Death by Water

by Alessandro Manzetti

  He watched himself upending her body with practised efficiency. Saw how easily he tipped her over the guardrail and into the ocean. He watched himself lean over the rail, and saw the white froth that was her grave marker. As the ship churned on, it dissipated and faded from view. Roberts saw himself straighten his clothing as he took a few breaths.

  He had chosen the perfect spot for the hit.

  The funnel, and its shadow, obscured him from view both on the sun deck and the walkway above. Any potential witnesses had long since abandoned ship for their warmer quarters belowdecks, but it was wise to make sure—there were still staff around. Roberts had known the barkeep would have his back turned while he fetched some fresh ice—precisely the reason why he had requested some, well aware that the buckets had been emptied at last orders.

  His charade with the staff member at the ladies’ bathroom was the final curtain on his evening’s performance. If and when security personnel asked any questions, it would be made clear that Isla’s handsome and mysterious drinking partner had been anxiously searching for her. The barman would back this up. And Isla’s fragile mental state coupled with excess alcohol would no doubt be enough to result in an open verdict of probable suicide—or at least death by misadventure. Case closed, encrypted bank transfer executed, and job done.

  His clients would be satisfied. They would pack him off on a long vacation, somewhere hot and languid. Until the phone rang again and he was called to his next assignment.

  He felt movement at his side and looked down to see his hand tremble, for the first time. The uncontrollable muscle spasms heralded the beginning of a sickness that would creep in to devour his sanity and his soul. And the trembling now worsened, making a danse macabre of his nerve endings.

  He felt the mirror eye on him again, and Roberts snapped back into the tank. The unbearable pressure was still at his back, and the dark leviathan uncoiled before him. He heard a series of clicks from deep within its monolithic body—as loud and urgent as a bullet belt discharging in a Gatling gun. He tried to swallow, but his throat was ash. The giant thing laughed then—the sound of a world ending and a new, drowned world just beginning.

  Willing his limbs to move, Roberts managed to free his throbbing forearm from the wall of pressure. He tapped on the side of the tank, then hammered at it with his fist.

  But no one was listening.

  PERISCOPE OF THE DEAD

  by Paolo Di Orazio

  Alfred woke up suddenly from a sort of mental nothingness, maybe an anesthesia, or some other inexplicable state.

  A green field was before him.

  He was seated on a little chair placed on a large, smooth carpet of grass. Alfred found himself in a garden he did not recognize at all. Under the sun. On a warm and pleasant day.

  The place was not his home. It was somewhere. Quiet. Pacific. Clean. Perfect.

  He could not say if someone had brought him or if he had gone there by himself. Not so important.

  He realized he was alone. Alone, with the sound of his breath inside his head. His head, like an empty room with all the world’s noises closed out. All of them, except the soft, slow breathing at the center of his blank thoughts.

  This was the way Alfred came back to the light from a blind past.

  Without the voices.

  The voices inside his head.

  Alfred remembered them now, and nothing else about himself. Even his name. He had no memory about his own name. He searched inside himself. But he saw nothing. Alfred remembered only the voices, the invisible crowd, faceless passengers of the deeper mind. Those weren’t simple sounds, but human voices for sure. The chilling buzzing choir of Alfred’s unfamiliar guests: Whispering people he never saw, never met, never knew, but always talking to him, sometimes to each other. But now that he was awake, they were unexpectedly mute, leaving Alfred in peace. A curious occurrence.

  Maybe, if he had asked himself where they were, he could evoke them again. So, Alfred tried not to ask and focused only on the actual state of his body and mind. Maybe that allowed him to keep his obsessive guests out of his damn skull.

  Upon the green grass, ten footsteps away from where he was sitting, he saw a tall and long hedge, an unmeasurable corral of roses and flowers of every kind and shape. Raising his eyes, Alfred could see the sharpened ends of dozens of lances, also making a square enclosure, running along the hedge, all around that little park. The rich crown of trees hid the distant park borders, and the line of sharpened points appeared occasionally over the green front.

  “Oh, good God of mine. I am in prison.”

  After seeing the lances all lined up, like a never-ending gate of black nails, Alfred saw no way out. Nobody could escape without getting slashed to death.

  So he turned his head slowly, and finally discovered he was not alone.

  He saw other people sitting or walking or standing across the park, a clean garden in front of an old mansion, a huge Victorian building with a gray roof, red bricks, white windows, and big smokestacks. Alfred didn’t know those people at all, nor that house. Men, women. They wore his same clothes. White pajamas. Because everybody belonged to that place. They were looking down at the ground, or staring at the trees, scrutinizing the blue sky, smiling in silence, too. If not sleeping on a bench, they moved very slowly, almost paralyzed in their quiet positions.

  “They look at nothing,” said Alfred.

  Then he wondered if they could be the ones who had talked for years and years inside his head, but quickly he drove that question away. He would not risk waking his head-chatterers again.

  “Good morning, Alfred,” said a nurse, who appeared from nothing. Her presence immediately canceled his fear of the voices. “Welcome back,” she added.

  The woman had just bent over to greet him close to his ear, with care and sweetness.

  The scent of her lipstick stung Alfred’s nose.

  Then he understood.

  He was not in jail.

  Worse.

  He was in a mental hospital.

  No policemen around.

  Only nurses.

  Insane people everywhere. Living dummies for housemates.

  A fountain with cupids and stone fishes at the center of the garden splashed water jets toward the top, then falling down again with grace into the basin making permanent arches. Alfred counted the eight jets twice. The water seemed to call and call.

  So strange.

  “Alfred, can you tell me who I am?”

  So he learned his own name. Alfred. He thought about it. The name was good. He liked it. He accepted it. “Oh, miss. I am sorry. I don’t think I can.”

  “Are you sure?” asked the nurse, sadly.

  “Yes, miss, I am sure.”

  The man’s answer sounded so dramatic to her. Alfred read that in her face.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  “Fine, thank you.”

  “Maybe a little weak?”

  “Maybe. I just…I just can’t tell.”

  “Alfred, I guess you want to know why you’re here,” said the nurse with a tremor in her sweet voice.

  “I think…did something happen to me, miss? But I can’t imagine…I simply can’t ask.”

  “Sure, Alfred. Something happened,” said the nurse, nodding. But the man did not understand why her voice was so unsteady. “But now you are safe, in here. I promise. Do you remember anything you want to tell me?”

  Alfred stared at the woman’s eyes. Bright hazel, almost asking why—not what—washed in tears that did not fall. Then, he looked at her curly red hair. Her strong arms covered with freckles. Her large hips. No doubt. Alfred hadn’t met this woman before. However, he smiled at her while she softly caressed his face with the tips of her fingers. “No, miss. I don’t remember anything at all.”

  “Do you understand what this place is?” asked the nurse putting her hand in her pocket—wanting to hide it for having touched the patient.

  “I guess this is a hospital. It seem
s like a great house for fools. So I must have some trouble with my mind. Because I feel no pain, but I have no memories,” said Alfred clearly. He did not mention the only thing he desperately remembered of his past: the voices in his head. Something he shouldn’t talk about.

  “Can you tell me today’s date? The year?”

  Alfred seemed to search for something above the horizon. “1975?”

  He got no answer.

  “We will take care of you, Alfred. I’d like you to tell me anything you want, anything you have in mind. Please, write down or let us know every memory that might come back to you. It’s very important. You have a room and a bed, I’ll show it to you later. And a doctor, of course. You’re not alone.”

  “Thank you, miss.”

  They stood there looking in each other’s eyes.

  Alfred smiled again. Seeing her and not hearing the voices inside his head was so fine. He felt good.

  Even though this place was a cage, Alfred enjoyed a sort of peace. The red-haired nurse was beautiful. She was perfect, in that quiet place. Maybe, somehow, he’d done something to keep away, to cancel forever the crazy voices. That’s why Alfred did not tell her about them.

  “Do you still hear those voices in your head?” asked the nurse after a long pause.

  Alfred’s heart stomped inside his chest. She already knew about the voices. Why?

  There was no reason to be dishonest now. Alfred did not lie. “Oh no, miss. They’re silent now.”

  “Do you think they are only silent, or are they absent? It’s a big difference.”

  “I can’t figure that out.”

  “Okay, Alfred. I’ll let you rest, now,” said the nurse, looking at her own watch with a rapid arm movement—quite nervous. “I’ll come back in a half an hour for dinner.”

  “Thank you, miss. Can I stay here?” asked Alfred gently.

  The nurse answered as she walked across the park, toward the mansion, “Sure. You can have a walk or have a talk with someone, too. Just do what you want.”

  Alfred stood there, watching her leave. Her hips swung. She walked like a soldier. Fast and martial, deadly feminine. Alfred smiled. The voices did not come back. And the nurse’s body filled his mind up with all of her curves.

  Oh, God, thank you.

  No more voices.

  Only a real, wonderful woman.

  “My name is Shana,” said the nurse beside Alfred.

  Alfred was looking at himself in the bathroom mirror. Her reflection overlapped his own.

  He really didn’t recognize his features, but felt so happy to realize that he could touch with his hands what he saw in the mirror. Alfred loved his own face. It wasn’t a young face, but a new amazing discovery. He smiled at himself and at the woman’s image looking at him through the silvery glass.

  It seemed strange to Alfred, but the madhouse rules dictated that she had to follow him everywhere. That was comic and tragic, too. Almost irritating, in the beginning, but more and more pleasant as Alfred did all the things he had to do. Alfred soon started to feel a romantic wave flowing between them. Some kind of maternal feeling, more than anything else. He did not remember if he was married. Even the running water confused his mind. Alfred had no fear at all. He had Shana, now.

  She helped him wash his hands.

  “Such a wonderful name. I like it,” he said watching her soaping and washing his hands.

  “Dry your hands, now, Alfred,” said Shana giving him the clean white towel.

  Alfred did not do what he was asked, instead he watched the water going away slowly down the drain below him. He did not catch the towel immediately. Shana thought he had totally forgotten how to wash his hands, along with his other daily activities. She saw him, perhaps, looking down at his image on the soapy water left in the sink.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Alfred, your towel,” she said, as Alfred’s brow furrowed.

  “Oh, thank you,” he said, when she caught his wet hands with the white towel.

  “You look like a child again,” said Shana smiling.

  Alfred laughed softly. The water was going away, now, down to the dark underground. The sink was almost empty. He could only see an ambiguous shadow of his face painted on the thin veil of water. Something disturbed his mind, but he let it go. Shifting his glance to Shana, he noticed she had stopped smiling at him, and a sudden sparkle of hate appeared in her eyes. She turned her face to the wall, drying Alfred’s hands with the towel. Then, she folded the towel and took Alfred’s arm to lead him to the dining room. With no words.

  Dining room, 7:30 p.m.

  Dozens of patients were eating at the tables. Like greedy animals.

  The sound of forks, spoons, plates, and vulgar mouths.

  Voices.

  Somebody screamed.

  Somebody laughed.

  Everybody talked.

  Alfred heard everything. He was back inside his old living nightmare for a while.

  It seemed just like he was walking through the voices in his head. Tears came to his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. His heart slammed several times beneath his ribs—like a door shaken by the wind. He felt his knees bending, but Shana was holding him steadily by the arm until she put him in an empty chair among the other patients.

  No one looked at him. And Alfred would not look at his housemates eating and drinking with such disturbing noises.

  It happened immediately.

  Inside the vegetable broth. Liquid and transparent as tea.

  A neon lamp was over his head. So, Alfred searched for his own reflection on the hot soup, breathing in its disgusting steam. But Alfred saw something weird he’d already seen in the bathroom before.

  “Who are you?” he said to the soup.

  “Who are you,” replied the man to his right, upset. It was an old man with rotten teeth and a yellowish beard. Alfred glanced at him, his eyes open wide. The man went crazy. “Take your eyes off me,” he screamed. “Don’t stare at me! Don’t you! Go away, go away,” he cried.

  Alfred was struck by the anger of that twisted man. “Please, don’t shout at me, sir,” said Alfred kindly.

  The man’s bulging eyes, lit up with rage. Or fear.

  Two assistants came along. The old man grabbed and threw Alfred’s plate at him. Then he rose up and fell on the floor. The assistants helped him stand up again.

  “Take him away,” cried the old man in fear. “Take that shit away,” he cried again.

  Nurse Shana hurried over there. Alfred sat with his face dripping broth. He was astonished. “Are you okay?” the nurse asked.

  “Thank you, Shana. Yes, I am,” Alfred said, and let the red-haired nurse clean his face.

  “Look at his eyes, please look,” cried the old man restrained by the two assistants.

  “Okay, Alfred. Let’s go back to your room,” Shana said.

  Alfred was terrified.

  As much as that man was.

  Dr. Mark and Shana were beside him, inside his room.

  Dr. Mark was polite. Alfred couldn’t remember having seen him before. The way he wasn’t actually sure if he’d ever seen Shana, too. However, Dr. Mark treated him as if they were long-time acquaintances. That room, too, gave sensations and vibrations of intimacy to Alfred’s senses. Everything was familiar to him. It meant he has been there a long time. But he couldn’t say how long. Of his own past life, he remembered only the voices in his head. For a moment, he wished the voices could tell him who he’d been before entering this place and, over all, why he was here. Maybe they could have revealed it. He was certain they knew all about that. Maybe it would have been a serious risk to evoke them. Would the silence be better, or discovering the truth? And how dramatic and terrible was the truth about what happened? Dr. Mark’s gentle voice broke this chain of questions.

  “Welcome back, Alfred. I am happy to meet you.”

  Welcome back? Maybe Alfred had been there in the past? Even Shana welcomed him that way. Welcome back. From where?


  “Shana had made me aware of your return to consciousness. Congratulations, Alfred. You fought a good battle.”

  “What was I battling, Doctor?”

  The man in the white coat smiled. His face was calm and reassuring. With that beard, he looked like a Greek deity. “The bad things that drove you in here. And I am happy to see the results of the good we did for you.”

  “So, I’m free? I’m going home?”

  “We would love it so much if you could do that, Alfred, but you’re not completely cured yet. I invite you to make yourself at home here. Where you’re not alone. You have more than a family in this house.”

  Alfred nodded and smiled, forcing himself to hide any signs of sadness from his face.

  “Alfred,” Mark asked gently. “Can you tell me what happened in the dining room?”

  “That man spun out of control because I stared at his face. But I said nothing to him,” Alfred said.

  “He told us you have something scary in your eyes. All I see is the look of a lost person who is now going to find himself again,” the doctor said.

  “Thank you for your kind words, Doctor,” Alfred murmured. “I feel good, now. I’m at peace. I am not angry with that man. Really. I guess it was just a misunderstanding, a moment of irritability.”

  “We think the same, Alfred. That old Steve’s a pretty delicate patient. Well, Alfred, it’s late. Now we all ought to go to sleep. See you tomorrow.”

  By the time Alfred said back to him see you tomorrow, Mark was already out of the room. Shana had already softly shut the door, leaving him alone.

  Alfred did not tell them what he saw on the water from the sink before dinner. Or on his plate in the dining room.

  He wouldn’t do that.

  Maybe he should have.

  Now that Shana had taught him how to wash himself, Alfred wanted to go to the bathroom. But he had no urgency. He only felt a strong emotion. A sort of fear mixed with curiosity. He was alone, so he could do it.