The audience's attention is focused again on Celia. She bites her lip. She hates having people stare at her. Apart from her fear, this is the worst part of the trial, being stared at. Why do they do that? Haven't they ever clapped their eyes on women who occasionally made love with their husbands? Or do they envy her because she had two lovers?
Their attention shifts back to Ellen. No, she didn't go in, what do they think of her? Now her high color has subsided, she looks rosy and young, she doesn't even look as plain as before. Yes, she definitely heard them, the door isn't soundproof and she assumes the couple must have forgotten about everything in the moments of pleasure.
Arany recalls Celia's happy moans, her hoarse cry when she reached the peak of joy. He hates Ellen, for reminding him.
"Also, once I was tidying up the office and found a video-cassette," the girl continues with eyes shining. "I wanted to put it among the others but it wasn't labeled. So I started to play it and there they were…we used to record the experiments…they must have forgotten about the camera and simply started to…on the desk." She can't go on. She can't get herself to tell them how she was watching the recording, how she couldn't tear her eyes away from it. How could she tell them about the envy that tormented her, the excitement that took her breath away? How could she tell them that she started to masturbate and how she was wriggling there, on the floor with her skirt hitched high above her thighs, that she was moaning and had to bite into her fist when she felt a scream coming? How could she tell them that she wanted to take the cassette home to copy it but was prevented by Baruch? He turned up just after she came, while she was rearranging her clothes, and still looked disheveled, tousled and misty eyed. And Baruch asked for the cassette, which he put into his old briefcase and left.
Celia feels an almost physical pain. Martin will never make love to her any more on the desk in the office. He won't caress her into a frenzy with his tender hands. Nothing else Ellen says really sinks in. Yes, Ellen supposes, blushing but at the same time reveling in her confession, Dr. Allesandro enjoyed it, too. The attorney for the defense, the prosecutor and the judge are contemplating if this fact will do Celia any good in the eyes of the jury. Will the jury regard her as a woman in love and take a lenient view or will they think of her as an immoral bitch?
It all passes above the head of Celia, the woman in love and immoral bitch. The only thing she is concerned with is how the trial could have taken such an unexpected turn, how it could have deviated from the only issue that was important. Why isn't anyone interested in what the quarrel was about?
CHAPTER 37
They must have taken me for a relative. Nurses eyed me curiously, looking pretty and pure in their white smocks. A nervous doctor stopped in and gave me the benefit of his knowledge in anatomy. By the time I was able to place the exact location of tissues, bones and muscles he was gone. So I was still ignorant concerning the condition of Patricia Simmons. I still didn't know if she would live or die in this frighteningly modern hospital room. I didn't know if these muffled sounds, distant shouting and the hum of cleaning-machines, would be the last she ever heard.
This place was somehow scarier than the old, shabby infirmaries of the past, where the purpose and appearance of the institution blended into a perfectly homogenous, disgusting unity. Here the white walls were decorated with gaudy prints that seemed like a cheap backdrop to dramatic scenes of suffering and death. There were no old people sitting in the lobby watching TV. There were only healthy people in the corridors of this hospital, as if they lock the patients in their modern wards, complete with phone and television.
New visitors arrived. A strict looking, puffy eyed woman. She was haggard and skinny, and didn't remind me in the least of the beautiful young woman whose hand I was gripping the whole time the ambulance was bringing her to the hospital. I strolled the corridor. At the vending machine was a group of boys with hands thrust into their pockets, jingling small change. One must do something or he'll go mad while waiting.
They often glanced in my direction but didn't try to say anything. They might have expect me to make the first move. We were like dogs at the playground, none of us has decided yet whether to bark or wag tails.
Simone entered the corridor. She didn't notice me and I couldn't catch her eyes. It took a few minutes before I realized that she was deliberately avoiding me. I walked up to the vending machine, and for the fourth time since I've been here, pressed the button for coffee. I watched the slowly dripping pale brown liquid with distaste. In spite of my ardent hope, it hadn't improved any. I went to the window and raised the cup to my lips. One gulp was enough to make my stomach turn. The bittersweet taste made me wonder if there might be such a thing as artificial coffee beans. From the window I saw the top of a truck. It was white. There were men in white overalls around it, trying to unload something. The oblong boxes were too short for coffins. Thank God for small favors.
A nurse passed me. I could tell it was a nurse before I turned to look because of her light, brisk steps. This one had nice, caramel skin and reddish hair. Easy on the eyes, I had to admit, even though I didn't want to meet anyone in this sad and forlorn place and I was worried about Patricia. Celia, Simone, Patricia…a few weeks ago I didn't have anyone special and now—now I still didn't have anyone special. The nurse took pity on me, and generously gave me a smile. The bright pretty face made my hands tremble. Some coffee spilled. The nurse laughed and offered me a Kleenex. Then showed me to a pay phone and disappeared behind a door.
Celia must have been out of the lab, no one answered the phone. I leaned against the long counter, and watched passers-by, listening to the phone ring on and on. The nurse with the nice smile hadn't come back, God knew what she's doing. Where could Celia be? I glanced at my watch and saw that it was past six. I hadn't realized it was so late. I brought Patricia in before noon and have been waiting since. I had shared lunch with Ericsson in the cafeteria of the hospital. He told me no news, the on-the-scene team hadn't unearthed anything important. No one saw anything, no one heard anything. Someone took a shot at Pat from a car, then left the scene. That's all. The rest is silence and waiting.
Celia told me they'd be at the lab until late in the evening. They might have changed their minds. Even geniuses are entitled to a day off. I dialed their home number, with some misgivings. I couldn't figure out why Celia insisted on my visiting. I didn't want to talk to her husband. I didn't want to listen to him go on about his damn virus, all the while knowing that I'm the lover of his wife.
Celia answered the phone after the second ring. I had the feeling she was expecting a call.
"It's me."
Her voice is nervous. All right, I didn't expected her to be gushing with love, but why did she invite me to the lab? Why did she want me to talk to her husband? What was she holding back? What the hell was going on? I had a strange premonition about the answer to these questions.
But I needed to hear it from her. There was no other way.
"I'm sorry." Celia's voice came through falteringly. I could picture her: pouting lips, sad eyes, her hand absently brushing a dark lock of hair off her forehead.
"I couldn't make it," I apologized. My fingers drummed a tattoo on the counter. The fat woman behind it looked at me disapprovingly. Why the hell was I apologizing? I didn't promise to go there, or at least I didn't promise to go that day. I searched for words. How do you start explaining that a woman standing next to you was shot? What's the standard way to tell your lover something like this? Well, darling, just imagine what happened, you'd never guess…
I didn't have to say anything. Celia was preoccupied with her own troubles.
"You couldn't have found a worse time for calling," she said, her reproachful voice made it clear that she thought I should know better. At the same time, I got the feeling she was scared and helpless.
"All right, I won't disturb you. But tell me one thing…"
I knew I sounded rude. I knew I was being unfair, but it felt good.
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"Not now, please…Martin's unwell."
I envisioned an old man lying in bed: cold compress on his forehead, nightcap on his head, a chamber pot on the floor nearby, his face haggard—the face of a dying man. Where do I get this nonsense from?
"Have you inoculated me with that goddamn virus?"
The fat woman looks up again. Her glance is definitely suspicious. God knows what virus she must be thinking of. Not Q-virus, I'm positive of that.
"Please…not now! I'll tell you everything there is to know tomorrow…" she was crying. I could hear her crying and I wasn't there, I couldn't embrace her. I couldn't slap her face, I couldn't grab her shoulders and shake her. Tell me about the virus!
"So did you or didn't you?"
"I'm sorry." The woman I loved and hated was crying. "I'm sorry," she repeated, then all I heard was some odd noise: thuds, cracks. Screaming…"I'm sorry," she says for the last time in her soft, sad and lovely voice and hangs up.
I stood there clutching the receiver. I didn't see the visitors passing me in the corridor. I didn't see the fat woman behind the counter. All I could see was Celia's face, which became bigger and clearer until it filled my field of vision completely. I'm sorry, she whispered. I loved this goddamn bitch. I hated her! How could she do that to me? How could she use me as a guinea pig for her husband's experiments? How could her voice still be full of love and tenderness? Why did she tell me she loved me?
"Hi there! Are you all right?"
My vision cleared slowly. Simone stood in front of me, eyeing me strangely.
"Should I call a doctor?"
I shook my head and put the receiver down with unsteady hands. By the time I realized what I was doing I'd already pulled her close to me. I leaned on her shoulder, sobbing idiotically. Nobody stared. They were used to the sight of crying people there. Simone's slender body clung to mine, her small hand soothingly caressed my nape.
"There, there," she whispered. "It'll be all right."
But of course. I move away from her and dry my eyes.
"Thank you," I muttered.
"It's OK," she said, smiling. "Pat's going to live. She's allowed visitors now. Do you want to see her?"
I nodded. Simone walked away, without even looking back. She's not the same woman: She's not the one who comforted me a minute ago; she's not the one who had made love to me so feverishly. She gives herself only for a few minutes, or maybe hours, but then she withdraws and presents the face of a friendly stranger.
A thin woman stood in front of Pat's room. She waved me in. An unfamiliar doctor stood next to the girl's bed. He didn't look at me, or turn his head away from the patient as I stood, hesitating in the door. before walking in. Pat's eyes were wide open. She even produced a vague smile. How did she manage to look beautiful even then? Her shoulder and part of her chest were bandaged, her face was pale, her hair looked lank. But she was beautiful, like a flower sprouting from a hospital bed.
Her lips moved. I stepped closer and she motioned for me to sit down. It's amazing how we stick to our ingrained gestures. One has to be a gracious hostess, even in a hospital ward, even when only half-alive. I sat on the edge of her bed. The doctor turned and walked toward the door without speaking. He was just entering the hallway when the beeper went off in his pocket.
"How are you?" An idiotic question. How could she be?
Pat made a face. When I started to caress her cheek softly she closed her eyes. My fingers trailed up to her temples, I felt the softness of her hair.
"Why did they want to shoot me?"
I sighed, exasperated. This was the question I wanted to ask her.
"Maybe you know something and they want to keep you from telling it."
She frowned then shook her head. The gesture must have hurt her, because she flinched immediately.
"OK, but what is it?"
"They might think you know who Delacroix trusted with the fifty million. Or they think you might figure it out. Did Delacroix have any real friends?"
"He had some." She began reeling off names. I automatically took notes. A boy from the gang in the Star. A waiter from the bar where Delacroix danced. A couple of well-to-do, middle aged men.
"No one from Frost's gang?"
"None that I know of. Maybe. It was none of my business."
"Do you remember the party you threw? Frost was there with his pals. Some girls. And Delacroix. Didn't he meet anyone special there?"
"I don't know."
She started to cry. It was a good day for it. First Celia cried on the phone, then I sobbed on Simone's shoulder, and finally Pat was doing her share of crying. At least she had a reason.
"Is that why I was shot?"
I didn't know what to answer. I stayed silent and looked at Pat's pale hands lying on the bed. She closed her eyes. I sat still for a minute, then got up gingerly, so as not to wake her. Why was she shot? Well, honey, because someone out there doesn't care if you're dead or alive. And this is reality, my gorgeous Patricia. No, not the damn fifty million, that's not real—only the virus, the damn virus.
I closed the door softly as I left the room. It was hard for me to keep from slamming it shut. I felt like raging, raving, breaking something.
I avoided looking at people, I walked along the corridor with my head lowered, my eyes averted. No Simone, no nice nurse for me now. The pay phone drew me like a magnet, I slowed my pace. "You couldn't have found a worse time for calling…Martin's unwell…" I walked on past the phone.
I was going to get the bastard who shot Pat, and I was going to beat the living shit out of him. I was going to get Frost—and heaven help him if he tried to resist arrest. I was going to find Celia and…
Beat her? Take her in my arms and beg her to leave Baruch and stay with me forever? Or both?
I wanted to make up my mind but nothing was clear. All I knew was that I had to see Celia.
I didn't want to think of her. I tried to concentrate on something simpler, more tangible: I would get the bastard who shot Patricia. I had to try to think it over—where to go first, who to interrogate first. I tried to concentrate on the names Pat gave me but they didn't mean anything. They were just names of people, one of whom I might meet and beat into a bloody pulp tonight. I was overwhelmed by a sadistic urge to hit something, shatter and kill. I reminded myself that I hadn't always been like this.
This thought just brought me back to Celia, who had a hand in my transformation. Cursing violently, I started the car and took off with a screech of my tires.
CHAPTER 38
Dark shaded panes of glass line a long narrow, tunnel-like entryway. Eight-by-ten color photos are on display near the door: A singer with her hair dyed red and a mike in her hand stands in front of blurred, applauding figures seated at round night-club tables; a woman dancing with a man in faux-Spanish costume. His black trousers are ridiculously tight and his vest shows off his flat stomach and strong arms. Victor Delacroix.
The glassed-in entrance swallows Arany. It's a safe, private place, in between the street and the bar. The outside world has disappeared and no one can see him, so he can afford to relax for a second. He leans against the wall and lets his head droop. Then he straightens, pushes the thick, glass-paned door open and finds himself in a different world. A woman clad in shining dress and a fragile smile welcomes him. The fee is considerably higher, and the place is more elegant, than he anticipated. Arany feels out of place in his jeans, T-shirt and the light blue, rumpled denim jacket that's supposed to conceal his guns. He's packed his service revolver and another gun, too. The one that's untraceable, so he can kill someone with it and then throw it away. Ericsson shouldn't have given him that gun. He shouldn't have accepted it.
He finds it strange that he's admitted to the club. But there aren't to many customers, so they probably can't be too choosy. The interior of the bar is dim, the mirrors, mounted at an angle behind the counter reflect blue, purple and pink lights that make Arany look slightly better dressed than he really is.<
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He finds a place at a table and orders whiskey. The waiter is an older man, smartly dressed, with a long pointy nose a weak chin and red hair. His face reminds Arany of a fox. It seems unlikely that this is the waiter Pat mentioned, Delacroix's friend. The drink is weak and leaves an aftertaste he can't place. A woman at the next table is imbibing some odd looking liquid through a straw. Her slit skirt shows a great deal more of her legs than is modest, but her companion, a bigheaded man with a moustache, doesn't seem to care. He drinks a decorously poured beer, with a perfect head-of-foam, while he stares at the empty stage. There's only one couple dancing on the floor. They hold each other tight and do an old-fashioned step. The background music is rap, quick-paced and harsh, but they aren't fazed. They share a melody of their own.
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