A couple of weeks ago I said I’d stop being so coy about my fiction and it went down well, so here’s some more. I wrote this in 2019 for a student writing prize and it was the first complete piece of writing I felt proud of. I hope you find something in it x.
Adela is my best friend. She’s really my mum’s best friend but it’s ok if I say she’s mine too because mum shares everything with me, even food. When she sets the dinner table for the four of us, dad and Ana get their own plates, and mum and I eat from the same one. She always leaves most of it for me because she’s on a diet. She’s much smaller than most grownup women I know, so I don’t think she needs to lose weight but I wipe the plate clean anyway and sometimes, I wish there was more.
Dad eats very little, too, but that’s because he’s sick. Before I was born Romania had a dictator, which is like a king, but a bad one who gives away all the nice things and leaves his people with barely anything. One day, people got fed up with not being able to feed their children, so they all got together in Bucharest and broke into his palace. On Christmas day, they shot him and then we were free. Dad was among those men who fought for freedom but in the end all the fighting only freed up space for more of the same people to come and take, take, take from us. That’s what dad says, anyway. Sometimes, at night, I can hear him tell mum that he can’t keep fighting anymore, that he’s sick and tired of it all. So he eats little and sleeps a lot. That’s why every morning, when mum goes to work and Ana goes to school, I go and stay with Adela at the library.
I can’t read. Ana taught me all the letters of the alphabet but when they all get together to form words, it’s like meeting five or six new people at once, and by the time the last one introduces themselves to you, you’ve already forgotten everyone else’s names. I still try – I sit behind the reception desk with Adela and I say the letters aloud, dragging them out as if trying to tie each of them to the next one to stop them from running in opposite directions before I can say the word. After each sentence I complete, I look up at Adela and she rewards me with a smile. But then I look over at the rows of people sat along the walls of the great hall with their heads bent over books or newspapers, their upper bodies instinctively leaning towards the light that pours in through the tall windows, like the leaves of a houseplant in winter. They all turn the pages so fast, as if they are one with the story, like it’s theirs to rush through or stop and savour at will. Suddenly, I want to go home. Libraries are places for people who can read, not little girls who don’t even go to school yet.
Don’t be silly, Adela says when I tell her this, the library is especially for little girls. Believe it or not, we all used to read one letter at a time when we were learning how to read. Most of us are still learning, she says.
I find that hard to believe but I don’t argue with her because she’s much smarter than I am. She’s smarter than most people and everyone knows it. Even those who come to the library to read very thick books that have no pictures in them, not even on the cover. They pour over books for hours without ever getting up, unless someone just as serious-looking as them walks in. Then they step out into the corridor to chat about this or that novel winning a prize they both know it didn’t deserve. Even these people know how smart Adela is, though some of them might not like to admit it. They all come to her when they need to find something, sometimes even before they’ve figured out what exactly they are looking for, and they never leave empty-handed. There isn’t a book anyone can mention that she hasn’t already read.
Dad doesn’t like libraries. He says giving complete strangers things for free and expecting they will bring them back based on nothing other than trust is idealistic to the point of stupidity. Institutionalised naïveté. He said this to mum one night thinking I wouldn’t understand. He was right but I did remember and asked Adela the next day.
How do you know people will bring the books back?
We don’t, she says. She shuffles through some papers on her desk without looking at me.
We just have to trust them.
But what if they don’t? I say. What if they keep taking book after book and then you’re left looking stupid? Dad says people will always make a fool out of you if you let them.
She lets the papers fall on the desk and crouches down so that our eyes are on the same level.
Some people might, she says, brushing some strands of hair off my forehead and tucking them behind my ear. But that doesn’t mean we should give up on everyone else, does it?
I think I agree, but she changes the subject before I can make my mind up. It’s a slow day at the library and she has time to read me a story. It’s about a boy and a girl whose family are so poor that their father and stepmother leave them in a forest so they no longer have to split their food four ways. The father takes them for a walk at night, lights a fire for them, and tells them to wait there while he goes searching for more wood. But he never comes back and the children wander through the woods all night until they come to a house made of sweet bread. They are so hungry that they start to nibble at it until they realise the house belongs to an evil witch who uses it to lure people in and eat them. So, there they are, abandoned by those who couldn’t feed them and about to be devoured by one much stronger than them. But the children refuse to give up; they fight the witch and win. In the end, they find their way back home to learn that their father really did love them and had not had a happy day ever since he had abandoned them.
Well? What did you think? Adela asks.
I wish I had a house made of sweet bread! I say. She laughs and says it wouldn’t be very good for my teeth.
Oh, but I have strong teeth! I reassure her but she only laughs harder.
Really, I say, we only ever have cake at Christmas and sometimes for Ana’s birthday. I get to brush my teeth hundreds of times in between.
Her laugh fades into a silent smile and it sits on her lips for a few seconds before she speaks again.
I was going to save these until after lunch, but since you have such strong teeth... she trails off and turns around. When she faces me again a rectangular piece of golden shortbread scalloped around the edges is lying in the palm of her hand. I know what it is, although I’ve never had one before. As I eat it, I try to commit to memory each letter of the words inscribed on its surface. Eleven bites later I brush the crumbs off my lap and say petit beurre.
That’s correct, Adela says. Well done! She takes two more out of the packet and slides them into my pocket. My reward.
In the evening, I go home and share it with Ana. We sit at the kitchen table after dinner while mum puts the dishes away. Each of us eats her biscuit with the smallest possible bites to make it last longer. After we’re done, we sit there in silence, as if scared that opening our mouths to speak will let the flavour escape. Mum turns around to pick up our dirty glasses and smiles at me.
What’s wrong, bumblebee? she asks. I’d say ‘nothing’ but she wouldn’t believe me. She always knows when something is wrong.
Could we maybe have a biscuit sometime? I ask. One is enough, Ana and I can share. She busies herself with the tablecloth and all traces of a smile fade away.
Not right now... when we have some money, I add, feeling sorry for making her sad. But I can tell that my attempt to make it better is only making it worse. After we go to bed, I can hear her and dad fight again. They’re whispering because they think we’re asleep but I can tell that if they were alone, they’d be shouting.
*
I’m going to see dad today.
About a week ago, I came back from school and found grandma on the phone. When she was done, she came into our room. A serious air lingered about her reminding me of the day mum, Ana and I moved in with her, four years before.
Your father called, she said. He wants to take you out for your birthday.
The following few days were a frenzied blur of careful preparations and excitement. I laid out my favourite clothes and packed my best drawing as a gift for dad.
This morning, as she helped me get dressed, grandma explained that I am to take the bus to the coach station in town where dad would be waiting for me. He will buy me a ticket back to the village at the end of the day, she says, but her voice barely reaches me, like a real-life noise that penetrates a sleeping man’s dream but, too faint to wake him up, is swallowed up and interwoven into the fabric of the dreamworld. Forgotten about by the time he wakes up.
The only thing that brings me back from the depths of my own thoughts, where I spent the morning rearranging all the stories I want to tell him – about school and how I’m the best in my class and all the funny things that happened and I wished he’d been there to see – is catching a glimpse of myself in the bus window. My hair hangs in shiny brown ringlets over my shoulders and flows down to my elbows. It’s the first thing everyone notices about me, something I always get complimented on no matter where I go, and the one thing I’ve inherited from my dad. He doesn’t know this yet because the last time I saw him, four years ago, my hair was still short and fine like a toddler’s. I wonder if he’ll see the resemblance, if he’ll be proud to see that he’s passed something on to me, like parents usually are when they see reflections of themselves in their children. My reflection floats over the shifting landscape outside the bus window and I stare at it, as if for the first time, trying to decide whether I like it or not. Almost everything about me is different since I saw him last. I wonder if I’m as tall or pretty as he expects me to be.
As the bus slows down to fall in step with the rhythm of city traffic, I think about what you should say to someone you haven’t seen in so long. And if it turns out that he, too, has not had a happy day since we left, what do I say then?
When the bus pulls up into a parking spot I still don’t have an answer, but it doesn’t matter because dad’s not here. Could it be that I don’t recognize him in the crowd? Has he changed too? Do grownups keep growing? I push past several happy reunions and find my way inside the coach station, my pink backpack clutched tight against my chest. I sit on a bench and wait. People are moving in and out of the station. Some saying goodbye, others saying hello.
Rarely do I see anyone on their own. Some look at me when they walk past me. In the time it takes them to get to the door, their originally questioning expression changes into the blissful one of someone who has decided that the lone child on the station bench is not their problem.
A security guard walks from the front of the station, through the corridor, and out into the coach parking lot every ten minutes. The first few times he walks past me he nods in acknowledgment and I nod back gratefully, feeling that he’s watching over me somehow. Then I realize that he’s just watching me. I lay back on the bench, my backpack under my head, and close my eyes for a second. It feels like a good time to start praying, in case something bad happened to dad. When I open them, the guard is towering over me.
You can’t sleep here, he says. This is a place of business, not for children. Shouldn’t you be getting home?
I get up, embarrassed, and walk out of the station. He’s right, this isn’t a place for children. Everywhere I look, all I can see are places of business, places where people go to spend money, places not for children. I step onto the main street and suddenly, I am engulfed by people walking in every direction. They’re all so tall that I can’t even see their eyes as they rush past me, just alternating waves of grey and navy suits carrying me this way and that against my will.
I want to cry but I know it’s not safe to do that here. Grandma says that if you ever get lost, you should act like someone you know is just around the corner, until you find an adult you can trust. Bullies know when you’re weak, so you must appear strong. With her words still ringing in my ears, I keep walking as if I really am going somewhere, hoping that no one will notice that I’m lost. There is no logic to my decision to cross the street, or turn left at the next corner, other than mere fancy and a funny feeling that certain buildings and street signs look less foreign than others, like memories from a past life.
I walk across a big square with little cafés on every corner and a fountain in the middle – a round pool with nine statues of young women sat around it: one writes on a clay tablet, another reads a scroll, a third plays a small guitar, the one next to her holds a theatre mask... a loud group of teenagers draws near and I start walking again, afraid that they might approach me. I go as fast as I can but they keep close behind me. One of them says something I can’t hear and then they all burst out laughing. My heartbeat begins to pick up speed too. In a few minutes I’m out of the square and through a narrow street. The boys are still at my heels but I’m not as afraid anymore. The statue of the muses can only mean one thing, I think to myself. I’m safe.
I turn left out of the little street and run up the marble stairs of a white building. I stop in the middle of the entrance hall to catch my breath, drinking in the smell of old wood and paper, and breathing out relief. The boys walk in too, but they look different now. What was menacing about them out in the street vanishes completely once they set foot inside the library, as if these walls had the power to instantly turn impenetrable strangers into a sort of distant and well-meaning acquaintance.
A hand touches my shoulder and pulls me out of my reverie.
What are you doing here? Adela asks. I tell her everything and she listens like only great readers do, giving even the smallest story their most faithful attention. When I finish, she walks back to her desk and picks up the phone. She speaks for a few moments and then passes the receiver to me.
It’s dad. He’d been looking everywhere for me. The library was next on his list. He’ll be here soon, he promises, and he’ll make it up to me.
How did you get his number? I ask Adela.
I have it here, she says, pointing at a library membership form.
I didn’t know that he was a member, I say.
He’s only taken out a few books, she replies, but he’s always brought them back on time.
She nods to the chair I used to fill every day all those years ago. As she sits down on the chair next to it, I follow suit.
She reaches for a pile of books on her desk, and picks up the topmost one. A familiar sense of peace washes over me.
Now, she says, how about I read you a story?