The Open Curtain

by Brian Evenson

  When the room seemed to have gained a certain consistency, a certain rigor, he moved his hands, which had become, in his fall (if there had been a fall), trapped beneath his body. They were tingling, and one was beginning to ache. His nails, he saw, were jagged, broken, and he wondered if he had bitten them down himself. Was he the sort of man to bite his nails down?

  He pulled himself up to sitting, turned to his knees and, groaning, pulled himself into the chair. The heavy spring squeaked, squealed.

  From the chair he could see someone in the bed, a young woman, turned on her side and away from him, atop the tapestry but beneath a coverlet. Her shoulders were bare and uncovered, her hair streaming along the bolster.

  He looked about. Had he been here before? Yes, he thought he had been there before. Was this his room? No, surely not. But how did he know it was not his room? He knew. Yes, but how did he know? He simply knew; wasn’t that sufficient?

  It is my father’s apartment, he thought, and for a moment this seemed the right answer, but then a moment later, No, he realized, my father is long dead. A suicide.

  Then whose room? The girl’s? How could he tell if he did not know who she was? Yet something stopped him from walking around the bed and looking her full in the face. Perhaps simply the fact of her bare shoulder. Was this a woman he knew, perhaps intimately? It was not simply his wife, of that he was certain. He had not seen his wife for some time and the terms upon which they had parted could hardly be considered amicable. One does what one can but one occasionally makes mistakes, even errors that acquire a certain difficult gravity. Yet what was a wife for if not to understand one, to accept one despite one’s foibles, to help one strive for betterment?

  Or was he in fact correct? Why was he having such difficulty, then, remembering not only his wife’s face, but her name?

  He cleared his throat. The woman in the bed did not shift. He cleared his throat again, louder this time. She was a sound sleeper.

  He allowed his gaze to wander the room. A very simple moulding near the ceiling, a runner of painted wood interrupting the flatness of the upper wall, above it a slight curve, a rounding, just at the jointure of wall and ceiling itself. It relaxed the eye. Lower, a closed, narrow door leading perhaps to a closet. An open doorway, leading into a kitchen, a tiled floor, one edge of a skirted sink.

  “Miss?” he said. He cleared his throat, stared at the back of her head. “I fear I find myself in something of an embarrassing predicament,” he said. “My memory has deserted me. I must admit I am unsure of where I am or even of who you are.”

  The woman still did not respond. Perhaps, he thought, she is deaf. Or perhaps she is doing this purposefully as a means to punish me or drive me away.

  “If I do know you,” he said. “Might I ask you to turn toward me and pay a little heed? I have no doubt that the right word or phrase, the right gesture from you, will propel me to a speedy return of my senses.”

  When the woman still did not respond, he began to be very afraid.

  He stayed still for a moment, regarding her back. Then carefully he reached out and with a finger and thumb took hold of the top edge of the coverlet, tugged it carefully up and over her shoulders. The woman seemed to settle slightly against the bolster, the movement almost imperceptible but enough to cause him to withdraw his hand. In pulling the coverlet up, he saw, he had freed her foot, which lay sole upward at the extreme of the bed, curled. Like a dead fish, he thought.

  He made his way slowly around the bottom of the bed, stooping forward and skew to see her face. Yet even before he was all the way around he could see that he had been right to be afraid. He could see through her hair something wrong with her forehead: blood matting together strands of her hair and puddling in her eye socket.

  He turned the coverlet down and saw she was naked to her waist, then folded it to render her bare from head to toe. With the flat of his hand, he pushed her shoulder, turned the body face up. The skin was lukewarm and rubbery and it held the imprint of his hand where he had pushed. Beneath the body the tapestry was stained dark with blood and he could see her left temple caved in and soft, dribbling both blood and brain. Her belly too was neatly slit, the gash almost long enough for him to slip his fist into, he thought, and then wondered, Why would I think a thing like that?

  So, he thought, not her apartment. At least no longer.

  Shocked at himself, he reached out and touched her neck, though he already knew she was dead. On the bedside table was a vial, empty. There was a knife on the table as well, an ivory-handled stiletto, its blade sword-shaped and sharp on both sides. Why, he wondered, do I remain so calm? He reached out and brushed the woman’s hair back and tried to recognize her, despite her broken skull, and thought perhaps he did but could not force a name onto her. Picking up the knife he examined it more closely, the blade four or five inches long and well-milled, its bevel even and careful. No, he thought, I should not have picked that up, the police shall want to see that and just where it lay.

  And then thought, suddenly, Suppose the murderer is still here?

  Carefully he made his way to the smaller door in the room. He turned the handle with little noise then threw the door open with a single, taut gesture. Save for shirts and coats, a top shelf of starched collars, the closet was empty. The rest of the bedroom too. In the kitchen, the space under the skirt of the sink was bare save for a small tin of white powder that he took for lye. The cabinets were empty as well. A sitting room just off the kitchen was equally empty.

  Still carrying the knife, he went to the apartment’s front door, opened it. It led onto a landing paneled in dark wood, a white honeycomb tile lining the floor, a set of stairs descending to a street door. Only when he saw the street door did he begin to hear street noises, muffled, as if they hadn’t existed before the door had been perceived. There was another apartment on the opposite side of the landing, a door identical to his own. To the right, the open door of a bathroom.

  Leaving the apartment door ajar, he went to the door across the landing and listened, holding his ear close. There was a dull murmur from within. He knocked and the murmur ceased. After a brief silence, it resumed. He knocked again, louder, and the murmur stopped again, followed by footsteps, the creaking of floorboards. Realizing he was still holding the stiletto, he slid it into his pocket.

  “Who is it?” a voice asked.

  He cleared his throat. “It’s me,” he claimed.

  Was “me” enough? In any case he could hear the door rattle and a moment later it was cracked slightly open to show a man in a cravat and a tweed topcoat.

  “Ah,” said the man, and opened the door wider. “It’s you, William. Why didn’t you say so?”

  “Call me Hooper,” he said. “Yes. It’s me.”

  “Well,” the other said. “What is it, Hooper? Everything satisfactory? Do you care to come in?”

  “Satisfactory?”

  “Across the hall,” he said.

  “What,” he said slowly, “is there to be satisfactory or not across the hall?”

  The man regarded him oddly. “The apartment, of course.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Yes, of course.”

  “Are you certain you feel well?” the man said. “Please, come have a seat.”

  Confused, Hooper stepped deeper into the apartment, allowed himself to be seated on a horsehair sofa. Close by, in a wing chair, sat another man in cravat and shirtsleeves, his coat laid across his knees. Upon it was an open book.

  “Hello,” the man said.

  “Hello,” said Hooper.

  “We were just reading aloud,” said the man. “The Scriptures.” He smiled. “Begin the day with the word of God and end it with such.”

  Hooper nodded. “It is not my apartment, is it?”

  “Which?” he said. “Why, what an odd question.”

  The other man came back in to offer Hooper some water. It was tepid. He drank it slowly.

  “Elder,” the seated man said. “William just asked
me the oddest question.”

  “He’s not feeling himself, Elder,” said the other. “And he prefers to be called Hooper. Perhaps he just awoke and hasn’t yet a foothold, as it were.”

  “Perhaps not, Elder,” said the first. He turned to Hooper. “In answer, no it is not your apartment. It belongs to your father. As does this apartment, as does the house as a whole. As you well know.”

  “My father?” said Hooper. “But my father is dead.”

  The two men exchanged glances. “Nonsense, Hooper,” the seated one said. “He is only abroad.”

  “Abroad?”

  Both men nodded. “In Europe. You occupy his apartment until his return.”

  “Ah yes,” Hooper lied, shaking his head. “I remember now. I don’t know what’s been wrong with me.”

  “Are you certain you’re all right?” asked one of the two.

  “There hasn’t been anyone coming and going in the house today, has there?” asked Hooper.

  The standing man shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. Only you,” he said.

  “Do I live alone?”

  “Hooper, have you been drinking?”

  Back in the apartment, he draped the corpse with the coverlet, arranging it so that no portion was visible. He sat down on the chair but found the stiletto to be needling through his trouser pocket and into his thigh. He stood and plucked it out and put it again on the bedside table just as he had first found it.

  Only me, he thought. And then added, Hooper.

  And only then did it occur to him to be surprised at the name. Hooper? If he had been asked if that were his name he would not have said so. It did not feel altogether the right name for him. But it was the name his tongue had uttered, in preference to the other name the Elder had offered. William. His father too, named John, that didn’t sound right, and Young not right as a family name, or as part of his own full name: William Hooper Young. Why was it he felt so alienated from his proper names—names that his tongue could give, apparently out of habit, as correct, even if he could not get his mind around them. And his father alive? He had been certain that his father was dead, his mother had said as much, over and over, he had seen his father dead in his coffin, but no, no, why had he thought that? He had gotten confused; he had made that up: it was apparently his father who was alive and his mother, not his father, who was dead.

  And this woman, what was he to do about her? This corpse in his bed, in a bed that technically belonged to a vanished father, dead. Certainly it was understandable that his mind was running a little ragged. He should be, he thought, even more distraught than he was. Perhaps it was even worrisome that he was not.

  Only me, he thought again. Then perhaps I am the one responsible for this poor creature’s death.

  But why? he wondered.

  But even if I’m not, he thought, it may appear to others as if I were. Though he realized his mind was taking a turn into dubious territory he could not stop himself. He was sorry that the woman was dead but he did not know her; how could he be responsible? And yet the police, he knew, were likely to ferret out the easiest solution to the problem, and the easiest solution to the problem, particularly with the Mormon missionaries across the hall claiming that nobody had entered the house, was the inhabitant of the apartment: he himself. The missionaries would not be blamed: there were two of them, it was not their apartment. They would support each other’s witness. No, if anyone were to be blamed, it would be he.

  He sat on the bed. Reaching out, he stroked the woman’s hair. Did she look familiar?

  But perhaps if I speak now I’ll at least have a chance, he thought. For what else was he to do? Hush up the crime? Take charge of the body himself and dispose of it? This would serve not only to cover the crime and protect the murderer but, if the disposal of the corpse were ever to be traced back to him, implicate him. No, he must speak with the police, lay down for them all he knew, all he understood, and then allow them to do as they would. At least his conscience would be appeased, and perhaps his forthrighteousness would do much, or at least something, to convince them of his innocence.

  He was still, he realized, stroking her hair, as if she were a lapdog. He took his hand away, and stood, pacing into the kitchen and back again. At last he tightened his coat and, feeling in his waistcoat pocket for a coin, left the apartment.

  Yes, he thought, he would choose the righteous thing. He left the landing and started down the stairs. There was nothing else to be done and this way at least his conscience would be gratified. He would be at peace with himself rather than at variance and with his mind moving two ways at once. He would open the door, find a willing boy, send him along to the police.

  Yet when he opened the front door there was a man on the step, his face seeming at once old and young. Hooper looked at him, holding the door ajar.

  “Hello, Hooper,” the man said, and nodded once.

  And suddenly Hooper remembered what he was meant to say.

  “Elling,” Hooper said. He opened the door wider. “Would you care to come in?”

  Upstairs, Elling stood in the kitchen. He removed his gloves, working them off slowly, finger by finger. When he was done he went to the sink, peered beneath its skirt. The gesture struck Hooper as odd; he had the strange sensation that he had seen it done before.

  “She isn’t here,” said Elling.

  “What?” said Hooper. “No. She’s on the bed.”

  “Certainly you should hide her,” said Elling.

  “But why would she be there?” asked Hooper. “I said nothing to suggest that I’d put her there. And how is it that you know that she is in such condition as demands being hidden?” Unless, he thought, she was brought to it by your hand.

  “That’s where she goes,” said Elling, and now seemed again young. “Goddammit, how many times do I have to tell you? Bloody sheets in the closet, body under the sink. Can’t you do a goddam thing right?”

  Something’s wrong, Hooper thought. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Shall I go out?” asked Elling. “Shall I go back out and begin again?”

  “What do you mean, begin again?”

  He had his head in his hands now and was sitting on the edge of the bed. The room around him, what he could see of it through his hands, was beginning to fade, going gray. He watched the walls before him waver, as if underwater, as if coming asunder.

  “Shit,” said Elling. “Pull yourself together.”

  Hooper nodded. He reached out and touched the bed, pushing his palm down against it until it felt sturdy, authentic, real. He could feel the texture of the tapestry pressing into it. When he lifted his palm away, he found it pebbled from the fibers.

  “We’ll start again,” said Elling.

  Hooper nodded.

  1

  It took him a moment to understand where he was. At first there was only a gray space, featureless, unlit, but it opened itself up, began to acquire variance, contour. A room, then. An apartment. He was sitting on a chair beside a bed and in the bed was a woman, facing away. The coverlet was stripped back and he could see that the woman was nude and soaking in her own blood.

  Oh, Christ, he thought.

  He stood and tugged the woman onto her back, put his hand against her throat. He could not feel a pulse and her neck had grown stiff, as had her other joints. The skin was growing cold and felt rubbery, holding the imprint of his fingers. One side of her skull was fractured and blood had pooled in her eye socket, but most of it had spilled out when he moved her. Her other temple was broken as well, leaking both blood and brain. Her belly was neatly slit, the gash almost long enough for … for what? He didn’t know. It was a longish gash in any case.

  Where am I? he wondered. Was this his room? No, he didn’t think so. Did he know this woman? No. But how could he say for certain? Perhaps he knew her; she looked familiar but it was hard to say with her skull broken as it was.

  Who did this? he wondered. And then, Was it me?

  His first impulse w
as to hide the body, move it out of the house somehow, or out of the room, or at least off the bed so he did not have to look at it while he tried to think, tried to remember what had happened. He could hide her in the closet, or perhaps under the skirt of the sink, or perhaps some other place. He could cut her up and place her piece by piece in the stove and burn her until she was gone, but what would his neighbors think of the smell of burning flesh and bone and hair? And could he himself stand it? Wait, were they his neighbors? Was this even his apartment? Perhaps it would be better to simply leave things as they were and slip out and then, at a little distance from the place, try to sort it out. No one need know he had been here. Unless it was here that he belonged.

  He had the vague impression that all this had happened before.

  Or perhaps, he thought, it was better to go directly to the police and tell them the truth. Say he had returned to his apartment and found the girl dead in his bed but that clearly he had nothing to do with it. Yes, of course. He had seen her lying in the bed, realized suddenly she was dead and then from the shock had passed from consciousness. That too would explain where his memory had gone. And explain too why he had felt at first that he had not known where he was. His consciousness had been returning and he was still muddled and confused. He would go to the police and make a clean breast of it—