What if the phone was still working and Betty had rung him up in extremis? Who else would she call? After all she couldn’t know that he had been the dark shadow who’d pushed her over the cliffs from behind—who suspects a thing like that? The phone in the trash can next to the parking lot ticket machine would have rung; he hadn’t turned it off. Maybe someone had heard the ringing and answered it—but no, you don’t make phone calls underwater. No one can talk underwater; the cold sea gets into your mouth and into your nose. You want to live, you flail around, you blow bubbles, you struggle until your hands are battered and bleeding. No sensible person makes a phone call in such a moment. Do they?
Henry supported himself with one hand on the kitchen island’s countertop and drank scotch straight from the bottle. The cigarettes. Betty was forever flicking the burning butts into the countryside. How often had he stamped the damn things out in annoyance, preventing how many forest fires? It’s well known that cigarette butts are the first thing the forensic team looks for; every child knows that from television. Betty’s saliva on them was a major lead. And then there was his puked-up lasagna too, full of murderer’s DNA. Half a kilo of it. It was just a question of finding its owner. He might just as well have nailed signs to the trees displaying his photo and phone number. Wouldn’t it be better to call a lawyer straightaway? But what was he to say? That he’d killed his mistress by accident? That he’d just forgotten to brake?
No one would believe him. No, if anything he ought to talk to Martha first and explain everything to her; he’d done it for her after all. Martha would be bound to understand him and forgive him. Martha was never cross with him. Then again—maybe she would be this time. But she definitely wouldn’t go to the police. Poor thing, who was to look after her, if he wasn’t there anymore?
On a sudden impulse, Henry went to the window. It was still raining. Only I know what I’ve done, he thought. Who in the world would suspect him? And who would ever think of searching by the cliffs? There was no chance of tire tracks of any evidential value being found now. That was good. The rain and sea were his allies, not that he’d ever been able to bear either of them.
Henry relaxed. Strictly speaking, it could just as well have been an accident—no, it really had been an accident. Because it would all have happened just the same without him; it was entirely Betty’s fault. A case of fateful inadvertence. She had stopped at the very edge of the cliffs, hadn’t put the car into gear, hadn’t even put on the hand brake—thoughtless, the way women are. She had simply rolled a little too far. Who was going to think anything else? Who could prove the contrary? And who would ever find her?
Somewhat reassured, Henry put on his slippers, took the bottle of scotch, and crept softly down to the wine cellar to treat himself to a cigar. Not that there was anything to celebrate, but tobacco is a good antidote to negative thoughts. He sat in the cellar on the wooden stool under the naked lightbulb and smoked the entire cigar. Like all those years ago when he’d smoked his first cigar, a factory reject left by his dead father.
On that fateful night, which from a psychological point of view had marked the end of Henry’s childhood, his father had come ranting and raving up the stairs to punish Henry. Henry had hidden under the bed, his urine-soaked pajamas clinging to his legs. His father came into the room snorting like an ox, his sour beery breath polluting the air. He didn’t even turn the light on; he just reached under the bed and pulled him out. Henry could still feel that painful grip, the incredible strength with which the old man grasped him by his pajama top and then felt his trousers.
“Gone and pissed yourself again, have you, junior?”
Of course he had. It happened every night. His father dragged him out of the room to the stairs. Henry clutched the banisters and screamed for his mum. That made the old man even more furious, and he tugged at Henry, who was still clinging to the post. Then the cloth of his pajamas ripped and the heavy man crashed down the stairs to the bottom. There he remained, never to get up again. He was carried out of the house in a black plastic bag with all the neighbors looking. What happened afterward was to prove even worse.
Today, so many years later, Henry came out of the wine cellar completely drunk, tripped over the sleeping dog, and fell sideways on his face. He saw gracefully dancing lights.
The doorbell rang. Poncho leaped up and began to bark. Henry looked at the clock; it was almost eleven. The police—could they be that quick? It is well known that modern investigative techniques can perform wonders, but how the devil had they worked it all out that quickly? Maybe it had been Betty’s emergency call from the car. She hadn’t rung him; she’d rung the police. That had been her last act of revenge. Now the house was surrounded, and marksmen were lying in wait in the fields. He’d better not get up until they came into the house.
So Henry stayed lying down a little while longer. He saw the glowing cigar butt burn a small hole in the wooden floor, but it didn’t matter anymore. He remembered Dostoevsky’s superb description of the last moments of a man condemned to death before a firing squad. Never again would one minute be so intense. He didn’t like Dostoevsky otherwise, because he was so long-winded and his stories always interlocked in such a complicated way.
The doorbell rang again.
This time urgently, long-long-short, like a Morse code signal. Once again Henry saw into the future. Any second now Martha would come down the stairs. Awful idea, he thought, her watching them handcuff him and read him his rights. I expect she’ll pack my toothbrush and a change of clothes. Bound to cry then. Why did you do it? she’ll ask. I’ll have to come up with a good answer, Henry thought, and he got up to open the door on the inevitable.
Outside in the rain stood Betty.
She was alone. She looked pale and serious. Under her raincoat she had on the tailored houndstooth suit she looked so fantastic in. She’d put up her blond hair, presumably because she knew how much he liked it that way. She looked stunningly healthy and didn’t seem the least bit upset with him.
“Henry, your wife knows everything,” she said.
It was a complicated feeling. On the one hand, joy. Yes, he was glad that Martha knew everything and that Betty wasn’t hurt. Not a scratch was to be seen on her immaculate skin; she hadn’t even caught a cold from the icy water, although that could still happen of course. On the other hand, he was more than a little surprised. How had Betty managed to free herself from the sinking Subaru without ruining her hairdo? She must somehow have gone home and changed. But what was she doing turning up at his house in the best of spirits rather than going to the police? A mystery. Well, there was sure to be a straightforward explanation.
“Have you been drinking, Henry?”
“Me? Yes.”
“Henry, I must have rung you fifty times, but you just didn’t answer.”
There was no tone of reproach in her voice, Henry noted. He would have bet on her at least reproaching him for what he’d done; after all, he had tried to kill her. Instead she stepped out of the rain and kissed him on the mouth. Her kiss tasted of menthol. It was the first time she’d set foot in Henry’s house. Henry could smell the lily-of-the-valley perfume he’d given her. She’d even found time for that.
“It’s so dark here. Have you hurt yourself, my poor love?”
“I fell over.”
“You’re bleeding. Did you understand what I said?”
“No. What did you say?”
“I said: Martha came to see me earlier.”
“Who?”
“Your wife.” Betty spoke to him as if to a child. Henry didn’t like that, but now was not the moment for such trifles. “She already knows everything. Why have you been keeping it from me all this time?”
Henry could hear himself breathing.
“What does Martha know?”
Betty gave a ringing laugh. “Don’t play dumb. She knows about us two. Everything. Has done all along.”
He wondered whether he should go back to the cellar and see whether
he’d fallen asleep smoking.
“Did you tell her?” he asked.
“Me? No, you told her everything.” Betty poked his chest with her index finger. Another thing he couldn’t stand.
“She came to see me. In my apartment. It’s all a lot easier than we thought.”
“How does she know where you live?”
The conversation was beginning to tire Betty. She took off her raincoat. “Well, really, she can’t know that from anyone except you. She was sad, and she was very angry and very worried about you. We drank tea together and she told me about your writing crisis. Really, she understands you and she loves you. Afterward she drove to the cliffs.”
Something cold reached into Henry’s chest. It broke through his ribs and churned everything up inside him. Betty saw him turn gray.
———
Martha’s room was neat and tidy as usual. The standard lamp was on, there was a white sheet of paper in the typewriter and the wastepaper basket was empty. Her bed was untouched. A book lay open on the pillow; her swimsuit was next to the bed. She wasn’t in the bathroom either. Henry flung open the window. Martha’s white Saab was parked below in the rain. The headlights were on; the windshield wipers were moving to and fro. He called out her name, but she did not reply.
As he was going slowly down the stairs, he saw Betty’s raincoat on the marten trap. Her slim shoes stood beside it. In the visitors’ bathroom it was dark; the door stood ajar. There were no lights on in the kitchen. Henry followed the smell of cigarette along the wood-paneled corridor to his studio. She came toward him soundlessly out of the dark.
“What’s happened, Henry?”
“She’s gone. Martha’s gone.”
“What do you mean, gone? Just like that?”
“Why did you come here?”
“Martha and I had arranged to swap cars again. She asked me to. Hasn’t she come back?”
Betty wanted to walk past him out of the dark corridor. He held her back.
“What are you doing in my studio?”
“You’re hurting me! I was looking for Martha. She’s bound to come back soon. Don’t worry.”
Henry noticed that she was no longer holding the cigarette.
“What did you talk about?”
“What do you think? About you, of course. We must have talked for a whole hour about you. She idolizes you. Then I told her where we always meet.”
Henry tightened his grip.
“Why? Why did you do that?”
Betty squirmed in his grasp. “She wanted to go to you. That’s why she went to the cliffs.”
He studied her face. “How could she find her way?”
“Oh, come on, that’s why we swapped cars. Because she doesn’t have GPS. She’d never in her life have found it otherwise, as you know. Don’t say you didn’t go?”
“Give me a cigarette.”
“You did go, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did. Give me a cigarette.”
Betty took one from the packet and gave Henry a light. His hands were trembling so badly that Betty had to hold them tight. Her gaze fell on the wooden box at the foot of the stairs, but she didn’t ask.
No doubt about it, Martha was dead. She’d been sitting in the car when he’d pushed it over the cliffs. He’d destroyed his life and killed the only person who’d ever loved him for his own sake. Martha was gone and with her the full life, the good life. The pictures came back to him. Henry saw her screaming soundlessly as she hit the windshield, saw her trying to open the door and the horribly cold water entering her lungs. He saw Martha die.
As he was driving Betty home, Henry felt the beginnings of a numbness on the right side of his face. It spread from his eyebrow across his temple to his ear.
“Did you tell her about the baby?”
“No, she doesn’t know anything.”
“Don’t lie to me, Betty!”
“Why should I lie?”
“Have you called anyone, talked to anyone?”
“Why are you asking? Won’t she ever come back?”
Betty sat strangely stiff beside him, her fingers with their painted nails clasped tightly together. She didn’t smoke, she didn’t look at him, and she didn’t ask any more questions, at least not audibly. Henry stared at the road ahead. In his mind’s eye he was already back home, killing the dog and emptying a canister of gasoline all over the house. He’d start with that damn drilling rig, then the books. The flames wouldn’t take long. Then the wooden staircase. The fire would spread upstairs quickly, the damn marten in the roof would burn too. That’s what comes of creeping into strangers’ houses.
“Don’t talk to anyone about it, do you hear? Not anyone.”
Then she got out. She could feel Henry’s gaze as she walked the fifty paces to her apartment.
The rain had eased off, and all the windows, except Martha’s, were dark when Henry got back. Although he knew he wouldn’t find her, Henry searched the whole house for his wife. With an excruciating certainty that was already a phantom pain, he flung open doors, called out her name, and shined a flashlight behind bookcases and into cupboards and corners, as if it were a silly game of hide-and-seek. Of course she didn’t respond to his calls, because she was lying at the bottom of the sea, but the thought was simply unbearable, so he called out another dozen times.
In his studio he found Betty’s burned-out cigarette. The blinds were down; she couldn’t have seen much, not enough to understand. But all the same, she’d crept into his studio in stocking feet to snoop about.
He drove Martha’s Saab into the barn. He searched the car, but found only an old wooden sandal, yellowing maps, and empty water bottles. The whole interior of the car smelled of Betty’s lily-of-the-valley perfume. The dog panted after him as he came out with a spade and two canisters of gasoline and went into the kitchen. He wanted to set fire to the house first, and then hurl himself into the well behind the chapel. He put down the canisters, laid the sharp spade on the counter, and drank the remains of the whisky from the bottle. As soon as he was drunk enough he was going to use the spade to chop off Poncho’s head. But however much he drank, he remained sober. Stuff tastes like whisky, he thought, but it must be water, otherwise I’d be drunk. He took the rubber gloves out of the sink. OK, let’s get it over with. Come here, you filthy cur.
The dog had slunk away. Henry staggered through the house, knocked his shin, and made a change of plan.
He grabbed Martha’s green parka, took the dirty laundry out of the laundry basket, and stuffed underwear, sandals, shirt, and trousers into a plastic bag. Then he put her folding bicycle carefully into the trunk of the Maserati and set off. In the rearview mirror he could see two shining yellow points. It was the eyes of the dog watching him. The creature knew everything.
Four o’clock in the morning, an hour before sunrise. The narrow road to the bay led through the town. Bright moonlight shone on the roofs as Henry let the car roll along the main street, his headlights switched off. A cat crossed the road in front of him carrying that night’s prey in its jaws.
Sleepless as usual at a full moon, Obradin stood smoking as the Maserati glided along under his window. He heard the familiar rumble of the engine and recognized the curves of the bodywork. Nobody drives toward the harbor at night with the lights off without good reason. Unless Henry was intending to load the car onto a ship in the harbor and sail away, he would at some point have to return the way he’d come. In the bed up against the wall his Helga turned over without waking and stretched out her fleshy hand to feel for him. He fetched his Russian night-vision device from the cupboard, opened a new packet of cigarettes, and went back to stand at the window and wait.
Beyond the little fishing harbor was the bay. Henry carried the bike over the shingle beach and propped it up against the fissured cliff just as Martha had always done. He hung her parka over the handlebars by its hood and positioned her clothes carefully next to the bike as she herself might have done. Then he looked out at the c
old, gleaming sea. Were the fish already eating Martha’s corpse, or might her body be washed ashore here? Would she still be wearing clothes? How amateurishly I’ve acted, he thought. Why did I do it? The eternal metronome of the surf rolled the stones to and fro, slowly grinding them to sand. Martha had always loved the sea. But why?
As Obradin had predicted, the Maserati rolled back along the road under his window half an hour later. The headlights were still switched off. On the green image of the goggles’ residual light amplifier Obradin could see Henry sitting at the wheel. After careful consideration, Obradin reached the conclusion that an author can have many compelling reasons for driving to the harbor at night with his lights off—the quest for the mot juste, for instance. The search for the right word had driven Flaubert out of the house at night, Proust into bed, Nietzsche into lunacy—why the hell should Henry Hayden be spared? This elegant conclusion brought Obradin temporary relief. When the sound of the engine had died away, he got into bed beside his wife and instantly fell asleep.
Shortly before sunrise, Henry was home again. The dog was waiting for him in the same spot. He trotted behind him into the house. In the fireplace Henry put a match to Martha’s swimsuit, then sat down in his wing armchair and watched the burning polyester melt into a glowing ball. It had been a bargain, bought on the promenade in outrageously expensive San Remo, and had fit her so well, accentuating her shapely but not skinny waist. She had spun around in front of the mirror, as pleased as a child. Afterward they’d drunk Campari together and written postcards. Happiness can only be experienced with someone else, he had thought at the time. And now that was all over and done with. Charred into little pellets of plastic.
In the warmth of the flames, Henry could feel the numbness on the right side of his face. It had spread across his cheek as far as his nose. He touched his skin with his fingertips. I’m rotting, he decided. I’m rotting from the inside out. Serves me right.
The Truth and Other Lies Page 6