The Maidens

by Alex Michaelides

Preparing to celebrate my birth, he arrived at the hospital with a bottle of cheap sparkling wine.

  But was it a celebration?

  Or a catastrophe?

  Was my fate already decided, even then? Was it too late? Should they have smothered me at birth? Left me to die and rot on the hillside?

  I know what my mother would say, if she could read this, my search for culpability, my quest for blame. She would have no patience with it.

  No one is responsible, she’d say. Don’t glorify the events of your life and try to give them meaning. There is no meaning. Life means nothing. Death means nothing.

  But she didn’t always think that way.

  There was more than one of her. There was another person once, who pressed flowers and underlined poetry: a secret past I found hidden in a shoebox, at the back of a cupboard. Old photos, flattened flowers, badly spelled love poems from my father to my mother, written during their courtship. But my father quickly stopped writing poetry. And my mother stopped reading it.

  She married a man she barely knew. And he took her away from everyone she had ever known. He took her to a world of discomfort—of cold, early mornings and all-day-long strenuous physical labor: weighing the lambs, shearing them, feeding them. Again, and again. And again.

  There were magical moments, of course—like lambing season, when tiny innocent little creatures would pop up like white mushrooms. That was the best of it.

  But she never let herself get attached to the lambs. She learned not to.

  The worst of it was death. Constant, never-ending death—and all its associated processes: marking the ones to be killed, which were gaining too little weight or too much, or not falling pregnant. And then the butcher would appear, in that horrible bloodstained smock of his. And my father would hover, eager to help. He enjoyed doing the slaughtering. He seemed to relish it.

  My mother would always run and hide while it went on, smuggling a bottle of vodka into the bathroom, into the shower, where she thought her tears couldn’t be heard. And I would go to the farthest part of the farm, as far away as I could get. I’d cover my ears, but I still heard the screaming.

  When I’d return to the farmhouse, the stench of death was everywhere. Bodies, cut up in the open barn, nearest to the kitchen—and gutters running red with blood. There was a stink of flesh, as it was weighed and packaged in our kitchen. Bits of congealed meat stuck to the table, and pools of blood collected on the surfaces, circled by fat flies.

  The unwanted parts of the bodies—entrails, guts, and other remains—were buried by my father. He’d throw them in the pit at the back of the farm.

  The pit was something I always avoided. It terrified me. My father would threaten to bury me alive in the pit if I disobeyed him, or misbehaved—or betrayed his secrets.

  No one will ever find you, he’d say. No one will ever know.

  I used to imagine being buried alive in the pit—surrounded by the rotting carcasses, writhing with maggots and worms and other gray flesh-eating creatures—and I would shiver with fear.

  I still shudder now when I think about it.

  17

  At ten o’clock the next morning, Mariana went to meet Professor Fosca.

  She arrived at the Fellows’ Garden as the chapel clock struck ten. The professor was already there. He was wearing a white shirt, unbuttoned around the neck, and a dark-gray corduroy jacket. His hair was down, falling around his shoulders.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I’m happy to see you. I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  “I’m here.”

  “And so punctual. What does that say about you, Mariana, I wonder?”

  He smiled. Mariana didn’t smile back. She was determined to give away as little as possible.

  Fosca opened the wooden gate and gestured into the garden. “Shall we?”

  She followed him inside. The Fellows’ Garden was only for use by the fellows and their guests—it wasn’t permitted for undergraduates to enter. Mariana couldn’t recall having been inside before.

  She was immediately struck by how peaceful it was, how beautiful. It was a low Tudor sunken garden—surrounded by an old, uneven brick wall. Bloodred valerian flowers were growing in between the bricks, in the cracks, very slowly ripping the wall apart. And colorful plants grew all the way around the perimeter, in pinks and blues and fiery reds.

  “It’s lovely,” she said.

  Fosca nodded. “Oh, yes, indeed. I often come here.”

  They began walking along the path as Fosca mused on the beauty of the garden and Cambridge in general. “There’s a kind of magic here. You feel it too, don’t you?” He glanced at her. “I’m sure you felt it from the start—as I did. I can picture you—an undergraduate, fresh off the boat, new to this country—as I was—new to this life. Unsophisticated—lonely … Am I right?”

  “Are you talking about me or you?”

  Fosca smiled. “I suspect we both had very similar experiences.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Fosca glanced at her. He studied her for a second, as if he were going to say something—but decided against it. They walked in silence.

  Eventually, he said, “You’re very quiet. Not at all what I was expecting.”

  “What were you expecting?”

  Fosca shrugged. “I don’t know. An inquisition.”

  “Inquisition?”

  “Interrogation, then.” He offered her a cigarette. She shook her head.

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “No one does anymore—except me. I’ve tried and failed to quit. No impulse control.”

  He put a cigarette in his mouth. It was an American brand, with a white filter on the end. He struck a match, lit it—and blew out a long line of smoke. Mariana watched the smoke dance in the air and disappear.

  “I asked you here to meet me,” he said, “because I felt we should talk. I hear you’ve been taking an interest in me. Asking my students all kinds of questions … By the way,” he added, “I checked with the dean. As far as he is aware, he never requested you talk to any students, informally or otherwise. So the question is, Mariana, what the hell are you up to?”

  Mariana glanced at him and saw Fosca staring at her, trying to read her mind with his piercing eyes. She evaded his gaze and shrugged. “I’m intrigued, that’s all…”

  “About me in particular?”

  “About the Maidens.”

  “The Maidens?” Fosca looked surprised. “Why is that?”

  “It seems odd, having a special set of students. Surely it only fosters rivalries and resentments among the others?”

  Fosca smiled and took a drag on his cigarette. “You’re a group therapist, aren’t you? So, of all people, you should know small groups provide a perfect environment for exceptional minds to flourish … That’s all I’m doing—creating that space.”

  “A cocoon—for exceptional minds?”

  “Well put.”

  “Female minds.”

  Fosca blinked and gave her a cool look. “The most intelligent minds are often female … Is that so hard to accept? There’s nothing sinister going on. I’m a tame fellow with a generous alcohol allowance, that’s all—if anyone is being abused here, it’s me.”

  “Who said anything about abuse?”

  “Don’t be coy, Mariana. I can see you have cast me as the villain—a predator preying on my vulnerable students. Except now you’ve met these young ladies, you can see there’s nothing vulnerable about them. Nothing untoward happens at these meetings—it’s just a small study group, discussing poetry, enjoying wine and intellectual debate.”

  “Except now one of those girls is dead.”

  Professor Fosca frowned. There was an unmistakable flash of anger in his eyes. He stared at her. “Do you think you can see inside my soul?”

  Mariana looked away, embarrassed by the question. “No, of course not. I didn’t mean—”

  “Forget it.” He took another drag of his cigarette, all anger apparently gone. “The
word ‘psychotherapist,’ as you know, comes from the Greek psyche, meaning ‘soul,’ and therapeia, meaning ‘healing.’ Are you a healer of souls? Will you heal mine?”

  “No. Only you can do that.”

  Fosca dropped his cigarette onto the path. He ground it into the earth with his foot. “You’re determined to dislike me. I don’t know why.”

  To Mariana’s annoyance, she realized she didn’t know why either. “Shall we go back?”

  They started walking back to the gate. He kept glancing at Mariana. “I’m intrigued by you,” he said. “I find myself wondering what you’re thinking.”

  “I’m not thinking. I’m—listening.”

  And she was. Mariana might not be a detective, but she was a therapist, and she knew how to listen. To listen not only to what was being said, but also to everything unsaid, all the words unspoken—the lies, evasions, projections, transferences, and other psychological phenomena that occurred between two people, and that required a special kind of listening. Mariana had to listen to all the feelings Fosca was unconsciously communicating to her. In a therapeutic context, those feelings were called the transference, and would tell her everything she needed to know about this man, who he was—and what he was hiding. As long as she could keep her own emotions out of it, of course—which wasn’t easy. She tried to listen to her body as they walked, and could feel a rising tension: a tight jaw, teeth clenched into a bite. She felt a burning sensation in her stomach, a prickling in her skin—which she associated with anger.

  But whose anger? Hers?

  No—it was his.

  His anger. Yes, she could feel it. He was silent now as they walked—but underneath the silence, there was fury. He was disowning it, of course, but it was there, bubbling beneath the surface: somehow, Mariana had angered him during this meeting; she had been unpredictable, hard to read, difficult—and had triggered his rage. She suddenly thought, If he can get this mad, this fast—what happens if I really provoke him?

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to find out.

  Then, as they reached the gate, Fosca stopped. He glanced at her, weighing something up. He made a decision. “I’m wondering,” he said, “if you’d care to continue this conversation … over dinner? How about tomorrow night?”

  He gazed at her, waiting for her response. Mariana met his gaze without blinking.

  “Okay,” she said.

  Fosca smiled. “Good … My rooms, at eight? And one more thing—”

  Before she could stop him, he leaned forward—

  And he kissed her on the lips.

  It only lasted a second. By the time Mariana could react, he had already pulled back.

  Fosca turned and went through the open gate. Mariana heard him whistling as he walked away.

  She brushed away the kiss with her fist.

  How dare he?

  She felt as if she had been assaulted—attacked; and that he had won somehow, succeeded in wrong-footing, intimidating her.

  As she stood there, feeling hot and cold in the morning sun, burning with anger, she knew one thing for certain.

  This time, the rage she was feeling wasn’t his.

  It was hers.

  All hers.

  18

  After leaving Fosca, Mariana took out the beer mat Fred had given her. She rang his number, and asked if he was free to meet.

  Twenty minutes later, she met Fred by St. Christopher’s main gate. She watched him chain his bike to the railings. He reached into his bag and pulled out a couple of red apples.

  “I’m calling this breakfast. Want one?”

  He offered her an apple. She was automatically about to refuse when she realized she was hungry. She nodded.

  Fred looked pleased. He selected the better of the two apples, polished it on his sleeve, and handed it to her.

  “Thanks.” Mariana took it and bit into the apple. It was crisp and sweet.

  Fred smiled at her, speaking between mouthfuls. “I was happy you called. Last night … you left a bit suddenly—I thought I upset you or something.”

  Mariana shrugged. “It wasn’t you—it was … Naxos.”

  “Naxos?” Fred peered at her, confused.

  “It’s—where my husband died. He … drowned there.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” Fred’s eyes widened. “Oh God. I’m so sorry—”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “How could I know? Of course not.”

  “So it’s just a coincidence?” She watched him carefully.

  “Well … I told you. I’m a little psychic. So maybe I was picking up on it—that’s why Naxos popped into my head.”

  Mariana frowned. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe that.”

  “Well, it’s true.” There was an awkward pause. Then Fred went on, quickly, “Look, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings—”

  “You didn’t, really. It doesn’t matter. Forget it.”

  “Is that why you called me? To tell me this?”

  Mariana shook her head. “No.”

  She wasn’t sure why she had called him. It was probably a mistake. She had told herself she needed Fred’s help, but in truth this was an excuse—she was probably just lonely, and upset by her meeting with Fosca. She felt annoyed with herself for doing it—but too late, he was here now. They might as well make the best of it. “Come on,” she said. “I want to show you something.”

  They made their way inside the college, and walked across Main Court, and then through the archway, into Eros Court.

  As they entered the courtyard, Mariana glanced up at Zoe’s room. Zoe wasn’t there—she was in a class with Clarissa. Mariana purposely hadn’t told her about Fred, because Mariana didn’t quite know how to explain him to Zoe, or to herself.

  As they neared Tara’s staircase, Mariana nodded at the ground-floor window. “This is Tara’s room. On the night she died, her bedder saw her leave this room at a quarter to eight exactly.”

  Fred gestured at the gate at the rear of Eros Court—which led out onto the Backs. “And she went out that way?”

  “No.” Mariana shook her head. She pointed in the other direction, through the archway. “She went out through Main Court.”

  “Hmm. That’s odd … The back gate leads onto the river—the quickest way to Paradise.”

  “Which suggests … she was going somewhere else.”

  “To meet Conrad, like he said?”

  “Possibly.” Mariana thought for a moment. “There’s something else—Morris, the porter, saw Tara leave by the front gate at eight o’clock. So if she left her room at a quarter to eight—?”

  She left the question hanging. Fred finished it.

  “Why did it take her fifteen minutes to walk a distance that takes a minute or two at most? I see … Well, it could be anything. She could have been texting someone, or seen a friend, or—”

  As he was talking, Mariana looked at the flower bed under Tara’s window—a patch of purple and pink foxgloves.

  And there, on the earth, was a cigarette butt. She bent down and picked it up. It had a distinctive white filter.

  “That’s an American brand,” said Fred.

  Mariana nodded. “Yes … like Professor Fosca smokes.”

  “Fosca?” Fred spoke in a low voice. “I know about him. I’ve got friends in this college. I’ve heard the stories.”

  Mariana glanced at him. “What stories? What are you talking about?”

  “Cambridge is a small place. Everybody talks.”

  “And what do they say?”

  “That Fosca’s famous—or infamous … His parties are, anyway.”

  “What parties? What do you know?”

  Fred shrugged. “Not much. They’re only for his students. But I mean—I heard they’re pretty wild.” He stared at her closely, reading her expression. “You think he had something to do with it? With Tara’s murder?”

  Mariana deliberated, then gave in. “Listen,” she said. “I’ll tell you.”

  They walked around the
perimeter of the courtyard as she told him all about Tara’s accusations against Fosca—and his subsequent denial, his corroborated alibi; and how, despite this, Mariana was unable to let it go. She expected Fred to laugh or scoff, or at the very least disbelieve her—but he didn’t. And she felt grateful to him for that. She found herself warming to him, and, for the first time, feeling less alone.

  “Unless Veronica and Serena and the others are lying,” Mariana finished by saying, “Fosca was with them the whole time—except for a couple of minutes, when he went outside for a cigarette…”

  “Plenty of time,” said Fred, “if he had seen Tara through the window, to go down and meet here, in the court.”

  “And arrange to meet her in Paradise at ten o’clock?”

  “That’s right. Why not?”

  Mariana shrugged. “He still couldn’t have done it. If Tara was murdered at ten, he couldn’t have got there in time. It takes twenty minutes to walk there, at least, and probably longer by car…”

  Fred thought for a second. “Unless he went by water.”

  Mariana looked at him blankly. “What?”

  “Maybe he took a punt.”

  “A punt?” She almost laughed, it sounded so absurd.

  “Why not? No one watches the river—no one would notice a punt—particularly at night. He could arrive and leave invisibly … in a couple of minutes.”

  Mariana thought about it. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “Can you punt?”

  “Not very well.”

  “I can.” Fred grinned. “As it happens, I’m quite good—if I say so myself … How about it?”

  “How about what?”

  “We go to the boathouse, borrow a punt—and test it out? Why not?”

  Before Mariana could respond, her phone rang. It was Zoe. She answered immediately.

  “Zoe? Are you okay?”

  “Where are you?” Zoe’s voice had that urgent, anxious quality, telling Mariana that something was wrong.

  “I’m in college. Where are you?”

  “I’m with Clarissa. The police were just here—”

  “Why? What happened?”

  There was a pause. Mariana could hear her trying not to cry. Zoe spoke in a low whisper. “It’s happened again.”