The Boy in the Suitcase - By Lene Kaaberbol Page 0,78

to know your last name, and where you lived.”

“And what did you do?”

“I told him,” said Jolita calmly. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“He was quite polite,” nodded Mrs. Orlovienė. “Not entirely what I would call a nice young man, but quite polite.”

“What did he look like?” asked Sigita, although she was fairly certain she already knew.

“Big,” said Mrs. Orlovienė. “Like one of those—what are they called now?” She raised both skinny arms to mime a bodybuilder pose. “And hardly any hair. But quite polite.”

At long last, Sigita’s thoughts began to line up in an orderly fashion instead of tumbling over each other in random chaos. She knew that Aunt Jolita would never have taken in tenants unless she had been forced to. There was obviously no longer any Professor on Mondays and Thursdays. Probably no job, either. And yet here were sherry and cakes and a brand new percolator.

“Did he give you money?” she asked Jolita.

“Is that any of your business?”

That meant yes. Sigita spun and seized the old coffee tin Jolita usually kept noodles in. Noodles, and certain other things.

“Sigita!” Jolita tried to prevent her, but Sigita had moved too quickly. She hugged the tin against her chest with the plaster cast and wrested the lid off with her right hand. When Jolita tried to tear the tin away from her, it clattered to the floor, sending little macaroni stars shooting off in all directions across the worn linoleum. Sigita instantly put her foot down on top of the brown envelope that had also been in the tin.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she screamed, suddenly beside herself with fury.

“Shhhh!” hissed Jolita. “You’ll wake him.”

“A complete stranger wants to give you money to tell him where I am. He looks like a gorilla. What the hell were you thinking? Don’t you realize that he has taken Mikas?”

“That’s hardly my fault!”

“You made it easy.” Sigita’s voice was shaking. “You sold me. Without even warning me. And then they took Mikas!”

Mrs. Orlovienė sat with her mouth open, on the point of dropping her coffee cup. At that moment, the door flew back on its hinges. In the doorway stood a young man, dressed only in black boxers and a foul temper. His hair had been dyed blue and stuck out in odd directions, still coated with several layers of gummy styling gel.

“Stop that fucking racket,” he snarled. The two older women were instantly silenced. Mrs. Orlovienė slid a little lower in her chair, as if being smaller would help. Jolita stood her ground, but her hands had begun the nervous rubbing movement Sigita knew so well. The young man transferred his furious glare to Sigita.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asked.

“This is my niece,” said Jolita. “She came for a visit. But she’s leaving now.”

“I fucking hope so,” said the bartender. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”

He withdrew, slamming the door as he went. A few seconds later, the living room door was slammed with even greater force. The walls trembled slightly.

Sigita bent to retrieve the envelope. It contained eight five-hundred-litu bills and a few lesser bills Sigita couldn’t be bothered to count.

“Four thousand litu,” she said. “Was that the price?”

“No,” said Mrs. Orlovienė. “At first he only wanted to pay three thousand, but in the end he agreed to five.”

Jolita made a violent shushing gesture in Mrs. Orlovienė’s direction.

“I don’t quite see the reason for all this high-minded outrage,” she told Sigita. “If some idiot is willing to pay five thousand litu for something you can look up in the phone book, why should I turn down good money?”

“He didn’t know my last name till you told him” said Sigita, fishing three thousand litu from the envelope.

“What are you doing?”

“This is your contribution,” answered Sigita. “I need it in order to get Mikas back.” She let the envelope with the rest of the money fall to the floor. Mrs. Orlovienė was the one who snatched it up, ferret quick. Jolita remained where she was, staring at Sigita. Then she shook her head.

“You feel so put-upon, don’t you?” she said. “Poor little Sigita who has had such a hard life. But did you ever pause to think what it’s been like for your mother? You taking off like that, not even leaving a note? She lost a daughter. Did you ever think about that?”

The accusation hit Sigita like a hardball to the stomach.

“She knew where I was,” said Sigita. “The entire time. They were the ones who turned their backs on me,