The House in Smyrna by Tatiana Salem Levy Page B

gold. Some looked very expensive. Others seemed to sell only costume jewellery, although they assured me that all their pieces were genuine. Many items were in several of the shops, with the same design — the same red, blue, or green stones, and strands of ornate silver dangling from earrings and necklaces. There was a ring called a harem ring: it had four narrow loops of silver or gold set with colourful little stones that, all together, formed a relatively large piece. I asked why it was called that and was told that it brought luck in love and helped you find a husband. I smiled. I passed many shops. It was hard to exit them, because the shop assistants insisted, argued, haggled, and weren’t content if I didn’t buy anything.
    But suddenly, in one such shop, a long, oval-shaped ring caught my eye. It was made with dark silver to look old, with a green stone in the centre. I asked if the silver and the stone were genuine, and the shopkeeper assured me that they were. I only had his word to go on and decided to trust him. The ring was a little big, but the man said he could adjust it. I asked when it would be ready, and he said the same day, later that afternoon. When he was measuring my finger, he noticed the ring on my other hand. It’s beautiful, he said. Where did you buy it?
    It was my mother’s, I said. And if I’m not mistaken, she bought it in Egypt. See all these little holes? There used to be a green stone in each one.
    If you want, I can set it with new stones, he offered.
    I hesitated, afraid it might not look nice. I’m not sure, I said. It was like this when I got it. And to be honest, I like things that have gone, that aren’t here anymore. I like ruins, secrets of the past. I don’t like restored things, as if they were built yesterday. I prefer marks, vestiges. Then I added: My mother bought this ring over thirty years ago. Do you think mine will last that long too? One day I’d like to give it to a daughter of my own.
    Yes, he said, and guaranteed that it would last a long time. I’m just not sure about the stone, he joked. That I can’t promise. And we both laughed.
    When you leaned over to whisper sweetly in my ear, I knew you were going to ask me to do something and I pulled away, tired of your requests. You pretended not to notice and leaned towards me again. I said: No, I don’t want to hear it, I’m tired of your requests. You held me tightly by the wrists, with just one hand. I shouted: Let go of me! You didn’t. You picked up a pencil that was lying nearby and ran its sharp tip down my arm. Blood trickled out onto the sofa. Like a madwoman, I hollered that you were a psychopath, mentally ill, that you hit women, that I was going to the police, that I hated you, you disgusted me, turned my stomach. When you let go, I pushed you with all the strength I could muster and, with my index finger hovering in front of your face, said without blinking: Next time I’ll pluck your eyes out. Both of them.
    The pale blue face of the deceased, nostrils stopped up with cotton, and the last smile of death are things I can only imagine. I’ve never seen a dead body, nor did I see you dead. I saw you dying, asking for water to wet your dry throat, saying you were thirsty, and the nurse telling me that I couldn’t give you any. I was torn, afraid to give you water and do you harm, afraid you’d die of thirst if I didn’t — lost in my fear, a little girl about to lose her mother, not knowing what to do (if there were only one kind of pain in the world, it would be that of seeing someone you love perish and not being able to do a thing). You were still here, air still entering and leaving your lungs, but I knew that shortly we wouldn’t be together anymore; shortly the warm hand I was holding would grow cold and indifferent to my warmth. The doctor had already warned me: It’s only a matter of time. He didn’t say: Your