Trafika Europe 12 - French Bon-Bons

Laura Sintija ČCerniauskaitėe

into a terrible secret. Ilya’s cheeks were bathed with hot beads. Isabel and Liudas froze as they watched the child, as if the tears were actual proof that he was alive and sentient. Isabel’s hand slid across the table, her movement as calm as she was able – and Ilya did not recoil from her. She rose from her seat and hugged the sobbing child. She whispered into his ear; not words, only meaning- less sounds, humming, like the hum of tea boiling. They didn’t finish breakfast that day, they moved into the living room crying and groaning – Ilya with his face tucked into Isabel’s skirt, mumbling for a solid half hour, his face hid among the pattern of flowers. Later he slept, relaxed and without shuddering. Softly Isabel called out to Liudas and he helped her move the child, who was dizzy from crying, onto the sofa. Ilya settled in a tearful trance; the irises under his swollen eyelids shone like damp velvet. On Isabel’s corn- flower skirt there was a black patch from his tears, shaped like a wounded dragon. In the evenings he and Isabel would stay in the kitchen on their own. She sensed that Ilya longed for these moments together. He didn’t like asking for anything, or speaking or exchanging words. He would sneak up behind Isabel when she was washing the dishes or reading a book and would stand there breathing down her neck. She would pretend she didn’t notice him. Ilya’s blood would pound and he would grow suddenly distant and then, embarrassed, he would run to the

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