The Executioner: Part One

by Ana Calin

“Maybe some other time,” I said, gathering my books and clutching them at my chest. “I’m going to Dr. Barbu’s Educational Psychology class.”

  “I thought you wanted to skip today.”

  “Yes, but then I decided it wouldn’t be wise. I have an exam with him in a couple of months, and good attendance will soften him on the grade.”

  “I can wait,” Tony said.

  “No, don’t. We might stay for debates after class. It could get late.”

  “Then just call me when you’re done.”

  “Okay, I will,” I lied with a smile.

  I was relieved to see him walk out, but I suspected he’d wait outside to make sure this wasn’t a strategy to lose him, which it initially had been.

  The cafeteria was now a more pleasant venue with only a few students left, rain trickling down the tall nightly windows, and dimming lights. To my dismay, as I glanced to the place where Damian should’ve been, it was empty.

  Despite the late hour and the scarce attendance, Dr. Barbu’s lectures always took place in a great aula, its amphitheater shape reminding me of ancient Greek plays. I loved attending seminars and lectures in these halls, wood-paneled symbols of history.

  A thin man in a tweed suit, bald atop his head but with jet-black hair on the sides, the proud bearer of a Poirot-style mustache, Dr. Anton Barbu always made an impression as he stomped into the aula. He took his place at the lectern, squared his shoulders and adjusted the mike system from his ear to his mouth. A famous and infamous psychiatrist whose name reverberated as far as the Sorbonne, he intimidated the living shit out of us. The room went so quiet, even flipping pages echoed like drones.

  Dr. Barbu had everybody’s attention in a matter of seconds, and not because his lecture was fascinating – as you might falsely expect from psych classes – but because we all desperately needed to pass his exam.

  I scribbled as he talked, soon barely thinking of anything as my hand moved, eyes down to the page. But then he said something, and my wrist froze. Current shot up my nape, and my head snapped up.

  “More on gene-generated compulsions, their manifestations and how to identify them in Dr. Nathaniel Sinclair’s ‘Facets of the Nuclein,’ available at the city library.”

  He wrote the book’s title on the blackboard, and recognition smacked me full in the head. I’d read five pages of a book written by Dr. Nathaniel Sinclair up in the mountains. The book had belonged to Marius Iordache, the now dead journalist.

  Chapter Eleven

  “The relationship between genetics and psych might be far from obvious, but it’s there,” Dr. Barbu perorated as he paced the lectern area moving his hands like a TEDx speaker. “Genetic predisposition, behavior and mental condition are linked, make no mistake about that. Depression and schizophrenia are often genetically inherited.

  “Many of you are aspiring teachers. It’ll be your responsibility to keep an extra eye on cases of serious sadness, piercings and tattoos and, of course, watch for borderline. Request to see the parents, ask about the grandparents. Dig as deep as possible. Remember the suicide case studies last year, and remember that in all of them it had turned out that at least one family member had committed suicide one or two generations before.”

  But with a biochemist for a father and a teacher for a mother these things weren’t new to me. Not for a second did I wonder why a geneticist’s name would end up on a shrink’s list, but this particular name . . .

  That Marius Iordache had been reading a book written by Dr. Sinclair for a reason related to what happened in the mountains was now crystal clear. As it was that Dr. Anton Barbu had answers, answers worth gold.

  I barely contained myself until the end of class, when I hurried to reach Dr. Barbu to ask him questions, but some of my fellow students were faster. And just as two people still hovered ahead of me at the lectern, Dr. Barbu bluntly closed the session, grabbed his briefcase and scurried out of the aula. I ran after him, but found the hallway shadowy, echoing only the evening steps and voices of my fellow students.

  As we trickled out of the university I kept close to a flock I sort of knew until we crossed the campus and reached the bus station. Some members of the group took the same route. I moved to the back of the bus, chin deep in my wool shawl with my bonnet pulled down over my ears as they talked and laughed out loud.

  I glanced behind through the rear window. Of course a pair of headlights tailed us, but there was no way I could tell if they were Damian’s. It could’ve been anyone, just another car on the road after ours. Plus, I doubted Damian’s tailing would be so obvious.

  I would’ve peered harder, but it would’ve been too weird, since my company was increasingly interested in me. Boys stole glances as they cracked loud jokes as if taking a stage, and girls’ stares were even more unfriendly than usual. By the time the bus stopped at the intersection of Unirii with Iorga I felt like a clown in the middle of an arena.

  I got off the bus into a strong wind, tiny snowflakes whirling around me. Advancing was difficult. Soon the cold permeated through my fleece coat, and a sensation of loneliness to the marrow of my bones. The light from street lamps was a haze cast along the empty street like a tunnel into darkness, making my steps heavy and slow.

  A couple of shaggy stray dogs crept out of the shadows and flanked me. I had known them both forever – Vasile and Chanel – and was more than grateful for their company. They hoped for something to eat, begging eyes up at me.

  “Need to get to the house first, guys,” I said.

  They suddenly began to bark – a warning to any stranger to those parts, no more than the harmless tunes of home to me. Especially as we approached my parents’ gate Vasile and Chanel became increasingly alert. They eventually stopped in place, tail and ears up. Baring their fangs they growled ugly growls that made me freeze in the whirling snowflakes, peering through. I waited for the dogs to dash ahead of me as they usually did when spotting a stranger in the night, but this time they only dared the growls.

  “Freakin’ traitors,” I breathed to myself, white steam escaping from my mouth and damping the shawl. It felt piss-wet under my chin. And piss-wet is how my whole body felt in a second, as I watched with widening eyes how something moved in the darkness, as if the shadow itself had grown legs. Long, rock-muscular legs outlined through the fabric of denim as they moved.

  Then Damian’s face emerged from the night.

  We stared at each other.

  “Tell me,” he hissed, “don’t you have one bit of backbone?” His strong chin was locked, his stare steely.

  “Say what?” I forced my frozen lips to move, barely fighting the surprise he seemed to have a talent at producing.

  “Anton Anghel. A.k.a. the Jackass, if I remember correctly. You’re seeing him again. Has it occurred to you that his interest has resurfaced for a reason?” he said before I got to reply.

  “So this is why you’re here? To make sure I understand I’m once again a failure?”

  Damian took a few steps closer. Vasile and Chanel barked in alarm, but kept back.

  “With BioDhrome on your tail, trusting anyone is a bad idea.”

  “Which is exactly why I want to wish you a good night, Damian.” I pushed the gate ajar.

  Damian grabbed one of the rusty bars and yanked it shut. The old thing creaked like a wounded crow.

  “Apparently I didn’t make the rules clear, girl,” he pressed, his upper lip curling over bone white teeth. “You allow anyone to get too close, and I switch on the necessary mechanisms to keep you safe. And those mechanisms aren’t exactly orthodox.”

  The way he said it, cold sweat shot down my spine.

  “You didn’t mention rules, actually,” I managed, failing to sound confident. My voice trembled, my gaze wavered. This is how I became aware of Officer Sorescu and two of his men, acting drunk before the dump-bar. But soon they disappeared around the corner, pretending to lean on each other. After the Marvimex evening it was clear Damian was safe for me.

&nbs
p; “Well, I have a whole list of them rules,” he said.

  I glimpsed the light flick on between the living room curtains. Mom had surely heard the gate slam shut, but before she could look out Damian had grabbed my hand and drawn me after him. I realized he wanted to present the said list someplace else, though I didn’t see what couldn’t be clarified in a few minutes right here and right now.

  He’d parked his car around the corner, in front of the elementary school and just a street away from the seafront. Here the wind blasted, almost knocking me off my feet. Only Damian’s grip kept me standing and walking until we found the safety of his BMW.

  He had me call Mom, which I did—assuring her I was safe and sound. Tea with Damian Novac, and she approved. She didn’t ask any further questions and hung up before I did.

  I could only hope my playing indifferent worked by the time we parked somewhere close to the Mircea National College, a rather gothic-looking, shady building, which directly neighbored and resembled the Ovidius Theatre. Damian held the car door open for me to get out. In order to appear composed, I refused to put my sweaty hand in his, but took his arm instead.

  We walked in silence towards Café d’Art, a historic and busy little place by the theater. It had been at a table in the back of Café d’Art a year ago that Tony had screamed in my face, “It’s over, Alice.” Every pair of eyes had turned to us. And every pair of eyes had known us, since we were regulars here.

  “Please, keep it down,” I’d begged in a small, rickety voice, lacing my fingers together in my lap. He banged his fist on the table, making my teacup clatter against the saucer.

  “It was stupid of you,” he’d spat, his eyes alight and his face red. “Stupid, stupid, stupid! Now your father is gonna think I pushed you to do it.”

  I kept kneading my hands painfully under the table. “I already explained to him why I gave up his money. And besides, why does it matter what he thinks?”

  “It matters because he can destroy my life with one single phone call! And he’ll surely want to punish me after this. Did you stop to think about that when you made the stupidest move ever? No, sure you haven’t,” he’d grunted, measuring me up and down like I wasn’t worth a spit. “You don’t think much, do you?” He’d poked my temple with his index finger as he spoke the next words. “This monkey brain of yours isn’t built to think of others, only of itself, right?”

  Tears had burned in my eyes. He’d turned and left. I’d stayed there, sniffling and wiping my nose with my sleeve. When I finally looked up again, everyone was staring.

  I wondered why Damian brought me here of all places, among the people who’d witnessed my embarrassment. His arm curled around my waist, and he acted as possessive as he had at Marvimex as he led me among the open mouths to a small table by the bar. As if he were proud to have me.

  Had it been Friday evening this particular table would’ve been taken, but couples rarely had romantic dates here on weeknights. Weeknights were for groups, like those Tony and I had belonged to in his phase as a drunken poet.

  We used to come here and hang with his artist friends, Tony reciting his newest poetry, which was better than I like to admit.

  The enclosure by the bar made for a more intimate atmosphere than the other tables offered, while it still lay in the public eye, so to say. The thick candle that presided on the table enhanced the sensation of privacy, and the butterflies in my stomach went frantic against my best wishes. Behind us, dark cherry curtains separated the pub from a more or less secret access corridor inside the theater.

  Damian helped me out of my coat, then he peeled off his trench coat and sat down to face me, unnervingly close across the small table. He wore a dark shirt with a few buttons open to reveal the top of his perfectly defined pectorals. I swallowed hard and fixed my eyes on his, pale green. The butterflies weren’t doing any better so I looked aside.

  “Why did you bring me here, Damian?”

  No reply, but his gaze on me felt intense. My fingers sought something to keep busy and calm the nerves. They finally settled on the rim of the tablecloth, as did my eyes.

  “Look, before you lay down the said list of rules or anything, I’d like one thing to be crystal clear between us: I can see whomever I want. I’m not going to live like a hermit because you want to be sure I don’t reveal too much, or just because you’re playing overprotective out of a sense of debt to my dad. And, after all, if you’re so eager to prove your respect and loyalty, you might as well stop banging his bitch.”

  The last part might’ve come out a little bitter. The table tilted under Damian’s weight as he leaned toward me, so close that I felt his breath on my cheek.

  “Listen, Alice, and listen carefully. You are to keep Anton Anghel at arm’s length, and you’ll cut his visiting schedule.”

  I stuck my chin out and glared at him with all I had. God, this man had a way of driving me nuts. “I won’t tell him anything, so there’s no reason why he should inconvenience you, is there?”

  “I’m the only thing that stands between you and BioDhrome, Alice,” he stressed, now very close. “The man at Marvimex – Giant, as you like to call him – he’s still on to you, and he’s not a joke. He’s a hit man, a highly dangerous hit man. But make no mistake, he’s not BioDhrome’s only instrument. He’s not enough, since I’m in his way. So they will use other people as well. People you’re vulnerable to. They have enough money to pay an army of pawns. Haven’t you wondered for one second why Anton would show up now and not at any other time? Why are you so blind? He has a hidden agenda, even a child would see that.”

  I narrowed my eyes, unable to resist the urge of biting back. “Of that I’m well aware, Damian. Whatever you do, don’t take me for an idiot. What happened in the mountains might’ve left my face unscarred by some miracle, but I doubt I’ll ever be able to lose the paranoia. With Tony I’m trying, you know. Just trying to bond with people again, and who could be more suitable for such an exercise if not someone I know well. Someone from whom I know what to expect. But now that we speak of things even a child would see . . . If BioDhrome is so big a hydra, your organization – their antagonists – must be just as big and nasty in order to be able to fight them, am I right?”

  Damian leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. The shirt tightened on his rocky arms, making his shoulders and chest look even broader. I bit my lip in a useless attempt to suppress the feeling in my lower belly.

  “We’re big and nasty enough.”

  “Should I take it that you’re also powerful enough to finance operations such as BioDhrome’s as well?”

  “I would appreciate it if you would lower your voice.”

  A few glances around the room, and I noticed what he was worried about—giggling girls at the bar to our left, their eyes groping Damian, and funneled ears from the tables nearby. The waiter, a tall and lean boy of around twenty in an apron, pretended to clear a table in the nearest corner. His attention was fixed on us – I could tell since he used the moment of silence to glide in and ask for our order.

  He acted particularly friendly, with a beaming smile and cute dimples that Damian brusquely made vanish. All business – straight back, frown and all – he was fast with a harsh and concise order – I would have Penne Carbonara and so would he, along with mineral water and jasmine tea.

  The boy didn’t wait to be dismissed, but scurried away as soon as Damian’s jaw set. He looked angry. It gave me the chills, but I’d be damned if I’d show it.

  “Since when do you decide what I have?” I redirected the fear into annoyance.

  His jaw still clenched, he spoke through his teeth. “Penne Carbonara is your favorite dish, though you’re so skinny no one would say.” He looked me up and down. “And it’s the only thing you ever had in this dump.”

  “And you just happen to know that?”

  “I have a file on you. It’s highly important that I know all there is to know about you.”

  “All there is to know?” I
decided not to overdo it since I didn’t really mind. “How long have you been keeping this file?”

  “For a while now.”

  “How long, Damian?”

  “If it makes you feel better, it was a necessity, not a pleasure.”

  Ouch. Blood raced to my cheeks.

  “Well, I’m sorry you had to endure that kind of hardship. Studying me must have been just awful,” I whispered, fingers pulling at the rim of the table cloth. “Of course, you had your reasons. I didn’t mean to suggest that you were . . . in any way . . . you know, interested . . . not in that way. That never, ever crossed my mind.”

  “I’m sorry.” He reached over the table and touched my arm. Those imbecile butterflies went all crazy again, and I swore to God I’d choke them or die trying. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “No, I know.” I looked at him and took in every detail of his face as I continued. “Don’t worry about Tony either. I’m not offering him my trust wrapped with a ribbon or anything, I’m just trying to live a normal life. I need a distraction, you know, in order to relieve the memory of all that’s happened. And it won’t be only Tony, you might see me with other guys, too. But I won’t mind if you’re around to watch. Watch over me, that is.”

  I looked up and smirked, and Damian Novac looked astounded. Oh, it felt like balm on my ego.

  The waiter brought our drinks at that very point. I took the opportunity to look at him. Just a short glance and a shy smile, of course, I didn’t want to overdo it and risk Damian seeing through my strategy. But the delight was over sooner than the taste of lukewarm jasmine tea on my tongue.

  Damian’s eyes flashed. “These games are dangerous, and you shouldn’t abuse your powers.”

  What?

  He leaned in closer, and I felt his hand wrap around my thigh under the table. It paralyzed me. Its warmth permeated through my jeans, the buzz spreading to my womb. I exhaled slowly to keep my heart rate from shooting up.

  “As you might have noticed, things are different about you lately,” he said. “I think you should know exactly what happened in the mountains, and how it changed you in order to make sure that you understand the situation. You see,” he lowered his voice to a dark whisper, his hand kneading my thigh, sending waves of static all through my body. “BioDhrome agents had been lurking in the woods by the cottage days before we arrived there. They derailed the train, too, but I guess you figured that out yourself – if I learned anything about you, it’s that you’re very smart. But even so, I don’t believe you realize how they did it. No person with their wits about them would. I could tell you, but you wouldn’t believe me.”