“But what was your hypothesis?”
“Kloster. It was him again. He’d reappeared, when I thought it was all over. I knew it as soon as I got Bruno’s call. When he mentioned the name of the fungus, I felt that if I opened my mouth I would just start screaming. Because it was me who had given Kloster the idea.”
“You gave him the idea? What do you mean?”
“From time to time, during the year I worked for him, he had me cut out and keep police reports from the newspaper that interested him for one reason or another. Once he made me cut out an article about a grandmother who’d accidentally cooked poisonous fungi for herself and her granddaughter. They both died in agony a few hours later. What attracted his attention was that the grandmother considered herself an authority on wild mushrooms. He said that experts were often also the most careless, and when devising murders for his novels he was always interested in this—the mistakes made by such experts. In the article it mentioned in passing that the poisonous fungi were of that very same variety, Amanita phalloides. I explained to him why it was so easy to mistake them for edible mushrooms. I even drew him a picture, with the cap, the stem, the ring and the volva. I told him about other less well-known but dangerous types. I was proud to display my knowledge. He was surprised and asked me how I knew all this, so I told him…I told him everything: how my mother had taught all three of us, showing us the pictures from her book. The little wood behind the house at Villa Gesell. The mushroom pie on their wedding anniversary. The joke with my father about his sacrifice once a year.”
“But he didn’t know the actual date of their anniversary, did he?”
“Yes. He knew, and I don’t think he forgot it. The twenty-eighth of December. When I mentioned it to him he asked if my parents had chosen the date for any particular reason. He’d read in one of his books on religion that after the massacre of the Holy Innocents many Christian couples chose that date for their wedding day as a symbol of the will to overcome death, the beginning of a new cycle. And there was another thing: I hadn’t seen him since Ramiro’s death. But on the day of my parents’ funeral, as we were leaving the cemetery, he was there.”
“You mean he went to your parents’ funeral?” I asked doubtfully.
“No. I saw him in the distance, in a side avenue, by one of the graves—his daughter’s, I suppose. He was kneeling, with his hand on the gravestone, and he seemed to be talking to it. At least, I could see his lips moving. But I think he went there deliberately that day, so that I’d see him.”
“Couldn’t it have been a coincidence? Maybe it was his daughter’s birthday. Or the day of the week he always visited the grave.”
“No, her birthday was in August. I think he was only there for one reason: he wanted me to see him, so that I’d know that these deaths were part of his revenge as well. That we weren’t quits, as I’d thought. In fact he warned me about it at the beginning. He spelled it out quite clearly. I just didn’t understand.”
“What did he spell out?”
“What was going to happen to me. But you won’t believe me if I tell you. My own brother didn’t believe me. You have to see for yourself.” She leaned forward, as if she’d decided to reveal part of it. “It has to do with the Bible he returned at the conciliation meeting.” Her voice grew quieter and quieter as she said this until she stopped, her eyes fixed on me, as if she’d told me her most jealously guarded secret and wasn’t sure if I was worthy of the revelation.
“Have you brought it with you?” I asked.
“No, I couldn’t bring myself to. I don’t dare take it out of the house because it’s my only proof against him. I wanted to ask you to come with me now, so that I can show it to you.”
“Now?” I said, unable to stop myself glancing at my watch. It was getting dark and I realised I’d been listening to her for over three hours. But Luciana didn’t seem ready to release me.
“Yes, we could go now. It’s only a short journey on the subway; it won’t take long. Actually I was going to ask if you’d see me home anyway. Lately I’ve been terrified of going home alone after dark.”
Why did I say yes when everything inside me said no? Why didn’t I fob her off with some excuse and put as much distance between us as I could? There are times in life—not many—when you can see, with dizzying clarity, the fatal fork in the road represented by one small act, the catastrophe that lurks behind a trivial decision. That evening I knew, above all else, that I shouldn’t listen to her any more. But, overcome by the inertia of compassion, or politeness, I stood up and followed her out.
∨ The Book of Murder ∧
Three
We walked in the cold to the subway. It was almost supper time and, with all the shops shut, the city looked dark and lifeless. People were heading home and the streets had the silent deserted quality of Sundays at dusk. Along the avenue, which was a little busier, I had to hurry to keep up with Luciana. Now, outdoors, all the signs of her nervousness became more pronounced, as if she really believed someone was pursuing her. Every three or four steps she turned her head compulsively and at street corners she looked to left and right, studying the people and the cars. When we stopped at traffic lights she chewed furtively at her fingers, and her eyes darted about incessantly. On the platform she stood well behind the yellow line, glancing over her shoulder at anyone who came near. During the journey, which was very short, we hardly exchanged a word, as if it required all her attention to scan the faces in the carriage and scrutinise the few passengers who got on at each stop. She seemed to calm down only once we had left the subway and turned a corner, when she pointed out her building, halfway down the block, as if it were a secure fortress reached after a perilous journey. Her apartment was on the top floor, she said, indicating a large balcony high above, jutting out over the street. We went up in the lift in silence and emerged on to a narrow landing with parquet flooring and doors, marked A and B, at either end. Luciana turned left and unlocked the door to her apartment with a slightly shaky hand. I followed her into a large L-shaped living room. She hurried to the window framing the black night and drew the curtains with a look of annoyance. She said she’d told her sister a thousand times to close the curtains before she went out—she hated getting back in the evening and seeing the blackness through the window. But her sister seemed to defy her deliberately.
“Where is she now?” I asked.
“At a friend’s house. They run the school magazine together. They have to design the cover. She said she’d be back late, and might even stay the night there.”
She said this without looking at me, as she picked up a cup that had been left on the sideboard and lit a lamp on a glass side table. She switched off the central light and the room was plunged into shadow. I remained standing, reluctant to sit in the armchair she’d cleared of papers, with the growing feeling of having fallen into a trap. Luciana looked at me, as if suddenly noticing that I hadn’t moved.
“I could make us something to eat, if you like.”
“No,” I said, and looked at my watch. “Thanks. I’ll just have a coffee. I can only stay half an hour. I’ve got to prepare my class for tomorrow.”
She fixed me now with her eyes, and I held her gaze as best I could. She seemed offended, even humiliated, as if she’d read my mind: at one time I’d have given anything for such an offer.
“You said it wouldn’t take long,” I said, growing more and more uncomfortable. “That’s why I came back with you. But I’ve got to give a class first thing tomorrow.”
“That’s fine,” she said. “I’ll get you some coffee. You can sit down, at least.”
She went to the kitchen and I sat in one of the solemn squashy armchairs arranged about the coffee table. I looked around: a chandelier, dark heavy furniture, a metal crucifix on one wall, a small bookcase full of knick-knacks. It felt like a place frozen in time, the severe old–fashioned decor no doubt chosen by the mother many years ago, the furniture perhaps inherited, and the daughters, now alone, lac
king the strength to change it. A photograph in a silver frame stood beside the lamp.
There they all were, on a beach, probably in Villa Gesell, looking happy and suntanned: the father standing, holding a sunshade, the mother with a basket, and the three children sitting in the sand, as if they didn’t want to leave. I could see Luciana, slim again and terribly young, behind her sister. Luciana as I had once known her. I almost had to close my eyes to dispel the image. I could hear her coming back from the kitchen so I hurriedly put the frame down, but didn’t manage to unfold the stand in time. Luciana placed the tray on the table, then took the photograph and looked at it for a moment.
“It’s the last photo of us all together,” she said. “It was the summer before I met you. My brother Bruno hadn’t graduated yet. And I was the same age Valentina is now. Only I think I was a little more mature than she is,” she added and put the photograph down. She took a sip of coffee and then stood up again, as if she’d forgotten the most important thing. “I’ll bring the Bible,” she said.
She disappeared down the hallway that led to the bedrooms and was away for two or three minutes. When she came back, once again I felt the alarm verging on fear that the madness of others inspires. She wore a pair of latex gloves and held the large book out in front of her, as if she were the high priestess in some private ritual bearing a fragile relic. Under her arm she gripped an oblong cardboard box. She put the book on the table and held out the box to me.
“I used this sort of gloves at university for experiments in the lab,” she said. “Kloster’s fingerprints are on the page and it’s the only evidence I have against him. I don’t want them to get smudged with other fingerprints.”
I put on a pair of the gloves, with difficulty because they were too small, and swore to myself that it was the last favour she would get out of me. Once I had donned the gloves she slid the book towards me. It was an impressive volume, rather beautiful, with a tooled leather cover, gilded edges to the pages and a red ribbon as a marker.
“The night my parents died, when Bruno phoned, I remembered the Bible Kloster had returned to me at the conciliation meeting. After I’d hung up, before leaving for the hospital, I opened it at the page where the bookmark was. Kloster handed it to me as it is now, with the marker at this page.”
I opened the Bible at the marked page, near the beginning. It was the part in the Old Testament about the first murder—Abel’s death at the hands of his brother Cain—and Cain’s final plea, when God condemns him to exile. I read aloud, doubtfully, as I wasn’t sure it was the paragraph she meant:
Behold, thou hast driven me out this day from the face of the earth; and from thy face shall I be hid; and I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth; and it shall come to pass, that every one that findeth me shall slay me.
“A little further on: God’s promise to Cain.”
And the Lord said unto him, Therefore whosoever slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold.
“Vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold. Do you see? That was the line Kloster wanted me to read. The line intended for me. When I was working for him he dictated a novel that was never published, about a Cainite sect that took this notion of proportion literally in avenging their own. Divine law, as laid down for them by God, wasn’t an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. It was seven for one.”
She had again fixed her gaze on me anxiously, watching my face for the slightest hint of scepticism. I handed back the Bible and removed the gloves.
“Seven for one. But it hasn’t been carried out exactly, has it?” I said. I realised I was beginning to feel truly afraid of her.
“My God, can’t you see? It’s taking place step by step. And if no one realises what’s happening, if no one stops him, he’ll just keep going.”
“But I still don’t understand,” I said, “how it could have been him in the first two cases you’ve told me about.”
“Yes, that was what was driving me most crazy. From the moment I opened the Bible and read that sentence I no longer had any doubt that it was him, but I still couldn’t see how he’d done it on either occasion. It was all I could think about. I even stopped eating during that time. I was in a kind of fever that prevented me from doing anything else. Actually I had an idea how he’d done it in my parents’ case. All he had to have done was follow me to the house that first summer and he’d have seen the little wood where we picked mushrooms. It was the only piece of information he didn’t have. I think he went back to Villa Gesell a couple of days before my parents’ wedding anniversary and scattered the poisonous fungi amongst the edible ones, but with the base missing, so there was no way of distinguishing between them. He removed the bases. And before leaving he made sure he left a few buried in leaf litter, in case there was a forensic examination afterwards.”
I tried to picture Kloster—the Kloster who appeared in the papers—engaged in such horticultural skulduggery.
“I suppose it’s possible, though it sounds a little complicated. It seems more like the kind of murder he’d devise for one of his novels,” I said. But at the same time, and perhaps precisely because of that, I had to admit to myself that it didn’t seem all that unreasonable. “But how could he have managed it with your boyfriend?”
Luciana looked at me, eyes shining, as if she were about to confide a magical formula that she alone in the world had discovered.
“‘The cup of coffee with milk. That was the key. I woke up with a start early one morning and it came to me: I remembered the row with Ramiro over the waitress and how my coffee—the one with milk—was always cold. I’d thought it was petty spitefulness on her part when in fact, with hindsight, I realised it was just something all waiters do: to save herself a trip she sometimes waited for another order to be put on her tray, together with ours. As she was the only one waiting on the tables outside, it also quite often happened that orders were left at the bar for a minute, until she went back inside. Kloster was sitting right there, where the owner of the bar placed the trays with the cups. And he knew very well that I always had milk in my coffee, which meant he knew that the black coffee had to be Ramiro’s. He simply waited for the first rough day, so that it would look like an accident.”
“Do you mean he poisoned your boyfriend’s coffee?”
“I don’t think it was poison; that would have been too risky. He must have known that there’d be a routine postmortem afterwards. I think he chose a substance that pathologists wouldn’t automatically be looking for, something that could cause arrhythmia, or the beginnings of suffocation, or maybe massive cramps. He was a swimmer, so he’d know, say, that a sudden potassium deficiency causes cramps. It could simply have been a powerful diuretic. At first, I didn’t realise exactly how it had all happened. I thought I’d have to convince Ramiro’s parents to have his body exhumed, but now I think that would only have made things worse. I’m sure he planned this too: nothing unusual would be detected and he’d be above suspicion once again.”
“Did you tell anyone about this?”
Her face darkened. “My brother. That morning, when it all suddenly became clear to me, I went to see him. He was working a shift at the hospital. I think I was a little overwrought: I hadn’t slept for several nights since the funeral. My hands were trembling and I was almost feverish with excitement. I showed Bruno the passage in the Bible and told him about my suing Kloster, and the death of Kloster’s daughter, the Cainites and sevenfold vengeance. I explained how I thought he’d planned the deaths. But I got a little muddled: I couldn’t explain it as clearly as I’d understood it. At a certain point I realised he was no longer listening, but was watching me with the eyes of a doctor. He looked genuinely alarmed. He saw that my hands were shaking and asked how long I’d gone without sleep. He told me to wait there and left the room for a moment. The book he’d been reading was lying on the desk. There was something horribly familiar about the cover so I turned it round: it was one of Kloster’s novels. I think at that moment I collap
sed. My brother reappeared with a psychiatrist who was on duty, but I wouldn’t answer any of her questions. I knew what they were thinking. The psychiatrist said they’d give me something to help me sleep. She used a horrible patronising voice, as if she were explaining something to a child. My own brother gave me the injection. My own brother, who was reading one of Kloster’s novels during his shift.”
“If it was the novel that came out that year, I don’t find it too surprising: it was an even bigger hit than his previous one. It would have been hard to find someone who wasn’t reading it.”
“That’s just it. That’s why I was so devastated. I saw how perfect his plan was. It wasn’t surprising—it was quite natural—that everything should go his way. It’s what I said to you at the beginning: this was maybe the most cunning part. His name was everywhere, he’d become a public figure, moving in circles beyond the reach of mere mortals. So when I tried to point the finger at him everyone looked at me as my brother had, and rushed for psychiatrists.”
“But after you were given the tranquilliser…”
“They gave me another one, and another one. To put it simply, it was like a sleep cure. Until I realised what I had to do if I wanted them to stop drugging me and get out of that place. I just had to make sure I never mentioned the K word.”
A tear of frustration ran down her cheek. She pulled off the latex gloves. Her hands, now reddened, were trembling even more than before.
“Well, I think I’ve told you the worst. But I wanted you to know everything. I was in hospital for two weeks and by the time I got out I’d learned my lesson: I never mentioned this to anyone again. More time passed—a whole year, then another. But I wasn’t fooled this time. I knew it was part of his plan that the deaths should be spaced out. Perhaps that was the worst part: the waiting. I stopped seeing my friends; I became isolated. I didn’t want anyone near me. I didn’t know where the next blow would come from. I was mainly terrified for Valentina. She was my responsibility by then as my brother had moved to a flat of his own. I hated leaving her alone even for a minute. The waiting that stretched on, living in suspense, the delay- it was unbearable. I tried to keep track of him in the papers, to find out the itineraries of his journeys in the news, where he could be. I only had a few days’ respite whenever I knew he was out of the country. Until finally it happened. I got a phone call from the police superintendent: a burglar had broken into my brother’s flat and killed him. My brother, who thought I’d lost my mind, was now dead. That was all the superintendent said but the gruesome details were already on the news. My brother hadn’t put up a fight, but the killer had been especially vicious, as if there was something more between them. He’d had a gun but had used his bare hands. He broke both my brother’s arms and gouged out his eyes. I think he did something even more horrible afterwards to the body, but I could never bring myself to read the pathologist’s report through to the end. When the police caught the man he still had my brother’s blood on his face.”
The Book of Murder Page 5
