the passersby. Another difference was that on the corner of his ragged mat was written: “Fortunes told: $9.”

Diana was surprised; she'd passed by this fortune-telling beggar perhaps a hundred times before, but never once had he called out to her.

“Were you talking to me?” she asked the beggar, pointing to herself.

“You're searching for her?”

“What do you mean?”

“Her!”

“Who's her?”

“If
you
don't know, how come I should?”

“What!”

“
Her
, I'm saying!”

She shook her head. There was no need to go on with this strange and pointless conversation. Perhaps he had been waiting for someone to play a joke on, or perhaps he was simply testing a new way of attracting the attention of a possible customer. Whatever the reason, it was enough to make Diana decide to walk away as quickly as possible.

She wanted to continue on her way as though no words had passed between them, but she paused when the beggar called out to her once again: “See here, little lady, I'm ready to tell your fortune for nothing. Come, maybe your luck will tell you where she is.”

“I don't know what you're talking about and I don't want to know, either.”

At that moment, quick as a wink, the beggar tipped something resembling ashes into the glass of water in front of him and began to peer at it intently as the water turned a grayish color. Then, “Oh, my!” he said. “What do I see, what do I see? She's looking like you. Just like you!”

Diana froze where she stood.

“Who looks like me?” she asked, swallowing hard.

“That's better, little lady, come sit now.”

Diana did as she was told.

The beggar swirled the water with his forefinger before brushing the tip of it on Diana's face. Without waiting for her reaction, he said, “Whether you are searching for her or not, she's looking like you. Just like you! Same age, same height, same eyebrows, same eyes . . .”

Diana felt a cold shiver run down her spine. She hardly knew what to do or what to say. But there had to be an explanation. There was no such thing as fortune-telling, no such thing as mind reading. There was no chance that this man could be talking about Mary!

To prove he was just a charlatan, she asked, “So, where is she?”

“Not far away.”

“Where exactly?” she asked, raising her voice.

The beggar took her hand and poured a little of the dirty water into her palm. After examining it attentively for a minute, he said, “She comes from far away to near. Soon she goes far away, but she comes back again.”

Then, he lifted his head and fixed his gaze on something at the other side of the pathway. Diana turned to see what he was looking at.

About twenty yards ahead, a street artist was watching them. When the artist realized they were looking at him, he quickly turned back to his easel. Diana gestured questioningly at the beggar.

“That girl who's just like you,” the beggar said, “she'll meet that artist someday.”

Diana sprang to her feet. It had been a mistake to sit down there in the first place. It was obvious he was just having a joke at her expense. She should have realized it long ago; there had been a sly expression of amusement on his wrinkled face from the very beginning.

As Diana hurried away, the beggar called after her, “Read. Open what's written and read.”

Open and read!
The words sped like a treacherous arrow into Diana's retreating back.

Was this also a coincidence? Could these words be related to Mary's letters, which she'd never opened, let alone read? Her head was in a whirl, but this time she went on without a backward glance.

Even though she wanted to get home quickly and leave all this behind her, her steps involuntarily slowed as she passed the young street artist. As he stood facing his painting, she took a quick look at this unkempt youth, to see if she could make any sense of what the beggar had said.

Probably a few years older than her, the artist was tall, well built, with tanned skin and untidy brown hair. He was wearing an old maroon T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans, worn into holes at the knees. His sandals were too dusty to guess their color.

Propped against the iron railing that surrounded a nearby palm tree stood his paintings for sale. They were all much the same in theme—sky, sea and a seagull in each. Each one had a price tag of $150 hanging on it. Although the quality of paint looked poor, the paintings themselves were appealing.

The artist became aware of Diana's gaze as her eyes wandered from himself to his paintings and back again. He turned his big hazel eyes on her. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, just looking.”

“But can you see?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, do you like the paintings?”

“I like your choice of colors.”

The artist remained silent.

Diana, who'd expected at least a “thank you” for her compliment, said, “So . . . Bye, then.”

The artist merely waved and, without waiting for Diana to leave, became engrossed in his painting once again.

Diana wasn't going to mind the manners of a street artist. At least not today. But as she walked away with steady steps, she couldn't help thinking how rude his behavior had been and how unlikable he was.