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she knew they were true. But if Teodora expected a Central Electric employee to have some kind of fortune, she was wrong. After his death, all they found in his bank account were debts. Teodora had fleeced him, her mother noted bitterly, she didn’t even leave him enough money for a decent funeral. Her mother was the one who had to foot the bill. And she had paid for his cremation, too.
    Manuela’s mother was hurt when she told her she wanted to have lunch with Teodora and Traian on Christmas Day. She couldn’t explain it, but she had made her peace with her father while in Afghanistan. She had despised him, had kept him from getting close to her, from being part of the important events in her life. She hadn’t invited him to the swearing-in ceremony, he never even saw her in uniform. But distance had softened her anger, had made her grudge insignificant: far from her usual routine and all that was familiar to her, she had had to come to terms with who she was, and found that she hardly recognized herself. Finally, lying on her cot in the desert, thousands of miles from home, mulling over her past, she asked herself why she hated him so much. It felt as if she understood everything. And everything was very simple. In the few years he had lived with Teodora, something had happened to the Tiberio Paris she had known—that eternally grumpy, anxious, unhappy man. Her father was now content. As stars burned like flaming confetti in the tar-colored sky, and RPGs exploded against the protective walls of the base, she told herself that her private war against her father and his new family had to end. Wars are never won. Victory consists in achieving your objective. And she had achieved hers.
    Traian’s room smells like sneakers. His soccer gear is scattered all over the place, a jersey hanging from the window, cleats under the bed, shin guards on the armchair. A poster of Gigi Buffon, the national team goalie, is tacked to the closet door. The walls are covered with Serie A pennants, red, yellow, black, and blue. All that’s visible of Traian is a tuft of hair sticking up from behind his computer monitor. Black hair, long and straight. They look alike, Manuela and Traian. She feels somehow responsible for this extra brother, whom she met the day of her father’s funeral. A snot-nosed brat with a Giants cap pulled down over his eyes, amused by the confusion and unable to understand why in the world he was in a strange church, listening to a Catholic priest, looking at a dark wood coffin adorned with two flower wreaths whose ribbons bore the exact same message: FROM YOUR WIFE . Traian was four years old, and Manuela had been granted a twenty-four-hour leave. She wore her uniform so that at least on this day of last respects, Tiberio Paris would know who his daughter had become. During the service, Manuela kept turning around to look at Traian. And he looked at her, mesmerized. When she stuck out her tongue at him, he burst out laughing. Teodora reached over and slapped him.
    Manuela goes over to the desk, circles behind it, and puts her hands over his eyes. When Traian gets up to hug her, she realizes he’s taller than she is now. At least four inches taller than last year. Pimply cheeks, a man’s voice, and Paris eyes, the color of blue flax. “I wanted to come see you in the hospital,” her brother apologizes, “but Mamma wouldn’t let me.” “It was far away, and besides, it was complicated having visitors,” she says, “so it’s probably just as well, Traian.” “No,” he insists, “I thought about you all the time.” Manuela is his idol. She is both pleased and not at the same time. She never did anything to encourage him. She doesn’t consider herself a role model, and her brother’s devotion confounds her. She ruffles his hair. “Come on, come to dinner, don’t make your mother wait, she made blood sausages.” As