*
In the shade, Mama and I drank maraschino cherry syrup from Mladjo’s, diluted with water. The Germans sat in picnic chairs a little further off and smoked. Mama looked at them for a while, then said entschuldigung, lifting her cup and motioning them to come over. They picked up their chairs and stationed them next to our blanket. We all smiled—it was the only language we all knew. Mama handed them the juice in plastic cups. The old man spilled a bit from his on purpose and pulled from his beach bag an unlabeled bottle half-full of clear liquid, which we all knew was not water but local grape brandy that people made in their basements and sold for cheap. The old man poured some into his juice, swirled his cup, and grinned at Mama. His wife placed her cup under the brandy and so did Mama, and they all laughed. Mama asked the old lady for a cigarette. I watched her smoke, focusing on each drag like a math problem. Some of the smoke found its way to my mouth and instantly turned my stomach. But Mama’s pensive gaze made it look cool, made me want to try it. I’d almost mustered the nerve to ask her when I was distracted by the sound of screaming. Mama jolted, spilling some of her cocktail on the blanket. She propped herself up on her knees and we looked out at the sea. Tata lifted Bolek out of the water, the boy clinging to his neck, Lolek pulling on his brother’s leg. As the three walked over to us, Tata inspected Bolek’s foot, then kissed him on the temple and patted his hair. “No big deal. He stepped on an urchin,” Tata said, laughing. Lolek sat next to me and busied himself with dismantling a pinecone.
“Oh, I see we’re having a party here.” Tata looked at Mama’s cigarette. His grave face convinced me that he saw through my ploy. I looked down and reddened with shame. Mama took a few rapid drags and extinguished the cigarette in the dirt. She extended her arms to receive Bolek, who was already grasping the air between them, impatient for her embrace. She examined his foot, peppered with urchin’s quill tips, and began using her nails to squeeze them out. Bolek screamed louder.
“I know, I know,” Mama said, her eyes locked on his heel and the gory procedure. Mama pointed to the Germans’ brandy, and with an unsure look on their faces, they handed her the bottle. Mama spilled a good guzzle over Bolek’s injury, and he screamed.
“All done, all done.” Mama hugged him tight, holding his foot above the dirt.
“Dezinfektion,” Tata said slowly, enunciating each syllable, as if that would erase the perplexed look off the Germans’ faces. Then he made himself a juice-brandy cocktail and chugged the whole glass in one gulp. Mama swaddled Bolek’s foot in his t-shirt and told him to rest, but Bolek kept crying. Tata ran into the sea and came back carrying a few urchins in his hand. He sat them on the ground and smashed one with a rock. “Mean urchin, filthy animal,” he said, cleaning off the broken quills.
“Don’t urchins live in the cleanest water?” I muttered, and Mama chuckled.
Tata kept going.
“No one hurts my child, no one.” He yelled in mock anger until Bolek and Lolek laughed and clapped. A few globs of orange flesh jiggled at the curved bottom of the urchin’s crushed shell. Tata slurped it up. “King of the food chain!” he said in a cartoonish voice, then burped triumphantly. He smashed a few more urchins and offered them to the Germans. They took one each and nodded politely, though I could tell by their contorted faces they were mortified. “They don’t know what’s good,” Tata said, looking at them with a wide grin, pretending it was a compliment. I felt like impressing Tata, so I asked him for an urchin.
“That’s my girl,” Tata said.