“Why did you leave the house?” Pacheco asked the boy, who stood behind him holding one of the candelabra.
Juan was staring at his grandmother with a kind of breathless surprise. “She thought we could get home.”
“But I said it was dangerous.” Pacheco turned to Señora Puccini. “Weren’t you watching them?”
She didn’t answer but knelt down on the other side of the cook and began stroking her forehead and whispering to her. Pacheco stared at her furiously. I wondered if she had encouraged the cook to leave, perhaps in order to hurt Pacheco. But that may have been mistaken because certainly Señora Puccini appeared fond of the cook. The boy, however, seemed confused, and I felt his puzzlement came from being advised to do the wrong thing by someone he trusted. Again, I thought how closely he resembled the boy in the orphanage to whom I read the Brothers Grimm each Sunday. Both had the same black, wondering eyes. In any case, Pacheco asked no more questions but continued to tend the cook’s wounds. She grew calmer as the shot took effect, although her breathing was still that dreadful rasping which echoed throughout the hall. Dalakis stood next to me; Malgiolio stood over by the fountain.
“Did you see anyone out there?” I asked Dalakis.
“No one. She was lying half in the street. There was no one else around.”
Pacheco stood up. “There’s nothing more I can do,” he said.
“Will she be all right?” asked the boy.
Glancing at him, Pacheco took the candelabrum and held it over the cook. “She’s going to die,” he said, “but at least she’s in no more pain.”
“Can’t you do anything else?” asked Señora Puccini. I was struck by the emotion in her voice.
“You don’t think I’d save her if I could?”
“I don’t know,” said Señora Puccini.
“Why weren’t you watching her?” Pacheco asked again. He looked at the housekeeper but she was staring down at Madame Letendre. “She’ll be all right here,” said Pacheco. “To move her would only make it worse.” Apart from the rasp of her breathing, the cook lay quietly. The only other noise came from the boy, who had begun to sob, as if the cook’s injuries hadn’t become real until Pacheco had spoken of them. Pacheco turned to us and took my arm. “Let’s return to the dining room,” he said.
We followed him across the hall. Along with the candles in the niches containing the Roman busts, about twenty more candlesticks had been placed on the stairs and on the balcony above. The hall was drafty and the flames kept flickering, which made the large hall quiver with shadow and sparkles of light as if the air itself were in turmoil. The boy and Señora Puccini remained behind with the cook.
—
In the dining room, the remains of the salad had been removed and in its place were several bowls of ripe peaches, a Camembert cheese, and two bottles of sparkling Burgundy. We look our seats. Pacheco had closed the door, but even so I could hear the rising and falling gasp of the cook’s breathing. I thought how she had designed this meal and how there was even more food to come. Not that I would take another bite. How could I eat under that canopy of groaning? Dalakis and I looked at the cheese. I sipped my wine. Malgiolio was peeling a peach. Pacheco was slouched down in his chair with his arms crossed and his chin on his chest. He was smoking and his mind seemed a thousand miles away.
“So tell us,” said Malgiolio, cutting a slice of peach, then eating it off the blade of his knife, “what made her change her mind? You’ve shown us that you were finally able to have your way with this woman. How did it happen?”
Even though I have been long aware of Malgiolio’s dogged sense of the inappropriate, I was surprised that he could so casually sweep aside what had happened in order to urge Pacheco to return to his story. I’d noticed that on the other side of the vase showing the wedding celebration was a scene depicting a man stumbling along with a donkey’s head on his shoulders, the afflicted Bottom from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, so the wedding must have been that of Theseus and Hippolyta. But I couldn’t see the man with the donkey’s head without thinking of Malgiolio, so foolish did he sometimes seem in my eyes.
“You mean you aren’t satisfied?” said Pacheco. “I can make her strip in front of you and you still aren’t satisfied?” He looked at Malgiolio in such a way that I felt he hated him. And really it seemed particularly insensitive of Malgiolio to act as if the brutal assault on the cook meant nothing, that we could just continue as before. But I had observed his fear and I wondered if Malgiolio wasn’t insisting on the story partly because it made the violence outside the house seem more distant.
“I’m simply curious,” said Malgiolio, cutting another slice of peach. “What did you have to do to get her? How low did you have to go?”
Pacheco started to speak, but then the door opened and Señora Puccini entered. The sound of the cook’s breathing grew louder, then quieter as she opened and closed the door.
“You’re continuing with your dinner?” she asked, as if startled.
Pacheco turned in his chair. I’m absolutely certain that her surprise pleased him. I also feel that Pacheco’s decision to continue with both the dinner and his tale stemmed to some degree from a desire to manipulate her surprise and further affect it. “I see no great evidence of hunger but, yes, we’ll proceed with the meal. After all, this is Madame’s very last dinner. She wouldn’t want us to interrupt it for her death.” Glancing at Señora Puccini, he took a peach from the bowl, tossed it into the air, and caught it. Then he bit into the peach so the juice ran down his chin. “Besides, my friends remain interested in your story. Would you like to tell it?”
She didn’t look at us. “The past is nothing to me. We had a bargain and I have fulfilled my part.”
“And have I?” asked Pacheco.
“You’ve done many things but you have at least done what I asked you to do.” With that rather mysterious statement she passed through the door to the hall.
We watched her go. She seemed changed from the rather dowdy woman who had admitted me over four hours earlier, as if she were younger and more beautiful. But perhaps it was an effect of the candlelight. I noticed she had not completely shut the door and I wondered if she left it open so that she might listen.
“And so finish,” said Malgiolio, “what is the rest of your story?”
Pacheco looked at Malgiolio as if considering his scraps of hair, his pale face and little hands, his old but well-brushed blue suit. Then, picking up a silver fruit knife, Pacheco idly tapped the tip against the stem of his wine glass and began again. “Over the next year I continued to pursue Señora Puccini, but let me describe just three occasions. The first was a few days after that party in the country. I realized of course that my behavior had become excessive, but I still hoped that if I simply talked to Antonia I might in some way sway her mind.
“The very first of the week I went to the school where she was teaching. I knew people on the school board and was even acquainted with the principal. After all, I was a doctor, a surgeon, one of the very few in that city. It was as if people were obliged to think well of me. I saw the principal and told her it was important that I talk to Antonia Puccini, giving the impression it was some medical matter. I said I would wait in an empty classroom. I asked her not to tell Antonia who her visitor was but that she should come right away. As I say, I knew this woman. She was attractive and middle-aged and I am sure she knew that my interest had little to do with medicine. Even so, she didn’t hesitate but immediately led me to an empty room, then went off to fetch Antonia.
“You may imagine I was in a state of extreme nervousness and anxiety, yet I knew I had to behave with perfect calm. I happened to have my briefcase with me and I sat down at the teacher’s desk, took out a sheaf of papers, and pretended to read through them. Moments later Antonia hurried into the room. When she saw me, she stopped. The principal was behind her. ‘I’ll see that the two of you are
n’t bothered,’ she said. Then she shut the door, leaving us together. I glanced up, asked Antonia to take a seat, and went back to the papers for a few seconds, after which I took a pen and signed my name at the bottom of what was probably a laundry bill. Then I put the papers back in my briefcase and looked up. Antonia was sitting at one of the desks in the front row. The desks were meant for children and it was much too small for her.
“I told her I wanted to apologize for the other day, that I had wanted a chance to talk and things had gotten out of hand. She stood up. I remember she was wearing a blue dress with thin white stripes and I kept being aware of her body beneath it. ‘We have nothing to talk about,’ she said. ‘You’ve behaved brutally every time I’ve seen you and you tricked me into coming here.’ Then she told me that if I didn’t leave her alone, she’d file a complaint.
“I asked her to hear me out, then said that I wanted her to come live with me. ‘I’ll marry you,’ I told her. ‘I’ll do what you wish, give you as much money as you require or want.’”
Pacheco’s admission amazed me. I leaned forward, nearly upsetting my wine glass. “How could you imagine that she’d marry you?” I interrupted. Even Malgiolio seemed startled.
“Of course it was absurd,” Pacheco continued, “but I knew that I couldn’t appear hesitant. In any case, she looked at me with what might be called an uncomprehending stare. ‘You’re insane,’ she said. ‘I don’t like you, I don’t find you attractive, I have no interest in you. Besides, I’m in love with another man, whom I intend to marry and make a life with.’
“Then I too stood up. It was extremely difficult to talk to her coolly. ‘I can’t help the other man,’ I said, ‘yet if you come to me, I won’t interfere with your being with him whenever you wish.’ I told her that I doubted her lack of interest in me and asked why she had let me touch her at the concert. ‘You were as much caught up as I was,’ I said. ‘And if I were to kiss you now, you would again be caught up.’
“But she claimed it wasn’t true, that I’d embarrassed her greatly at the concert, that she hadn’t known how to react. I said I didn’t believe her. I took a step toward her to see what she’d do, but she stood her ground. ‘I could feel you trembling,’ I said. ‘You weren’t indifferent.’ And I asked if she would feel nothing if I were to kiss her now.
“She thrust her chin out at me. Although she was defying me, there was still something else. ‘I despise you,’ she said, ‘and feel nothing for you. You think you can make me want you?’ She was only a few feet away. I walked to her slowly, keeping my eyes on hers. Then, reaching out, I gently took hold of her chin and kissed her, lightly at first then harder as I tried to prize open her lips with my tongue. Her hands were at her sides. I put my right arm around her waist and pulled her to me. Her lips were very soft and although they resisted at first, I felt them begin to open. But I was impatient. As she began to respond, I lifted my left hand to her breast. For a moment she accepted it. It was as if she were balancing on a high place. Then she tore herself away and left the room without another look at me. The principal was waiting in the hall. She smiled and it was as if she knew exactly what had happened.”
Pacheco paused to light a cigarette. It wasn’t until he stopped speaking that I was again aware of the noise of Madame Letendre’s breathing. Malgiolio had begun to peel another peach. I dug my pipe from my pocket, then started looking for my pipe cleaner. Dalakis sat with his arms crossed, facing away as if he wanted no part of us. Even as I glanced at him, I had an image of him at age twelve shooting the horse. How astonished his father must have been.
“Oddly enough,” continued Pacheco, “I left the school feeling encouraged. Despite her words, I had sensed in her a trace of the hunger which obsessed me and I had no intention of giving up. During the next weeks I tried to see her as much as possible; that is, I put myself in locations where she would see me. I went to her church. I got myself invited to parties where I knew she would be. Often I ran across her fiancé but he ignored me. I can’t tell you how much I was galled by his self-confidence, that he knew Antonia Puccini was his no matter what I did.
“The most important fact I learned was about Antonia’s aunt. I happened to talk to her doctor, who was a colleague of mine, and found out that in the past several years she had twice been operated on for cancer, was still having treatments and that he, the doctor, was quite pessimistic about their result. Though I was sorry for Antonia’s sake, I had gotten into such a state that I saw everything as being either helpful or harmful to my cause. And this information seemed decidedly helpful.
“As weeks, then months went by and I continued my haunting, I watched the aunt and saw how she seemed to diminish. She grew smaller, paler, as if all her attention were directed inward at the trouble within her body. From her doctor I knew the cancer was spreading and it was only a matter of time before she went into the hospital and never came out again.
“During this period I also saw other women, but my feelings for Antonia remained undiminished. Of course I knew I was in the grip of an obsession but it didn’t matter, the words right and wrong no longer held any meaning for me. Finally the aunt entered the hospital. Antonia came each day after school and stayed late into the evening. Often her fiancé came as well. I had patients on the same floor and many times I would go by the aunt’s room. Antonia would be reading to her aunt or just sitting. As often as possible I made certain that she saw me. She would look, then look away as if she had seen nothing. Several times I entered her aunt’s room and would feel her aunt’s pulse or look at her chart. Of course I had no business there but I knew her doctor and, obviously, I wanted to keep my presence alive in Antonia’s mind. She rarely looked at me. Sometimes I went in while her fiancé was visiting and once I took him out in the hall and told him it was important that the aunt get as much rest as possible. I had to laugh. To him I was an important doctor. To me he was just an obstruction.
“As the aunt’s condition worsened she was kept more and more sedated. Many evenings when Antonia visited, her aunt would remain unconscious for the entire time. Winter approached and the aunt grew weaker. One rainy evening I happened to be on the floor and saw that Antonia and her aunt were alone in the room. I went in, looked at the aunt’s chart, and took her pulse. It was very faint and I doubted she would last much longer. Antonia was reading in a chair and hadn’t looked up. ‘Have you had anything to eat?’ I asked her. ‘I can order something for you from the kitchen.’ But no, she wasn’t hungry. She thanked me and returned to her book. ‘You know,’ I said, ‘your aunt could easily die in two or three days, perhaps even tonight. What do you plan to do after she is gone?’
“‘How is that any business of yours?’ she asked.
“Of course I thought it was deeply my business but I wanted to appear to some degree contrite. I said that I still loved her and worried about what would happen to her. She again repeated it was none of my business.
“‘But once your aunt dies,’ I said, ‘her property will revert to her husband’s family. I doubt you have much money of your own. The offer I made still holds. If you agree to be my wife, you can have whatever you desire and also continue to see that young man.’
“But Antonia would have none of it. ‘I don’t like you,’ she said, ‘I don’t want you and I don’t need you. I have a job and I am engaged to be married. Even if those things were not true I would still refuse to be with you.’ At that moment her young man entered the room. He was not happy to see me and asked Antonia if I had been bothering her.
‘It’s nothing,’ she said, ‘don’t concern yourself with it.’
“I walked to the door. ‘Remember my offer,’ I said.
“‘What offer?’ asked her fiancé. ‘What’s he been saying?’
“‘I want her to marry me,’ I said. ‘I will give her anything she wants and she can continue to see you as well.’
“Of course he was angry. He pursued me ou
t of the room and grabbed my jacket. ‘Be careful,’ I said, ‘you’re in my territory now. One word from me and you’ll be expelled from the hospital.’ He let go rather quickly. ‘Apologize,’ I told him. He refused and I shouted the word at him. After another moment he said he was sorry. I was watching Antonia as he said it. She looked furious.”
Pacheco paused and in the silence I was again aware of the sound of the cook’s dying. Her breathing was so loud, so violent that it didn’t seem like a person at all, and I had the impression it was the house itself that was breathing, that we were caught within the body of some living thing, but nothing healthy, nothing with the prospect of long life before it. But isn’t it always the case, when you go into another person’s house, that you are so surrounded by their choices, by examples of how they see themselves and want to be seen, that to some extent it is like being inside their brains? I glanced at the door but there was no sign of movement. For a moment, I wanted to throw it open, just to see if she was there, but I kept my seat. On my left Dalakis was staring down at the tablecloth and I could hear him breathing as well, a frustrated, angry sound. Across from me Malgiolio was helping himself to a bit of cheese. On my right Pacheco was again drawing the blue pack of Gauloises from his shirt pocket. I took my tobacco pouch and began filling my pipe.
“As I predicted,” said Pacheco, “the aunt died a few days later. The funeral was a big affair and I made certain to attend. A few weeks after that Antonia packed up her things and moved to a small apartment in town. Her cousins came from the north, took over the house, sold whatever they didn’t want, and eventually sold the house itself. Antonia was by then nineteen. I had learned that after a period of mourning, probably six months, she intended to announce her wedding, which would occur several months after that.
The Two Deaths of Senora Puccini Page 14