I Am God

by Giorgio Faletti

  She made a quick choice, putting off until later the question of whether she had chosen rightly or wrongly. ‘I have to go somewhere.’

  ‘Does that mean you have to go alone?

  Russell knew something was up: during her phone conversation, he had heard her let slip the word explosions.

  ‘Yes. I have to see someone and I have to see him alone.’

  ‘I thought we had an agreement.’

  She turned her back on him, and immediately felt ashamed of doing that. ‘The agreement doesn’t apply to this.’

  ‘The captain gave me his word I could follow the investigation.’

  She felt anger rising inside her.

  She turned abruptly, a hard expression on her face. ‘The captain gave you his word,’ she said curtly. ‘I didn’t.’

  The following second lasted a century.

  I can’t believe I really said that …

  Russell turned pale. Then he looked at her for a moment, the way you look at someone who is leaving and will never return.

  Finally, in silence, he walked to the door. Vivien did not have the strength to say or do anything. He opened the door and went out into the corridor. The last sign of life from him was the door gently closing.

  Vivien felt more alone than she had ever felt in her life. Her impulse was to go out in the corridor and call him back, but she told herself she couldn’t do that. Not now. Not before finding out what Father McKean had to tell her. Many people’s lives were at stake. Hers and Russell’s didn’t matter. From now on she would need all her willpower and all her courage, too much to use part of it admitting she was in love with a man who didn’t want her.

  She waited a few moments, long enough to give him time to leave the building. As she waited, she remembered the words he had said to her as they were coming in. They were like an accusation now.

  She had said they were a team.

  He had trusted her and she had betrayed him.

  CHAPTER 30

  When Vivien opened the door she saw the deserted, dimly lit corridor. The semi-darkness, and the thought that the man had walked down it for years, that every day he had planted his feet on that carpet, which had become an indefinable colour, made the place feel malign and hostile.

  A wrinkled old black woman with incredibly crooked legs emerged around the corner of the landing and walked towards her, supporting herself with a stick. In her free arm she carried a shopping bag. When she saw Vivien closing the door, she couldn’t help making a comment.

  ‘Ah, so they finally rented it to a human being.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  The old woman didn’t bother to give any other explanation. She stopped outside the door opposite the one Vivien had just come out of and unceremoniously handed her the bag. Presumably, her age and condition had taught her to impose, instead of asking. Or maybe she thought her age and condition in themselves gave her the right to whatever she wanted.

  ‘Hold this. But remember, I don’t give tips.’

  Vivien found herself with the bag in her hands. A smell of onions and bread rose from it. Still supporting herself with her stick, the woman searched in the pocket of her coat. She took out a key and put it in the lock. She answered a question no one had asked.

  ‘The police came yesterday. I knew that man wasn’t a decent person.’

  ‘The police?’

  ‘Yeah. They’re great people, too. They rang but I didn’t open.’

  After such an open declaration of mistrust, Vivien decided not to identify herself as a police officer. She waited for the old lady to open the door. Immediately, a big black cat poked its head out. When it saw that its owner was with a stranger, it ran away. Instinctively, Vivien checked that it had all four legs.

  ‘Who lived here before me?’

  ‘A guy with his face all scarred. A real monster. Not just the way he looked, the way he acted, too. One day, an ambulance came and took him away. To an asylum, I hope.’

  In her concise, pitiless judgement, the woman had hit the target. That would have been the right place for the man, whoever he was, to spend his days. The old woman walked into her apartment and indicated the table with a nod.

  ‘Put it there.’

  Vivien followed her in and saw that the apartment was a mirror image of the one she had just been inspecting. In the room there were two other cats, in addition to the black one. A white and ginger cat was sleeping on a chair and didn’t take any notice of them. A second one, a grey striped cat, jumped on the table. Vivien put down the bag, and the cat immediately ran to sniff it.

  The woman gave it a cuff on its backside. ‘Get away, you. You can eat later.’

  The cat jumped to the floor and went and hid itself under the chair where its companion was still sleeping.

  Vivien looked around. The room was a triumph of the unmatched. Not one chair was similar to another. The glasses on the shelf over the sink were all different among themselves. The place was a chaos of colours and old things. The cat smell in the apartment was worse than the one in the lobby.

  The old woman turned to Vivien and looked at her as if she had just seen her for the first time. ‘What was I saying?’

  ‘You were talking about the man who had the apartment opposite.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that guy. He never came back. That other guy came to see it a couple of times. But he can’t have liked it, because he didn’t rent it. God knows what state it was in.’

  Vivien’s heart leaped. ‘Which other guy? The landlord didn’t tell me there’d been anyone else interested in the apartment.’

  The old woman took off her coat and threw it on the back of a chair. ‘It happened a while back. A tall guy, in a green jacket. A military kind, I think. He was as strange as the first one. He came a couple of times then never came back. I’m glad he didn’t take the apartment.’

  Vivien would have liked to stay and ask her more questions without making her suspicious: she had made it clear right from the start how she felt about the police. But that would take time, and the urgency in Father McKean’s voice required an immediate response. She promised herself that as soon as she’d seen the priest she’d come back and delve deeper.

  The woman approached the kitchen area. ‘How about a coffee?’

  Vivien looked at her watch, as if seriously considering the idea. ‘I’m sorry. I’d love to, but I’m in a hurry.’

  A slight disappointment was visible on the old woman’s face. Vivien came to her rescue.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Judith.’

  ‘Well, Judith, I’m Vivien. I tell you what we’ll do. I’ll go to my appointment and when I get back I’ll knock at your door and we’ll have that coffee. Like good neighbours.’

  ‘Not between three and four. I have to go see the doctor because my back is—’

  Oh no. Not now, not the list of aches and pains.

  Vivien interrupted the start of what might turn out to be a long litany of arthritis and stomach aches. ‘Look, I really have to go now. I’ll see you later.’

  She got to the door and before leaving threw her new friend a smile.

  ‘And keep that coffee warm. We’ll have plenty to talk about.’

  ‘OK. But remember, I don’t give tips.’

  Vivien found herself alone again in the corridor, wondering how reliable that addle-headed old lady was. But she had given her some small ideas for leads, however slender. As Bellew had said several times, in their situation they couldn’t afford to rule out anything.

  The elevator took her down to the lobby. Out on the street, an officer was standing by her car, issuing a ticket. She reached the car just as the officer was lifting the windshield wiper to leave the ticket.

  ‘Excuse me, officer.’

  ‘Is this your vehicle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know this space is reserved for loading and unloading merchandise?’

  Without a word, Vivien flashed her shield.

  Grumbling,
the officer removed the ticket from the window. ‘Next time make sure you show the sign. That way we don’t waste time. Either of us.’

  Time, in fact, was the one thing Vivien didn’t have. Not even to counter a neighbourhood cop’s reasonable comments. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t my intention.’

  The officer walked away, mumbling a goodbye. Vivien got in her car and started the engine. She again used the flashing light. She headed north, took the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway and then followed the 278 until, after the bridge, it became the Bruckner.

  During the journey, after a lot of thought, she tried calling Russell a couple of times. His telephone was still off. To counter her own bad mood, she told herself she had done the right thing. With the best will in the world, she had to admit that part of her had gone with Russell when he had left.

  She forced herself to go over the whole story in her mind, examining each aspect to see if they had overlooked anything. Ziggy, the letter, Wendell Johnson, Little Boss, that bizarre three-legged cat. The bombs a madman had planted before his death.

  And finally that crazy cat lady, Judith. Was she to be trusted or not? Russell had seen a man in a green jacket leaving Ziggy’s apartment. A man wearing the same kind of jacket had been seen in the other apartment. The question was: Was it the same person? If it was, it couldn’t be a tenant, because the captain had said that the apartment had remained empty for a year. The reason for his presence there wasn’t clear. Unless, together with the letter, the father had also sent his son the keys to his apartment. If that was the case, then the person they were so desperately seeking really had been in that apartment.

  She deliberately left Father McKean’s tense, anxious voice out of the equation, even though it was still echoing in her ears.

  It’s to do with those explosions, may God forgive me …

  She didn’t know what to expect.

  Time and speed seemed to be going in two different directions. One was too fast, the other too slow. She tried once again to call Russell. More to pass the time than out of real interest, she told herself.

  Nothing.

  The telephone was off, or unobtainable. She yielded to her human feelings and allowed herself the fantasy of being somewhere else, with him. She felt a warm stream of desire lapping at her groin. She told herself that this was wrong, but it was the only sign she had that she was still alive.

  When she turned on to the unpaved road, and after a few bends the roofs of Joy appeared, a sudden dread seized hold of her. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted to know what Father McKean had to tell her. She slowed down. The priest was waiting for her on the edge of the garden, a black stain against the green of the vegetation. She saw that he was wearing his cassock. As she got out of the car and walked towards him, Vivien had the impression that this choice was not a random one, but meant something specific. As if Father McKean needed to assert his own identity in some way and was doing it with the only means at his disposal.

  When she got close to him, she realized that her suppositions were probably not far from the truth. His eyes were lifeless and evasive. Not even a hint of the vitality and benevolence that were usually an integral part of his character.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ he said.

  ‘Michael, what’s so urgent? What’s happened?’

  Father McKean looked around. A couple of kids at the far end of the garden were repairing a perimeter grille. A third was standing next to them and handing them the tools.

  ‘Not here. Follow me.’

  He started walking to the house. They passed the main entrance and came to the door of the room next to the office, which functioned as a small infirmary. Father McKean opened it.

  ‘Come in. No one will disturb us here.’

  Vivien followed him. The room was completely white: the walls and the ceiling and on the right, against the wall, a metal bed covered in a snow-white sheet. Just beyond it, in the corner, was an old hospital screen, restored and upholstered in cotton that was still white. On the opposite side was a small medicine cabinet of the same colour. The priest’s cassock stood out like an inkstain on snow.

  Father McKean came and stood in front of her. He didn’t seem able to look her in the eyes for more than two seconds at a time. ‘Vivien,’ he said, ‘do you believe in God?’

  Vivien wondered why he was asking her that. He couldn’t possibly have summoned her with such urgency only to question her about her faith. If Father McKean had asked her that, she decided, there had to be a reason.

  ‘In spite of the work I do, Michael, I’m a dreamer. That’s the most I can allow myself.’

  ‘That’s the difference between us. A dreamer hopes that his dreams will come true.’ He paused, and looked at her with eyes that for a moment looked as they had always done. ‘A believer is certain they will.’

  He turned and went to the cabinet. He placed a hand on the top and stood looking at the boxes of medicines inside.

  He spoke without looking at her.

  ‘What I’m about to tell you goes against that certainty. It goes against the teachings I’ve followed for years. Against everything I’ve learned. But there are times when the dogmas of the Church become unintelligible when confronted with human suffering. So much human suffering.’

  He turned to look at her. His face was ashen.

  ‘Vivien, the man who set off the bombs on the Lower East Side and the Hudson confessed to me.’

  For Vivien, it was like diving into the icy waters of the Arctic. And she stayed under for a long time, until she was able to resurface and find her breath again.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  The question had come to her instinctively and carried with it many implications. In return she got a calm, measured reply, the reply of someone able to explain something that is difficult to believe.

  ‘Vivien, I have a degree in psychology. I know the world is full of crazy people ready to confess to all the sins on earth in order to get their fifteen minutes of fame. I know how difficult it is in certain cases for the police to concentrate on searching for the guilty party and avoid wasting time on people who merely claim to be guilty. But this is different.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  The priest shrugged. ‘Everything and nothing. Details, words. But since the second bomb I’ve been sure it’s him.’

  After her initial shock, Vivien had regained her self-control, revived by an unnatural rush of adrenaline. She realized the importance of what Father McKean had just told her. At the same time, she knew what kind of inner battle he had won and lost in order to be able to say it.

  ‘Do you mind going from the beginning?’

  Father McKean nodded, and waited. Now that it was out in the open he knew that Vivien would know what to ask and the right way to ask it.

  ‘How many times have you seen him?’

  ‘Once.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Sunday morning, the day after the first bomb.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He confessed what he had done. And he told me what he intended to do in the future.’

  ‘How? Do you remember his exact words?’

  ‘As if I could forget. He said that the first time he had reunited light and dark. The next time he would reunite water and earth.’

  He left her time to think. Then he arrived at the conclusion for her.

  ‘And that’s how it was. The first explosion happened at dusk, when the light and the dark are reunited. The second took place on the shores of the river. In that way the earth and water became one and the same. Do you know what that means?’

  ‘It means he’s working his way through Genesis, only destroying instead of creating.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Did he tell you why he’s doing it?’

  Father McKean sat down on a stool, as if his strength was starting to desert him. ‘I asked him that question, using almost the same words.’

  ‘And what did
he reply?’

  ‘He replied “I am God”.’

  That phrase, repeated in a low voice for the first time outside the confessional, gave both of them a sharp sense of the madness.

  Father McKean recalled his studies of psychology. ‘This man, whoever he is, is much more than just a serial killer or a mass murderer. He combines both pathologies. And what he presents of both pathologies is the rage and the total lack of discrimination.’

  Vivien found herself thinking that, if they caught this man, there would be psychiatrists ready to pay money just to study him. And many people who would pay to be able to kill him with their bare hands.

  ‘Can you describe him?’ she asked.

  ‘Brown hair, young, tall, I think. A soft voice, but calm, and cold as ice.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘If it’s any use, I had the impression he was wearing a green military-style jacket. But clothes don’t mean much.’

  On the contrary, they mean everything.

  Vivien felt excitement roll over her like a wave, and her lungs swelled as if she had breathed pure helium.

  So Judith, who didn’t give tips, had been right. She blessed her, vowing to herself that she would have that coffee and listen to her complaints about every single ailment. She crouched in front of Father McKean, who was looking desolately at the floor, and placed her hands on his knees. At that moment it didn’t seem like excessive familiarity, only a mark of solidarity.

  ‘Michael, it would take too long to explain how I know, but it’s him. You were right. It’s him.’

  This time the incredulous question came from the priest, uncertain if he should yield to his own relief. ‘Are you sure?’

  Vivien sprang to her feet. ‘One hundred per cent.’

  She paced a little up and down the room, thinking at a speed she did not believe herself capable of. Then she came to a halt, but that desperate search for a solution continued.

  ‘Did he tell you he’d be back?’