Then the library was left with Lito, Meghan and Justine.
The silence changed immediately.
Whilst Mary had been in the room, every wound had had its place. Whilst Fiona had been in the room, every wound had felt a working hand on its shoulder. Now mother and daughter stood facing each other without those two old women, and suddenly the library was a ring.
Lito stood between them, but not exactly in the middle. He was clever enough not to set himself up as a barrier. Instead, he moved slowly towards the card table, picked up one of the water glasses, filled it to the brim and drank it demonstratively in one go, as if to prove that at least this water was really just water, before setting it back down on the table with a distinct clatter.

“I’m now going to do something that in any sensible family would be considered foolish, and in this family is probably a fire extinguisher: I’m going to suggest that the two of you stop talking to each other as if Mary, Fiona, Dane, Luke, Drogheda and Valeria were all sitting on your shoulders at once. I’m not asking for reconciliation, nor for a tearful scene, but simply that each of you, for a few minutes, speak honestly and in your own name.”
Meghan was still sitting on the sofa. The slap was now visible only as a faint mark on her cheek, but Justine saw it all the same. Perhaps that was precisely why she saw nothing else.
“I don’t know if I can speak on my own behalf, Mr Rodriguez. For so many years, my own name has been ‘mother’, ‘widow’, ‘abandoned wife’, ‘sinner’, ‘daughter’, ‘niece’ and now, apparently, also ‘the woman who may be publicly struck by her great-aunt because they both love the same bishop’. If I start to shed any of these names, I’m afraid there won’t be a Meghan left beneath them at all.”

Justine pulled her arms closer to her chest. She was standing beneath the shelf of tragedies, and the shadow of the bookcase fell darkly across her dress.
“That’s very beautifully put, Mother, and I even acknowledge the tragedy in it, because I’m not entirely made of stone. But at least you had names, even if they kept you locked away, whilst I’ve spent my whole life trying to catch a glance from you that wasn’t searching for Dane. I was an actress, a sister, an heiress, a troublemaker and a consolation prize, but I was rarely just Justine, your own daughter, when you looked at me.”
Lito refilled the glass to the brim.

He would have spoken up straight away in the past, to break the tension. Now he waited. In some rooms, offering warmth too soon was just another way of smothering the fire.
Meghan laid her hands flat on her knees. She didn’t look up. That made her next sentence harder to say.
“I didn’t mean you as a consolation prize. I wanted to use you to force your father to give up cutting sugar cane, buy his own farm, and spare me that wretched life as a maid with the Müllers. He berated me because I’d seduced him and, in a way, stolen you from him, and because he was angry about that, he came home even less often and accused me of wasting money on you. I know that’s of little help, because children don’t live by what their parents argue about, but by what actually gets through to them. What clearly got through to you was that Dane was light and you were shadow, and I can hardly bear that sentence because I know that I really did treat you exactly like that: you were Luke’s child, with whom I still couldn’t defeat him. And after he’d left me and stolen from me, you were the constant reminder of him. As much as I loved your father in Dane, I hated your father in you.”
Justine laughed softly once. It wasn’t a mocking laugh. It was a very dry sound, almost without breath.
“Dane was love, I was duty, and now I’m supposed to be grown-up enough to understand the difference without holding it against you. That’s a lot to ask of a daughter who’s just learnt that her beloved brother was also the living reminder of the only man you truly wanted.”

Lito looked at Meghan. She didn’t flinch. That was something.
“May I translate that without either of you throwing me out of the window to the lynx? Justine isn’t just saying that you loved Dane more; she’s saying that your love for Dane had a history in which she herself could never feature. Meghan isn’t just saying that she feels guilty; she’s saying that her guilt has now grown so great that she no longer knows where to begin with a simple story.” ”
Justine turned her head towards him.
“You’re very good at turning knives into cutlery. I don’t know whether to admire that or to be suspicious of your act, because Valeria has basically done the opposite: she’s turned every piece of cutlery into a knife. Perhaps we really do need someone from Mexico to temporarily oversee this family kitchen.”
Lito acknowledged the remark with a slight nod. He didn’t make a joke of it. That was his discipline, before he once again emptied the whole glass of water in one long gulp.

“I’ve learnt this evening that you can explain a great deal about this family using cutlery. But I won’t pretend that language is harmless just because it appears grammatically refined. When I translate, it’s not to lessen the pain, but to prevent you from hearing nothing but Valeria’s mocking propaganda in each other’s voices.”
Meghan now raised her head.
“Valeria Sebastienne? That’s a strange name, but I understand it. She wanted to turn everything into collective property, debt and theft – even love, workers’ rights, lesbian love, motherhood, and finally even Dane’s death. Perhaps I made that sentence about my son too easy for her, because I myself could never see my love for him as anything other than something stolen.”
Justine was about to reply, but Lito raised a hand like someone who doesn’t want to touch a falling vase but wishes to slow its descent.

“Let that sentence stand for a moment. It isn’t pretty, and it isn’t complete, but it’s truer than much of what’s been said in the dining room tonight. When Meghan says her love for Dane was stolen, that doesn’t explain everything, yet it shows why she clung to him as if he were the only tenderness God would allow her in this world.”
Justine pressed her lips together. Her face didn’t soften, but it grew more resolute.
“Then let her also hear that I didn’t want to be stolen. I didn’t want to be loved out of Ralph’s shadow, Dane’s sanctity, Luke’s absence or Mary’s will. I didn’t want to be the daughter who is only understood once a blackmailer is dead and a Mexican actor is playing the role of arbitrator in a library. I hated myself for not being loved by you. And I hated every person who approached me with affection, because I’d learnt from you that I wasn’t worthy of being loved. That’s why I thought Rainer’s advances were a trap and the audience’s ovations were a prelude to mockery.”
Meghan stood up. Slowly, because the headache was still with her. Lito didn’t move. He left her standing there whilst he poured a third glass of water.

“There were many times I didn’t understand you. I mistook your loudness for vanity, your wit for harshness, and your acting for an escape from the work on Drogheda, because I didn’t want to see that I myself was the first person you’d run away from. I can’t promise I’ll be a good mother tomorrow, but tonight, for the first time, I can say that I didn’t see you any less because you were worth any less, but because I really did love Dane more.”
Justine looked at her. The words didn’t strike her as an attack, even though they stung like a burning arrow. “I want to believe that sentence. I want to believe it so much that I mistrust it precisely because, for us, hope was usually the moment before someone went to Rome, died or Drogheda burnt down. If you’re talking to me tonight, Mum, don’t do it to make yourself feel better, but because you still want to know tomorrow what you’ve done wrong.”

Meghan nodded.

“I’ll remember that tomorrow. I won’t hide behind the headache, behind Valeria, behind Mum or behind Dane. And if I dodge the issue again, you can hold me to that sentence, even if I’ll hate you absolutely, utterly for it.”
Lito exhaled cautiously.

He’d learnt from telenovelas what reconciliation sounds like when it’s scripted too soon. Music swells, tears glisten, a mother holds her daughter, and the audience gets its sugar fix. This was different. No one was holding anyone; no arm opened in a loving embrace: the library remained cool and smelled of leather and the faint whiff of barbiturates.
Justine didn’t go over to Meghan. She sat down on the edge of the card table, took the glass from Lito’s hand and drank it dry, all the while gazing at him with relish. Then she placed the glass on Hydra and, through the curved base of the glass, unintentionally magnified her current location. Her hands lay beside the Aegean, and beneath her fingers lay printed islands, as if one could touch escape routes.
“Then I’ll tell you something too, without a script and without the punchline that’s already on the tip of my tongue. I’ve often imagined that one day I’ll force you to see me by becoming more beautiful, more famous, more cruel or more indispensable than everyone else. Now that you’re looking at me, I realise I have no idea what to make of your gaze: in reality, you’re so far removed from my life that I’m living as though you were already dead.”
Meghan took a step, but stopped.

“You don’t have to do anything with it. Not tonight, not whilst a young Bolshevik lesbian lies dead in the courtyard and we all taste of bitter almonds, sugar and guilt. Perhaps it’s enough if I look at you and, for once, don’t immediately put Dane between us.”
Lito raised a hand to his forehead. Kala was gone, but her warning remained: warmth could be dangerous when people mistook it for a trap. He had to be careful. He mustn’t turn this moment into a scene, just because his profession tempted him to do so.

“That’s enough for one night. Anything more would probably be a lie, and a false reconciliation would be Valeria’s last little triumph. You two didn’t save each other, but for a few minutes you stopped seeing only through a dead body.”