Blooms of Darkness

5

Hugo’s mother was right. Before long, they are standing by a narrow wooden door. His mother knocks, and to the question in a woman’s voice, she answers, “Julia.”

The door opens, and a tall woman, dressed in a long nightgown, stands at the entrance.

“We got here,” says his mother.

“Come in.”

“I won’t disturb you. Hugo’s clothes are in the suitcase, and there are books and games in the knapsack. We came through the sewer pipes. I hope the clothes didn’t get dirty. You know Hugo?”

“He’s grown since I last saw him,” she says, and looks at him.

“He’s a good boy.”

“I’m sure.”

“Mariana will watch over you. She remembers you from when you were very little.”

“Mama,” Hugo says, as though his lips have stopped him from saying more.

“I have to leave immediately and get to the village before dawn.” She speaks with strange haste and takes something shiny out of her handbag and hands it to Mariana.

“What’s this?” says Mariana, without looking at the jewelry.

“It’s for you.”

“Good God. And you?”

“I’m going away from here to Sarina, and I hope to get there before sunrise.”

“Be careful,” says Mariana, and she hugs Hugo’s mother.

“Hugo, dear,” she says, “always be quiet and polite. Don’t bother with questions and don’t ask for anything. Always say please and always say thank you.” The words are choked in her throat.

“Mama.” He tries to keep her for another minute.

“I have to go. Take care of yourself, dear,” she says, kisses his forehead, and separates herself from him.

Mama, he is about to call out again, but the word is blocked in his mouth.

Hugo manages to see her go away. She walks stooped over, making a way for herself through the bushes. When she is swallowed up in the thick darkness, Mariana closes the door.

That is the break, but Hugo doesn’t feel it. Perhaps because of the night chill that his body had soaked up, or because of his fatigue. He is very confused and says, “Mama left.”

“She’ll come back,” says Mariana, not meaning it.

“Is it far to the village?” he asks, breaking the first rule that his mother drilled into him.

“Don’t worry about your mother. She’s experienced. She’ll find a way.”

“Sorry.” He tries to fix things.

“You’re surely tired,” Mariana says, letting him into the closet, a long, narrow space without windows. At first sight it looks like the roomy pantry in Hugo’s house. But the strong smell of sheepskins immediately reminds him of the shoemaker’s cellar, where his mother brought shoes to be repaired every few months.

“This will be your bedroom. Can I bring you something to drink?”

“Thanks, there’s no need.”

“I’ll bring you some soup.”

Hugo surveys the closet, and on his second look he discovers colorful nightgowns suspended from hangers, a few pairs of shoes, and, on a surface like a bench, scattered silk stockings, a corset, and a brassiere. Those women’s things amuse his eyes for a moment.

Mariana brings him the soup and says, “Eat, dear. You’ve had a hard day.”

Hugo eats the soup. Mariana looks at him and says, “You’re a big kid. How old are you?”

“Eleven.”

“You look older. Take off your shoes and go to sleep. Tomorrow we’ll sit together and talk about how to make your days with me pleasant,” she says, and closes the closet door.

It’s still dark outside, and through the cracks in the closet wall the shrieks of birds of prey filter in, as does the clear cry of a rooster that has woken up. For a moment it seems to Hugo that the door will open soon and his mother will come in, stooped over, the way she was in the habit of walking during the past weeks. She will tell him that she has found a marvelous hiding place and that they will go there together now. Her voice and expression are clear, and he awaits her arrival intently. But in the end fatigue overcomes him, and he falls asleep.

It is an uncomfortable sleep that presses on his chest and binds his feet. Several times he tries to slip out of the oppression. In the end he wakes up and feels better.

Now he can see the closet. It’s narrower than he imagined. Through the cracks between the boards light filters in and brightens the back. The front remains dipped in thin darkness.

Sleep, it seems, has wiped the expectation away from his heart. He sees his mother standing at the counter in the pharmacy with his father at her side, as though time had frozen them in their places. The panic of the last few months is not visible on them. They look quiet and settled, and if they weren’t frozen into mummies, there would have been no change in them.

While he is still wondering about their frozenness, the door opens, and Mariana stands in the doorway, dressed in a colorful nightgown, with a cup of milk in her hand.

“How did you sleep?”

“Well.”

“Drink, and I’ll show you my room.”

Hugo takes the cup and drinks. It is sweet, fresh milk that seeps into him and warms him up.

“Where’s Mama?” He can’t control himself.

“She went to the village to find refuge.”

“When will she come to me?” Again he makes a mistake and asks.

“It will take a little time. Come, I’ll show you my room.”

Hugo didn’t expect such a surprise. It is a broad room, well lit and wrapped in curtains. All the slipcovers in the room are pink, as are the chairs. Colorful jars and flasks are scattered on the dressers.

“Do you like the room?”

Hugo doesn’t know what to say, so he answers, “It’s very beautiful.”

Mariana chuckles, a kind of suppressed laugh that is hard to figure out.

“The room is very beautiful.” He tries to correct himself. “In the daytime you can play here. Sometimes I sleep in the daytime, and you can watch over my sleep.”

“I’ll play chess,” it occurs to him to tell her.

“Sometimes I’ll have to hide you, but don’t worry, it will be for a short time, and then you’ll come back here. You can sit in the armchair or on the floor. Do you like to read?”

“A lot.”

“You won’t be bored with me,” Mariana says, and she winks.