I hurried along the hall, thinking there must be another staircase, one leading to the back of the house. Everything was silent. I no longer had any desire to climb to the roof and had decided to go to the patio for my breath of fresh air. The back stairs were wooden and uncarpeted. My feet made a clattering noise as I ran down them.
The stairs brought me to a hallway on the far side of the patio from the dining room. I hurried along it to the kitchen, which was dark except for a single candle on the long oak table. My mouth felt parched, so I went to the sink and turned the tap. Then I froze in horror. Blood was gushing from the faucet. I stumbled back, raising my candle. Of course it wasn’t blood but rust which, by candlelight, had confused me. In any case, I had no wish to drink it. Closing the tap, I went to the refrigerator, where I found a bottle of mineral water. When I had drunk my fill, I began to look around the kitchen, opening drawers, glancing into cupboards. After a moment, however, I heard the sound of sobbing coming from outside the door. Quietly, I crossed the kitchen to see who it could be. It was the cook’s grandson. He was out on the patio hunched over in a chair next to the picnic table on which his dead grandmother lay surrounded by about twenty candles.
She wore a dark red dress that fell around her in thick folds and she looked quite beautiful. Her hands were joined across her chest. On her feet were a pair of silver slippers. Her round face was so smooth and unlined that she looked like a young girl taking a brief rest before leaving for a summer dance. I walked to the table and stood by her head. Her grandson glanced up at me, then went back to his sobbing, sitting with his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. Madame Letendre’s long white hair had been fixed into a braid which was wound around the top of her head. Crowning it was a little wreath of white flowers. On her face was even a bit of makeup, rouge and powder, a little lipstick. Looking at her, I couldn’t help but remember how Schwab had gorged himself as she had lain dying in the hall. Now Schwab was dead as well.
“Did you dress her?” I asked the boy.
“It was the Señora,” he said, the words squeezing between his sobs.
I realized of course that on such an evening as this I was only seeing one side of Señora Puccini. Yet looking at the flowers in the old woman’s hair, seeing how carefully the dead woman had been made beautiful was like seeing a picture of another Señora Puccini. It showed her gentleness, her deep affection. Perhaps kindness was her most obvious quality, and how could we be expected to see it, or why should she show it to us, we who were Pacheco’s guests and ostensible friends?
I stood by the old woman’s shoulder. The candles surrounded her: three at the head and feet, six on each side. The candle nearest to me on my right was dripping wax on the red folds of her skirt and I reached forward to push the skirt out of the way. As I moved the red cloth, my hand touched something solid next to the old woman’s thigh. At first I jerked back my hand, then I touched it again. I had no doubt what it was. Reaching under the cloth, I drew out the pistol I had seen in the hand of Señora Puccini. It would have been hard to mistake it, what with its polished chrome and pearl grips. It was a .32 caliber Llama and along the frame and slide was fancy scrollwork suggestive of foliage. I held the gun in my hand. It felt light and cool. Most likely the housekeeper had hidden it on the body of the cook after Captain Quatrone had told his men to search us for weapons. I assumed it was Pacheco’s pistol, since only he would possess something that so combined the decorative and the useful.
As I stood by the cook’s body, I heard a footstep on the tiles behind me. Turning, I saw Señora Puccini standing a few feet away. She looked at the pistol and I felt as if I had been caught stealing something.
“Wax was dripping onto her skirt,” I said rather clumsily. “I moved the skirt and found this.”
“I put it there,” said Señora Puccini. She stared at me without nervousness or curiosity. She was just my height and her eyes were flat and passive.
“I guessed as much,” I said. “I decided you thought the soldiers might find it.” Even as I spoke, I wondered why I was helping her form an answer. But she seemed indifferent to what I thought. She looked past me at the body of the cook. After a moment, I put the pistol on a small table.
“You know,” I said, “I’ve noticed the door slightly open as Pacheco’s been describing his history with you and I realize you must have heard some of what he’s been saying. Of course it’s none of my business but I’m sorry for your life with him.”
She didn’t answer but moved forward so she was standing by Madame Letendre’s head. Very gently she straightened the wreath of flowers around the dead woman’s brow. Again the idea of touching that dead flesh was abhorrent to me.
“Is what Pacheco is saying true?” I asked.
Somewhat impatiently Señora Puccini raised her head and stared at me with her dark eyes. I thought she was about to speak, but she remained silent.
“Presumably you don’t object to his talking about it,” I said. “Why do you think he’s telling us?”
What was especially disconcerting about her stare was that not only didn’t she blink but she kept shifting her gaze back and forth from one of my eyes to the other.
“He wants to make you respond to him, doesn’t he?” I asked. “That’s his passion, isn’t it? To make you react. And you choose not to. But what are your feelings? Do you like making love to him?”
Once more she honored me with her cold smile. Why did I feel she was patronizing me? I moved back so I stood by the cook’s feet and we stared at each other over the dark red dress. The cook’s grandson had gone into the kitchen and stood in the doorway observing us. Señora Puccini started to turn away and I stepped forward and touched her arm.
“Don’t you want revenge?” I asked.
She wore a white apron over her black dress and as she turned to look at me she reached behind her with both hands to unfasten the cord. Removing the apron, she dropped it on the small table, covering the pistol.
“Ask him about his son,” she said.
“His son?”
“Ask him.”
She stood very straight and again I was struck not only by her beauty but by her ability to resist. “Tell me about Roberto Collura,” I said. “Can he speak?”
In retrospect, I wonder if I cared, but not only did I want to keep her talking, I was also seeking something that might soften the expression on her face. And I found it with my question, because her face changed and she seemed to grieve.
“I don’t know,” she said. “He could until recently. He’s very sick, not only in his body but also in his mind.”
“Does he know about you and Pacheco?”
But I was asking too much; she refused to answer. I also believed she could look directly into my heart and was repelled by what she found there. Yes, that is foolish, but I felt irritated with what I imagined to be her dismissal of me and it was that irritation which prompted my next question.
“One last thing,” I asked her, “why did you let the cook leave the house?”
She stepped back and her face grew cold again. I thought she might glance down at the cook, that I might see some guilty expression, but she kept her eyes on mine. Then she turned away, walked toward the back stairs, and I guessed she was going up to see Roberto Collura. It seemed so pathetic. I thought of the splashes of red wax on his arm and I knew she would realize they had come from my candle. Neither of us had glanced at or made any motion toward the pistol hidden by her apron. After she had disappeared, I recrossed the patio toward the great hall, feeling satisfied that she had at least granted me a few words. As I passed the bougainvillaea I saw the leaves quivering, quivering as if shaken by an invisible hand. Constantly in my mind was the image of Señora Puccini. I imagined ordering her to lie down on the floor as Pacheco must have done, telling her to remove her underwear. I imagined seeing her naked and desirous. Although part of me was horrif
ied at this intrusion, this violation of another human being, another part wished I could make such a command myself, not to any woman but to this one. What had she meant about Pacheco’s son? As I passed through the door into the hall, I thought of her lips. How full they were. One could almost feel their softness. How much Pacheco must want them and how fitting that he should be denied.
—
When I entered the library I had the impression that my friends had been talking about me. Pacheco and Dalakis were sitting on the leather couch. Malgiolio was standing by the mantel. I imagined Malgiolio and Dalakis, especially Malgiolio, telling our various acquaintances how I had persisted in my foolish lie about my wife, how she was living in Europe and had a son which I refused to believe was my own. But perhaps after this trouble, this violence in the streets, all would be different. Perhaps Malgiolio was right about there being new opportunities. Perhaps we would have new lives, clean slates to get dirty again. At least Schwab wouldn’t return to mock me. Still, I hated the fact that these men had been talking about me and now felt they had to remain silent.
“What have you been up to now, Batterby?” asked Malgiolio, and he looked at Pacheco and winked. They were all smoking cigars, even Dalakis. The air was blue with smoke. It was now past one in the morning.
“I was in the kitchen,” I said. “I’ve been talking to Señora Puccini.”
“And what did she tell you?” asked Pacheco.
I poured myself some mineral water, then added just the smallest drop of Scotch whiskey. “She suggested I ask you about your son,” I said.
Pacheco didn’t respond right away. Certainly I had their attention. Malgiolio blew a small cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. Dalakis coughed, then pushed his glasses back up his nose.
“What about my son?” asked Pacheco.
But I wasn’t ready to say more. I moved forward until I could feel a breeze from the overhead fan. My clothes against my skin felt clammy with sweat.
“You know, Pacheco,” I said at last, “you’ve been telling us this long story and I’m not sure why. I can’t believe it’s for our amusement. But Señora Puccini has heard some of it and I believe you want her to hear it. Why do you humiliate her? I asked her if she didn’t want revenge and she said to ask you about your son. Now I’m asking you.”
Nobody made a noise. The shouting in the street came to us as an angry muttering. Relighting his cigar, Pacheco leaned back on the couch and crossed his legs. “It’s not what you could truly call a son,” he said. “It was a male fetus. She told me I was the father and I suppose I must have been.”
“Did she miscarry?” asked Dalakis, ready as always with his sympathy.
“No, I performed an abortion. She lay on the kitchen table and I ripped my son out of her. It was, as Batterby says, her revenge. I had humiliated her in some way in front of some guests. At first she hid from me the fact she was pregnant. Then she pretended she would have the baby. But you recall our agreement, that she would never bear my children? At last she demanded an abortion. She didn’t want Collura to know she was pregnant. I refused. She was more than four months along and . . . well, I wanted a child. She took sleeping pills and the cook found her unconscious. Then she tried to perform the abortion on herself by taking some sort of poison. I watched her. I even tied her up. As you may have imagined, she has a tremendous will. I knew that if she refused to have the child, there was no way to make her. I tried to persuade her. I offered her all sorts of things. She said she would only accept if I allowed her to move away with Collura with sufficient money to take care of him. But no matter how much I wanted the child, I wanted her more. So I performed the abortion.”
“How long ago was this?” I asked.
“It was right after we moved to this house. She was thirty. As I say, I did it on the kitchen table. We were alone at the time. I had to induce delivery. She wanted something for the pain but I refused. After all, I wanted it to hurt her so she wouldn’t forget. But once she realized I wasn’t going to give her anything, she didn’t make a sound. I knew I was hurting her dreadfully but she didn’t make a sound. When it was over, I stood with my son in my hands. He was just five months, a perfectly formed male.”
“Was he alive?” asked Dalakis.
“He was at first but there was no way to save him. He lay in my hands breathing very rapidly. I looked at her. She had a kind of smile. I realized I had made her evil in some way. Not only had I ruined her, I had made her evil.”
“And all you had wanted,” I said, lifting her picture from the mantel, “was to make her love you.”
“Don’t mock me, Batterby.”
“How long did the child live?” asked Dalakis. He stood up and threw his cigar into the fireplace almost in agitation. We three stood in a semicircle around Pacheco. He didn’t look at us.
“Nearly an hour. He was very strong. Of course, I could have given him an injection but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I brought him in here. It was winter and cold and there was a fire in the fireplace. I laid him on this very table on several towels. Then I watched him. He moved a little but made no sound. I just watched him. He was in no pain. I mean, he was my son. Every so often I reached out to touch the sole of his foot. It was so tiny. Then after a while he died. I buried him in the garden, planted a flowering shrub over his body. Antonia remained in bed for several days, then returned to her duties as housekeeper. She felt successful in her revenge, but it didn’t stop me from trying to humiliate her. I still had my passion, but I also hated her. When she recovered I had a little party and made her wait on us naked. There were four other men, all doctors. She refused and came in fully dressed. I was so angry that I tore at her clothes. She removed the rest and did her work as if nothing were out of the ordinary. You see, we jab at each other, each trying to find the weakness of the other. It has become the major occupation of our lives.”
“But you love her,” said Malgiolio, almost tenderly.
“That has become irrelevant. She fills my mind. It’s like having a pail under a leak in the ceiling. The pail fills, then has to be emptied. When I take her or abuse her or have my way with her, that’s like emptying the pail. It’s only by having my way with her, by making love to her, that I can retrieve myself from the limbo of sexual obsession. Then I have a few days as the pail fills again.”
“You ruined not only her life, but your own,” I said.
“But I did it by choice,” said Pacheco, looking up at me. “There was, as they say, a ruling passion. There may have been a point when I could have turned aside, but I chose not to. Maybe it was that day I walked beside her on the street, when I reached out and touched her breast. However, by the time that I climbed through her window several weeks later, by then I had given up any choice. But you, Batterby, you ruined your life for no reason at all, for reasons of vanity and pride. I watched my son die, watched him pant and gasp himself to death right here in this room. You had a perfectly good son and you threw him away. You know, your wife loved you. Even though we’d had our little affair she still loved you. But you couldn’t stand the fact that we’d been together.”
“It continued after we were married,” I said. I hated him for dragging the discussion back to my failed marriage, but I kept my face from showing my feelings.
“So what? It had begun long before you ever met her. We were just saying goodbye, a little poke in the dark. It meant nothing.”
“But she was my wife,” I said. Dalakis and Malgiolio still stood on either side of me. I didn’t see how Pacheco could sit so calmly with the three of us standing over him.
“You’re a sentimentalist,” said Pacheco. “You see this as betrayal and desertion. You flail at the world with your little moral standard. I’m not trying to justify myself. I’m not interested in doing so. Your wife and I had our time together, then it was over. She loved you and wanted to make her life with you. You drove her away. She told yo
u she was pregnant and you ignored her. She told you about the birth of your son, she came to your house, she showed you the baby, she begged your forgiveness, and you drove her away.”
“It was your son,” I said.
Pacheco reached out one of his small black shoes and poked me in the shin. He was smiling. “No, you see I had a blood test done. It was your son. If it had been mine, I would have found it a cause for great celebration. But it wasn’t mine. So you pushed her away and began to put out the story that she was dead. Soon you were saying she’d actually died on your honeymoon. Do you know how your friends pitied you for this nonsense, for such a ridiculous fabrication? And all this time your wife was still waiting for your forgiveness. How foolish of her. At last she gave up and a few years later she met this skinny fellow with whom she’s lived faithfully for fifteen years. And she bore him three children. But her oldest is yours. Even his name is yours, Nicolas Batterby. Perhaps he will come back here some day. Your embarrassment should be amusing to watch. Perhaps he will ask why you deserted him and you can tell him it was for reasons of vanity and pride.”
I was too angry to answer. From his seat on the couch, Pacheco stared up at me with what appeared to be a pleasant smile. But I could feel his mockery and disdain. Dalakis seemed to be studying his hands, rubbing them together and staring at his palms. Malgiolio was pouring himself more brandy. The candles flickered from a draft and I glanced at the door, which was open a few inches. It occurred to me that even these words were meant for Señora Puccini, as if all his words, all he ever said, was part of their great conversation.
The Two Deaths of Senora Puccini Page 24