Page 37 of This Vicious Hunger
“I want to show you something.” She pauses breathlessly, and when I don’t immediately get to my feet she flaps her hands at me. “Comeon,” she insists. “I promise it will help you see that this isn’t the end of the world.”
Olea guides us until we reach the heart of the garden. The sun is just beginning to set, the trees and plants surrounding us gleaming in the gentle pink-gold. The grass around us is lush and green, peppered with dwarf nettles, rhubarb, and tiny black mushrooms I suspect must beCoprinus atramentarius—inky cap—amongst brambles with thorns as long as my thumbnail.
Just beyond us are the crumbling remains of a fountain, its white stone shining as the sun hits it; the statue atop is of a young woman riding a horse, bare of all clothes and her modesty preserved only by the long hair that winds around her body. The horse, however, is missing its head.
“That”—Olea points at one of the trees to the fountain’s right—“is a type of manchineel. TraditionallyHippomane mancinella, though I’m not sure she truly shares the name, as she was brought over from the Old Continent. Some people call it ‘little fruit,’ or sometimes ‘beach apple tree.’ You see how it leans towards you? It likes you.”
The tree Olea refers to is young but no longer a sapling. Its bark is the colour of dusty sage, cracked silver farther away from the roots. Between the thick, equally dusty-looking leaves grow apples the size of Olea’s tiny fists.
“Wait, I’ve seen this in one of my books. Isn’t the fruit meant to be—”
Olea reaches for one, and before I can stop her she’s pulled it from the bough with a triumphant smile. I step back hastily. I’ve read about the manchineel. Its fruit is otherwise known as poison guava; even its bark, its leaves, its sap, are caustic and can burn skin and cause blindness. Olea, completely unperturbed, raises the apple to her mouth and takes a bite.
“Olea,” I warn.
The juice that runs down her chin is pale, milky white, and she sighs at its sweetness. Her eyelids flutter closed, long, dark lashes almost brushing her cheeks. She looks different in the sun, so pale she could almost be translucent.
“Olea.Whatever you’re trying to prove, this isn’t the way to do it—please. I don’t want you to hurt yourself just to make me feel better about—anything. I know you’re good at what you do. I trust you, but you’re scaring me. Please.Please.”
Olea opens her eyes and looks at me. Her pupils are so large they seem to swallow the irises; she is sweet-drunk and her smile is lazy and slow.
“Is that what you think I’m trying to do?” Her voice is soft like honey. “Thora, I’m not trying to scare you. I’m not trying to prove anything, except to myself. I just wanted to show you…”
“Show me what? That you don’t value your own life?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then what?”
“That the tree isn’t—she isn’t just atree. She won’t hurt me. And look how she leans, how the fruit on her branches looks almost too heavy for her to bear. I think shewantsyou to take it. She doesn’t want to hurt you either.”
The setting sun is hot on my shoulders and I can feel the burn of it through my short hair, across my forehead, my nose, andmy cheeks. I long for shade or shadows. How is it so insufferably warm at this time of day? I wipe the sweat from my forehead and squint. Olea lowers the fruit to her side and lets out a soft sigh.
It does something to me, this sigh. I feel the quiver deep inside myself. A release. Olea steps closer. Her bare feetarestained, I realise. Her fingers too. It doesn’t look like dirt or ink, though, more like their natural tint—if that natural tint was midnight with a touch of dark forest green. She takes another step closer. And then one more. The fruit still dangles casually from her right hand. Too casually. Her eyes are on mine and they are anythingbutcasual. They are so dark they’re almost black, but they’renotblack. They are actually hazel.
I begin to tremble.
“Does it frighten you to be close to me?” Olea asks. She is so close now I can see the pulse at her throat, rapid like the fluttering wings of a bird. My own pulse echoes. Gone are all thoughts of Petaccia and the vine, of Leo—even of the garden. There is only Olea.
“No.” My mouth is dry, my lips stiff as I try to lick them. The heat is too much, the sun and its damned pink rays. “You are the one who’s normally afraid.” I recall the way she flinched away from the pastries I brought, the careful way she holds herself so there’s never any chance of us touching. Not so now. Now she leans towards me, her body bowing like the arms of the manchineel.
“I used to be afraid,” she says. “I don’t think I am now.”
She lifts the fruit and holds it out to me. I continue to stare at her. Her chin still drips with the juice, some of the pulp there too; it makes her lips especially dark and her teeth especially white and I can hardly breathe.
“You said I shouldn’t do that,” I croak.
“That was before. You’ve been exposed now, long enough that it’s safe. I’m sure. I told you I would try to protect you—and now I’m telling you—taste it.”
Olea closes the last of the distance between us. She is so close I can sense the warmth of her body; the tassels of her shawl brush my shoulder and I feel them like shivers through the loose weave of my shirt. She holds the fruit to my mouth and I raise my own hands without thinking. As she presses the surprisingly soft flesh to my lips, my hands close around her fingers and the apple. Olea startles at my touch, making to pull away, but I tighten my grip, sinking my teeth in and hissing as my mouth floods with flavour.
It is bitter and then it is sweet—sweeter than anything I have ever tasted. That first bite is like an awakening, the rush of adrenaline when nearing the edge of a high bridge. The giddiness too. I inhale and swallow and then take another bite. I know my eyes must be glazed because I can see the same in Olea’s face, a contentment that is somehow both hollow and gilded. I close my eyes and let out a hum of surprise.
“You see?” Olea breathes. “Some have called the manchineel cruel, a devil tree, a death tree. She is only protecting herself and her fruit. This tree should dislike you, but she doesn’t, because now she trusts you. Do not assume that because things have always been so they will alwaysbeso, or they were always meant to be. Apologise to Florencia. She knows, like the manchineel, that you are pure at heart and you meant no wrong. Do yousee?”
I realise I am still holding Olea’s hand. My fingertips tingle like the aftermath of a sting, heat beneath my skin, so pleasant it is painful. It is the heat of a flame in the second before the sharp, white-hot agony begins.
“Yes.”
