by Mario Puzo
“Why would you do that?” he asked.
Athena got up from her chair and moved to stand close to the picture window. The beaches were gray shadows, the sun had disappeared, and the ocean seemed to reflect the mountain ranges behind her house and the Pacific Coast Highway. She gazed out toward the now blue-black water, the small waves rippling in slyly. She did not turn her head to him when she said, “Why would I do that? Simply because I knew Boz Skannet better than anybody. And I don’t care if he left a hundred suicide notes, he would never kill himself.”
Cross shrugged. “Dead is dead,” he said.
“That’s true,” Athena said. She turned to face him, looked directly at him. “You buy the picture and suddenly Boz conveniently commits suicide. You’re my candidate as the killer.” Even stern, her face was so beautiful to Cross that his voice was not as steady as he would have wished.
“How about the Studio?” Cross said. “Marrion is one of the most powerful men in the country. What about Bantz and Skippy Deere?”
Athena shook her head. “They understood what I was asking them. Just as you did. They didn’t do it, they sold the picture to you. They didn’t care if I was killed after the picture was finished, but you did. And I knew you would help me even when you said you couldn’t. When I heard about you buying the picture, I knew exactly what you would do, but I must say I didn’t think you could be so clever.”
Suddenly she came toward him and he rose from his chair. She took his hands in hers. He could smell her body, her breath.
Athena said, “That was the only evil thing I have ever done in my life. Making somebody commit murder. It was terrible. I would have been a much better person if I had done it myself. But I couldn’t.”
Cross said, “Why were you so sure I would do something?”
Athena said, “Claudia told me so much about you. I understood who you were but she’s so naÏve, she still hasn’t caught on. She thinks you’re just a tough guy with a lot of clout.”
Cross became very alert. She was trying to get him to admit his guilt. Something he would never do even to a priest, not even to God himself.
Athena said, “And the way you looked at me. A lot of men have looked at me that way. I’m not being immodest, I know I’m beautiful, people have been telling me that since I was a child. I always knew I had power, but I could never really understand that power. I’m not really happy with it but I use it. What they call ‘love.’ ”
Cross let go of her hands. “Why were you so afraid of your husband? Because he could ruin your career?”
For one moment there was a flash of anger in her eyes. “It wasn’t my career,” she said, “and it wasn’t out of fear, though I knew he would kill me. I had a better reason.” She paused, then said, “I can make them give you the picture back. I can refuse to keep working.”
“No,” Cross said.
Athena smiled and said with a brilliant, gay cheerfulness, “Then we can just go to bed together. I find you very attractive and I’m sure we’ll have a good time.”
His first reaction was one of anger, that she could think she could just buy him off. That she was acting a part, using her skill as a woman the same way a man would use physical force. But what really bothered him was that he could hear a faint bit of mockery in her voice. Mockery of his gallantry, and turning his true love into a simple screw. As if she was telling him that his love for her was as fake as her love for him.
He said to her coolly, “I had a long talk with Boz, trying to make a deal. He said he used to fuck you five times a day when you were married.”
He was pleased that she seemed startled. She said, “I wasn’t counting, but it was a lot. I was eighteen and I really loved him. Isn’t it funny that now I wanted him dead?” She frowned a moment and said, casually, “What else did you talk about?”
Cross looked at her grimly. “Boz told me the terrible secret you had between you. He claims you confessed that when you ran away, you buried your baby in the desert.”
Athena’s face became a mask, her green eyes went dull. For the first time that night, Cross felt she could not possibly be acting. Her face had a pallor no actress could achieve. She whispered to him, “Do you really believe I murdered my baby?”
“Boz said that’s what you told him,” Cross said.
“I did tell him that,” Athena said. “Now, I’m asking you again. Do you believe I murdered my baby?”
There is nothing so terrible as to condemn a beautiful woman. Cross knew that if he answered truthfully, he would lose her forever. Suddenly he put his arms around her very gently. “You’re too beautiful. Nobody as beautiful as you could do that.” The eternal worship of men for beauty against all evidence. “No,” he said. “I don’t believe you did.”
She stepped away from him. “Even though I’m responsible for Boz?”
“You’re not responsible,” Cross said. “He killed himself.”
Athena was gazing at him intently. He took her hands. “Do you believe I killed Boz?” he asked.
And then Athena smiled, an actress who finally realized how to play a scene. “No more than you believe I killed my baby.”
They smiled, they had declared each other innocent. She took his hand and said, “Now, I’m cooking dinner for you and then we’re going to bed.” She led him into the kitchen.
How many times had she played this scene, Cross thought jealously. The beautiful Queen performing housewifely duties like an ordinary woman. He watched her cook. She wore no protective clothing and she was extraordinarily professional. She spoke to him as she chopped vegetables, prepared a skillet, and set the table. She gave him a bottle of wine to open, holding his hand and brushing against his body. She saw him looking with admiration when the table was laden after just a half hour.
She said, “I played a woman chef in one of my first roles, so I went to school to get everything right. And one critic wrote, ‘When Athena Aquitane acts as well as she cooks, she will be a star.’ ”
They ate in the alcove of the kitchen so they could look at the rolling ocean. The food was delicious, little squares of beef covered with vegetables and then a salad of bitter greens. There was a platter of cheeses and warm short loaves of bread, plump as pigeons. Then there was espresso with a small, light lemon tart.
“You should have been a cook,” Cross said, “My cousin Vincent would hire you for his restaurants any day.”
“Oh, I could have been anything,” Athena said with mock boastfulness.
All through dinner she had touched him casually in a way that was sexual, as if she were searching for some spirit in his flesh. Cross with every touch yearned to feel her body on his. By the end of the meal, he no longer could taste what he was eating. Finally they were done and Athena took him by the hand and led him out of the kitchen and up the two flights of stairs to her bedroom. She did it gracefully, almost shyly, almost blushing, as if she were an eager virginal bride. Cross marveled at her acting ability.
The large bedroom was at the very top of the house and had a small balcony that looked out over the ocean. The walls were covered with a weird, garish painting that seemed to light up the room.
They stood on the balcony and watched the room illuminate the beach sand with a spooky yellow glow, the other Malibu houses squatted along the water showing little boxes of light. Tiny birds, as if playing a game, ran in and out of the incom-ing waves to escape getting wet.
Athena put her hand on Cross’s shoulder, around his body, the other hand reaching out to pull his mouth down to hers. They kissed for a long time as the warm ocean air washed over them. Then Athena led him inside the bedroom.
She undressed quickly, slipping out of her green blouse and slacks. Her white body flashed in the moon-ridden darkness. She was as beautiful as he had imagined. The rising breasts with their raspberry nipples seemed spun of sugar. Her long legs, the curve of her hips, the blond hair at her crotch, her absolute stillness, limned by misty ocean air.
Cross reached out
for her body and her flesh was velvet, her lips filled with the scent of flowers. The sheer joy of touching her was so sweet he could not do anything else. Athena began to undress him. She did so gently, running her hands over his body as he had over hers. Then, kissing him, she gently pulled him onto the bed.
Cross made love with a passion he had never known or even dreamed existed. He was so urgent that Athena had to stroke his face to gentle him. He could not let loose of her body, even after they climaxed. They lay intertwined until they began again. She was even more ardent than before, as if it was some sort of contest, some sort of avowal. Finally they both drifted off into slumber.
Cross awoke just as the sun showed above the horizon. For the first time in his life, he had a headache. Naked, he moved onto the balcony and sat on one of the straw chairs. He watched the sun shine over the ocean.
She was a dangerous woman. The murderer of her own child, whose bones were now filled with desert sand. And she was too skillful in bed. She could be the end of him. At that moment he decided he would never see her again.
Then he felt her arms around his neck and his face twisted around to kiss her. She was in a white fluffy bathrobe, and her hair was held in place by pins that glittered like jewels in a crown. “Take a shower and I’ll make you breakfast before you go,” she said.
She led him into the double bathroom, two sinks, two marble counters, two bathtubs, and two showers. It was stocked with men’s toilet articles, razors, shaving cream, skin toners, brushes, and combs.
When he had finished and was out on the balcony again, Athena brought a tray with croissants, coffee, and orange juice to the table. “I can make you bacon and eggs,” she said.
“This is fine,” Cross said.
“When will I see you again?” Athena asked.
“I have lots of things to do in Las Vegas,” Cross said. “I’ll call you next week.”
Athena gave him an appraising look. “That means good-bye, doesn’t it?” she asked. “And I really enjoyed last night.”
Cross shrugged. “You paid off your obligation,” he said.
She gave him a good-humored grin and said, “And with amazing goodwill, don’t you think? It wasn’t begrudging.”
Cross laughed. “No,” he said.
She seemed to read his mind. Last night they had lied to each other, this morning the lies had no power. She seemed to know that her beauty was too much for him to trust. That he felt in danger with her, and with her confessed sins. She seemed deep in thought and ate silently. Then she said to him, “I know you’re busy but I have something to show you. Can you spare this morning and catch an afternoon plane? It’s important. I want to take you someplace.”
Cross could not resist spending one last time with her and so he said yes.
Athena drove them in her car, a Mercedes SL 300, and took the highway south to San Diego. But just before they reached the city, she turned off into a thin road that led inland through the mountains.
In fifteen minutes they came to a compound enclosed by barbed wire. Inside the compound were six redbrick buildings separated by green lawns and connected by sky blue painted walkways. In one of the green squares, a group of about twenty children were playing with a soccer ball. On another green about ten children were flying kites. There was a group of three or four adults standing around watching them, but something seemed odd about the scene. When the soccer ball flew through the air, it seemed most of the children ran away from it, while on the other square the kites flew up, up, into the sky and never returned.
“What is this place?” Cross asked.
Athena looked pleadingly at him. “Just come with me please for now. Later, you can ask your questions.”
Athena drove to the entry gate and showed a gold ID badge to the security guard. Passing through, she drove to the largest building and parked.
Once inside at the reception desk, Athena asked the attendant something in a low voice. Cross stood back, but still he heard the answer. “She was in a mood so we gave her a hug in her room.”
“What the hell was that?” Cross asked.
But Athena didn’t answer. She took his hand and led him through a long, shiny tile hallway to an adjoining building and into some sort of dormitory.
A nurse sitting at the entrance asked their names. When she nodded, Athena led Cross down another long hallway of doors. Finally, she opened one.
They were standing in a pretty bedroom, large and full of light. There were the same strange, dark paintings as on the wall in Athena’s house, but here they were strewn on the floor. On the wall a small shelf held a row of pretty dolls dressed in starched Amish costumes. Also on the floor were several other scraps of drawings and paintings.
There was a small bed covered with a pink fuzzy blanket, the pillows white with red roses stitched all over them. But there was no child in the bed.
Athena walked toward a large box that was open at the top, its walls and base covered with a thick, soft pad colored light blue, and when Cross looked inside he saw the child lying there. She didn’t notice them. She was fiddling with a knob at the head of the box, and Cross watched as she forced the pads together, almost crushing herself.
She was a small girl of ten, a tiny copy of Athena, but without emotion, devoid of all expression, and her green eyes were as unseeing as those of a porcelain doll. Yet each time she turned the controls to make the panels squeeze her tight, her face shone with complete serenity. She did not acknowledge them in any way.
Athena moved to the top of the wooden box. She switched the controls so that she could lift the child out of the box. The child seemed to weigh almost nothing.
Athena held her like an infant and bent her head to kiss the child’s cheek, but the child flinched and pulled away.
“It’s your mommy,” Athena said. “Won’t you give me a kiss?”
The tone of her voice broke Cross’s heart. It was an abject pleading, but now the child was churning wildly within her arms. Finally Athena gently put her down on the floor. The child scrambled to her knees and immediately picked up a box of paints and a huge cardboard sheet. Completely absorbed, she began to paint.
Cross stood back and watched as Athena tried all her acting skill to establish a rapport with the child. First she kneeled down next to the little girl and was the loving playmate helping her daughter paint, but the child took no notice.
Athena then sat up, tried to be a confiding parent telling the child what was happening in the world. Then Athena became a fawning adult praising the child’s paintings. To all this the child merely kept moving away. Athena picked up one of the brushes and tried to help, but when the child did see, she grabbed the brush away. She never said a word.
Finally Athena gave up.
“I’ll come back tomorrow, darling,” she said. “I’ll take you for a ride and I’ll bring a new paint box. See,” she said, tears welling in her eyes, “you’re running out of reds.” She tried to give the child a farewell kiss but was held away by two small, beautiful hands.
Finally Athena rose and led Cross out of the room.
Athena gave him the keys to the car so he could drive back to Malibu, and during the ride, she held her head in her hands and wept. Cross was so stunned he could not say a word.
When they got out of the car, Athena seemed to have control of herself. She pulled Cross into the house and then turned and faced him. “That was the baby I told Boz I buried in the desert. Now do you believe me?” And for the first time Cross really believed she might love him.
Athena led him into the kitchen and made coffee. They sat in the alcove to watch the ocean. As they drank their coffee, Athena started speaking. She talked casually, no emotion in her voice or on her face.
“When I ran away from Boz, I left my baby with some distant cousins, a married couple in San Diego. She seemed a normal baby. I didn’t know she was autistic then, maybe she wasn’t. I left her there because I was determined to be a successful actress. I had to make money for b
oth of us. I was sure I was talented and God knows everybody told me how beautiful I was. I always thought that when I was successful, I could take my baby back.”
“So I worked in Los Angeles and visited her in San Diego whenever I could. Then I began to break through and I didn’t see her that often, maybe once a month. Finally when I was ready to bring her home I went to her third birthday party with all kinds of presents, but Bethany seemed to have slipped into another world. She was a blank. I couldn’t reach her at all. I was frantic. I thought maybe she had a brain tumor, I remembered when Boz had let her fall on the floor, that maybe her brain had been injured and it was now beginning to show. For months after that I brought her to doctors, she underwent a battery of tests of all kinds, I took her to specialists and they checked everything. Then someone, and I don’t remember whether it was the doctor in Boston or the psychiatrist in Texas Children’s Hospital, told me she was autistic. I didn’t even know what that meant except that I thought it was some kind of retardation. ‘No,’ the doctor said. It meant she lived in her own world, was unaware of other people’s existence, had no interest in them, could feel nothing for anything or anyone. It was when I brought her to the clinic here to be close to me that we found she could respond to that hugging machine you saw. That seemed to help, so I had to leave her there.”
Cross sat without a word, while Athena continued. “Being autistic meant she could never love me. But the doctors told me some autistic people are talented, even geniuslike. And I think Bethany is a genius. Not only with her painting. Something else. The doctors tell me that after many years of hard training some autistic people can be taught to care for some things, then some people. A few can even live a near-to-normal life. Right now, Bethany can’t stand listening to music or any noise. But at first she couldn’t bear to have me touch her, and now she’s learned to tolerate me, so she’s better than she used to be.
“She still rejects me but not as violently. We’ve made some progress. I used to think it was punishment for my neglect of her because I wanted to be a success. But the specialists say that sometimes though it seems hereditary, it can be acquired, but they don’t know what really makes it happen. The doctors told me it had nothing to do with Boz dropping her on her head or me deserting her, but I don’t know if I believe that. They kept trying to reassure me that we were not responsible, that it was one of the mysteries of life, maybe it was preordained. They insisted nothing could have prevented it from happening and nothing can ever change it. But again something inside me refuses to believe any of that.
