‘Do not worry, Lin. The secret is safe with me. I am glad that you killed him. Not just for me. I knew him. I was his best friend-his only friend. If he lived, after he did this to me, there was no limit to his evil. That is how a man destroys his own soul-he loses the last limit to his evil. And I watched him, when he cut me with his knife, and when he walked away the last time, and I knew that he lost his soul. It cost him his soul, what he did… the things he did to me.’
‘You don’t have to talk about it.’
‘No, it is okay, now, to talk about him. Maurizio was afraid. He was always afraid. He lived all his life in fear of… everything. And he was cruel. That is what gave him his power. I have known a lot of powerful men in my life, and this much I know-all the powerful men I knew were afraid, and cruel. That is the… mix… that gave them power over other men. I was not afraid. I was not cruel. I had no power. I was… you know, it was like the feeling for my Ulla-I was in love with Maurizio’s power. And then, after he left me there, on the bed, and Ulla came into the room, I saw the fear in her eyes. He put his fear into her. He made her so afraid, when she saw what he did to me, that she ran away and left me there. And when I watched her leave, and shut the door…’
He hesitated, swallowing hard, the full, unmarked lips trembling on the words. I wanted to stop him, to spare him the memory of it and maybe save myself from it as well. But as I began to speak he put a little more pressure in the palm that he held against my chest, silencing me, and looking up into my eyes once more.
‘I hated Maurizio for the first time, then. My people, the people of my blood, we do not want to hate, because when we do hate, it is with the whole of the soul, and it can never forgive the hated one. But I hated Maurizio, and I wished him dead, and I cursed him with that wish. Not for what he did to me, but for what he did to my Ulla, and for what he would do in the future as a man without a soul. So, do not worry, Lin. I do not speak of it to anyone, what you did. And I am glad, I am truly grateful that you killed him.’
A clear voice within me said that I should tell him what had really happened. He had a right to know the truth. And I wanted to tell him. An emotion that I couldn’t fully understand-the last vestige of anger at Ulla, perhaps, or a jealous contempt for his faith in her-made me want to shake him, and shout the truth at him, and hurt him with it. But I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. And as his eyes reddened and simmered into tears that ran, exactly, in the channelling scars that pierced his cheeks I held the stare, and nodded my head, and said nothing at all. He nodded his head, slowly, in reply. He misread me, I think, or I misread him. I’ll never know.
Silences can wound as surely as the twisting lash, the poet Sadiq Khan once wrote. But sometimes, being silent is the only way to tell the truth. I watched Modena turn and limp away, and I knew that the wordless minute we’d shared, with his hand on my chest and his breached and weeping eyes close to mine, would always be more precious and even more honest for both of us, no matter how errable or misunderstood, than the cold, unloving truth of his world alone, or of mine.
And maybe he’s right, I thought. Maybe his way of remembering Maurizio and Ulla was right. Certainly, he’d dealt with the pain they’d caused him a lot better than I’d dealt with that kind of pain when it had happened to me. When my marriage fell apart in betrayal and bitterness, I became a junkie. I couldn’t bear it that love was broken, and that happiness had cindered so suddenly into sorrow. So I ruined my life, and hurt a lot of people on the long way down. Modena, instead, had worked and saved and waited for love to return. And thinking about that-how he’d lived with what had been done to him-and wondering at it on the long walk back to Abdullah and the others, I discovered something that I should’ve known, as Modena did, right from the start. It was something simple: so simple that it took a pain as great as Modena’s to shake me into seeing it. He’d been able to deal with that pain because he’d accepted his own part in causing it. I’d never accepted my share of responsibility-right up to that moment-for the way my marriage had failed or for the heartache that had followed it. That was why I’d never dealt with it.
