Just a note, if you've read the chapters I posted before I'm sorry but please re-read them. I shuffled the chapters around, I'm sorry.
03 is it real?
Leaning against the banisters by the canal, Rosa and James took in the morning Venetian scene—gondoliers paddling down canals to satisfy overly-enthusiastic tourists, who were cooing intermittently as if Venice were Mars. Nearby, more affluent tourists in haute couture chatted in cafés, occasionally cracking a smile as they stirred at their coffee. Children were a rare sight in Venice, but none of the people seemed to take note of them—they walked briskly as if rushing to a destination with as much composure as possible.
"Freckles," he started randomly. "I will call you Freckles."
"Why?" she winced, out of both his randomness and the weird moniker.
"Because you've got freckles all over your nose," he replied frankly.
"Then I'll call you…" Rosa trailed off from exasperation, racking her brain for a nickname apt enough for James. "Sawyer," she finally completed at last, wiping off the smug grin on James' face. It was her turn to smile smugly; it was just like the word game James played to improve her Italian, and she had the upper-hand advantage—they had to exchange words, and he was racking his brain to think of one rebuttal.
"Why?" he treaded on her words previously, a wince on his face not unlike Rosa's.
"You're like Tom Sawyer," she answered simply. "Adventurous and all."
"Aren't you a Sawyer yourself?"
Rosa shook her head, trying to quell a smile at his expression—exasperation and incomprehension in an exotic mix. She couldn't restrain and broke into a lopsided grin as she replied, "I'm not a boy, that's why."
He shook his head incredulously and they lapsed into silence, taking in the unflattering oohs and aahs of the tourists that mingled with the ebb and flow of humanity.
"I hate her," Rosa lamented as suddenly as Sawyer had as they started walking down the pavement. "She took me away from my family."
James tried to suppress a smile. "How can she? I mean you've been here all your life."
"I can't speak Italian properly, and somehow I can pick up random words when tourist speaks. Like you said, I've got freckles, and it's not a common sight here," Rosa reasoned, eyebrows knitted and absorbed in thought. Slowly and shakily, she conjectured, "It's like…I wasn't born here."
"That's just because you're smart to be perceptive to languages," James concluded. "I mean you're not like me."
"How so?" Rosa challenged.
Very lightly, James replied, "My dad tells me point-blank I'm not his real son."
"I wish she tells me that," Rosa said darkly. "I'm not her at all, and I don't want to be her."
"You aren't," James consoled simply as he took her hand and they strolled, half-skipping, down the pavement. Eager to divert the topic, he scanned for an unwitting face, and then asked, "How about that tourist guy?"
Rosa grinned. "I could do with more money."
-----
From outside, a loud jumble of voices could be heard. Rosa pursed her lips; it was their gambling night again and this time it was at her house. Trying to look as unfazed as possible, she slowly opened the creaky wooden door which was brittle at the sides due to termites gnawing at it. She took a brief glance at the small crowd huddled around a small table, a lone bulb illuminating the room. Nobody seemed to notice her, and she heaved an inward sigh of relief; if they did the men would bother her to no end. Creeping to the right, she crept into the room and placed the money on the tabletop, held down by a tray of spices. Beside the bed, she pulled open the trapdoor and slid down.
Switching on the lights, she counted four tiles down, then eight left and pulled out a loose floorboard. She darted her head to the tiny door above suddenly, and then bit her lip at her being overtly alarmed. The chattering was still there.
Gingerly, she pulled out a small cookie tin and shoved her ten lira and a few two lira notes inside. Thinking about the events of the morning, she fished out her picture book of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn out from the bottom of the small space. Sweeping away the thin layer of dust that had gathered on the cover of the book, she took in the caricature of the plucky Tom Sawyer for the first time and felt contented about her new nickname for James. Taking in a deep breath, she pulled out a fragile forget-me-not sandwiched between pages fourteen and fifteen. The colour had faded into the dried ochre, and Rosa couldn't help think that those were stuff belonging to the life that she had once lived—the life the woman stole from her.
All day, the dream came to her and kept gnawing for her attention. She almost wanted to tell Sawyer about it, but somehow, something withheld her from doing it.
It's a stupid dream, she tried to reason. It's just you hate her so, and don't want to be like her is all.
However hard Rosa tried to persuade her to drop the thought, she couldn't. The dream was so vivid; it was as if she knew the roads and streets in there, and it wasn't Venice at all. There were proper roads with cars zooming past, and she could picture everything as if she had moulded the entire town herself. The woman had never brought her out of the murky canals and Rosa thought that it wasn't possible that she knew so much about a place she hadn't seen before.
There was also the meadow not far away. The skyscrapers didn't leave the picture entirely, but there was a grass patch adorned with flowers and trees. There were people talking amongst themselves, but it was there that things started getting blurry. She was among the group and wasn't called Rosa, definitely, but she couldn't recall what. They were definitely not conversing in Italian, but she could recognise what they were talking about.
Rosa winced and switched the light off. She walked to her mattress and cocooned herself with the thin loincloth folded on one side. Falling onto her flattened pillow, she shook her head in irritation and shut her eyes, chasing away the thoughts and willing herself to be induced to sleep. It was like another hint pulling at her brain, telling her that she wasn't supposed to be here at all. Despite the irritation and begrudging curiosity, she crossed her fingers and hoped that she would have a different dream this night.
-----
The moment the attendant opened the doors for him, Sawyer—he would never confess, but he liked the name Rosa bestowed upon him—stepped in and bounded up the stairs, greeting his mother on the way. By the door of the study, Sawyer hesitated a moment, as if what lay inside were sacred treasures.
He shook his head, dispelling the weird emotions which had gathered in his mind. Knocking the door, he asked furtively, "Dad? It's me, Sawyer."
"Come in," came an amiable voice from inside.
"Here's what Charlie and I got today," Sawyer tried, as confidently as possible, as he approached the man's study table. As he placed a thin wad of notes on the rich mahogany tabletop, the man smiled in response.
"You're great," he started. Then, his expression shifted, though the smile, a genuine one, remained. "How did you get that name Sawyer?"
In halting Italian, James told him, for the first time, of Rosa and their exploits and how he became Sawyer. He looked eagerly as the man chuckled and ruffled his hair.
"Go and rest now, Little Sawyer," he managed, and Sawyer had to control not to skip out of the study and into his room. Although it had been made clear right from the start that he had come from the orphanage, the most important thing was the attention and love bestowed, and Sawyer decided that whatever happened, he would follow in his foster father's footsteps.
-----
Lying in bed facing the window, Sawyer looked out of the window and wondered what Rosa was doing. Sleeping, perhaps, he offered, as the events of the morning surged into his mind's eye. It was the first time she was vaguely resenting—she was not like any other girl, she seldom complained and that was partly why Sawyer stuck so much with her. It must be some trial Rosa had, he decided, as he turned away from the window to the room, and while doing so he faced Charlie.
His eyes were open, and Sawyer pursed his lips. "Do you sleep like that?" he whispered into the shadows, annoyance rising in his voice. "Like a fish, eyes open?"
Charlie shook his head, replying, "I just wanted to make sure you were awake."
"Yeah?" Sawyer questioned irritably. "I as hell am."
Charlie seemed stung by the acid voice Sawyer put up for he paused for a moment, as if smarting from a mental wound Sawyer inflicted. Slowly, he started, saying, "Well, just to let you know." He paused, as if to collect more calm, and then continued, "I got your plane up and painted."
"I can see," Sawyer replied coolly. He was never going to say his thanks; after all Charlie's thanks were just for the moment, if he ever uttered them. Nevertheless though, Sawyer waited until his half brother was asleep, complete with the low occasional grumbles, crept out of bed, and admired his painting. It was meticulous and neat, and Charlie had painted Sawyer's name in green—his favourite colour—and added the number forty-two—another favourite—on it. He held the plane up, and a note was under it. With the other hand, he picked it up and read, 'Thanks pal' with a smiley face attached in Charlie's usual scrawl. Sawyer put them back on his table and walked back to bed.
Once again, he whispered into the shadows, but this time all his anger was removed. "Thanks," he whispered, curling back into his warm bed.
