Page 215 - And the Mountains Echoed (novel)

“You best drop it. The stupid act. It doesn’t suit you,” she said. She had a way

of narrowing her eyes and tilting her head just a shade. To this day it has a grip
on me.
“I can’t do it, Mamá. Don’t make me.”
“And why not, exactly?”
It came out before I could do a thing about it. “She’s a monster.”
Mamá’s mouth became small. She regarded me not with anger but with a

disheartened look, as though I’d drawn all the sap out of her. There was a
finality to this look. Resignation. Like a sculptor finally dropping mallet and
chisel, giving up on a recalcitrant block that will never take the shape he’d
pictured.
“She’s a person who has had a terrible thing happen to her. Call her that name
again, I’d like to see you. Say it and see what happens.”
A little bit later there we were, Thalia and I, walking down a cobblestone path
flanked by stone walls on each side. I made sure to walk a few steps ahead so

passersby—or, God forbid, one of the boys from school—wouldn’t think we
were together, which, of course, they would anyway. Anyone could see. At the
least, I hoped the distance between us would signal my displeasure and
reluctance. To my relief, she didn’t make an effort to keep up. We passed
sunburned, weary-looking farmers coming home from the market. Their donkeys
labored under wicker baskets containing unsold produce, their hooves clip-
clopping on the footpath. I knew most of the farmers, but I kept my head down
and averted my eyes.
I led Thalia to the beach. I chose a rocky one I sometimes went to, knowing it
would not be as crowded as some of the other beaches, like Agios Romanos. I
rolled up my pants and hopped from one craggy rock to the next, choosing one
close to where the waves crashed and retracted. I took off my shoes and lowered
my feet into a shallow little pool that had formed between a cluster of stones. A

hermit crab scurried away from my toes. I saw Thalia to my right, settling atop a
rock close by.
We sat for a long while without talking and watched the ocean rumbling
against the rocks. A nippy gust whipped around my ears, spraying the scent of
salt on my face. A pelican hovered over the blue-green water, its wings spread.
Two ladies stood side by side, knee-deep in the water, their skirts held up high.
To the west, I had a view of the island, the dominant white of the homes and
windmills, the green of the barley fields, the dull brown of the jagged mountains
from which springs flowed every year. My father died on one of those
mountains. He worked for a green-marble quarry and one day, when Mamá was