“And they killed for love?” said Malley.
“Martin liked blood and Justine had a passion for human flesh.”
“She was a cannibas?”
“Cannibal, Malley.”
Who knows when Justine and Martin first realized the form of their symbiotic desire? Who knows when Martin first prowled the streets for the first of the eighty young girls he would murder, or when he first returned home smiling with the package of meat, bled with his own lips? What went into the stew, other than the flesh of those poor virgins and prostitutes who were unfortunate enough to encounter Martin on their way back from chapel or the champagne parties of light-hearted, well-shod men?
“Well, how did they figure it out?”
“Figure what out?”
“That she was a cannibal, and that he liked drinking blood.” Malley pondered the much-diminished joint. “I mean, you just don’t ask someone, ‘Are you a cannibal?’”
“No you don’t,” I said. “But when you’re in love, you find someone’s faults more interesting than their virtues.”
I plotted the whole thing mentally in my terrible French:
Justine: Je suis une cannibale. Je voudrais manger les hommes.
Martin: Non! Ce n’est pas vrai? C’est bon! Je suis un vampire!
Malley was still contemplating the last smoky effort of his joint. He finally threw it into the water. “Martin and Justine,” he said. “That’s intense.”
“They killed almost a hundred people before they were caught.”
“What happened to them?”
“Martin died in a lunatic asylum. Justine was guillotined.”
“How do you know all of this?”
“Marty Neuberg. I dated him in the eighth grade. He thought he was a vampire and so he read all about them.”
“Was he?”
“Was he what?”
“A vampire?”
“God, no. He was more into comic books than blood.”
We were quiet for a moment. Malley got up and came to sit beside me. The damp had gotten into his sweater and he smelled a bit like a wet dog. “I got back from Belize a week ago,” he said. “I lived in a hut with this guy named Salvador. He grew his own and we smoked a lot. He showed me how to spear fish. I learned to stand in the water so still that the fish didn’t notice me, then I’d spear it. We’d grill it.” Malley sighed.
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
“Because I didn’t feel bad about killing the fish because I ate it.” Malley seemed very proud. “I was living in nature, you know.”
7
I woke up on the pier. I’d been in a deep sleep and the shock of being awake brought me quickly to my feet. The sun was still cold, so I knew it was early. The air smelled fishy and I realized I had slept on a pile of nets sheltered on one side by a stack of lobster traps, on the other by the rotting boards of a building. I could hear the waves splashing beneath me. I stood up and looked around. There was a seal bobbing in the water, its large eyes questioning, and then it dove. I checked my reflection in a dirty windowpane. I looked all right. I didn’t see Malley anywhere. My shirt was gone. I still had my bra on. The cold air swept upward and under my jacket.
I felt remarkably well-rested.
I had to get back to the bed-and-breakfast before Boris woke up. Lucky for me, it wasn’t far—only a few blocks. I found the last of my cigarettes flattened into my back pocket yet somehow not broken and the matches, which were damp but after some effort flared into life. I inhaled deeply. Portland was still asleep, although the fishermen were up. One, missing teeth, smiled at me broadly and I guessed he’d seen me sleeping. I smiled back and zipped my jacket up all the way up to my chin.
The bed-and-breakfast lights were still out, but as I entered the dining room, I could hear noises in the kitchen—cooking noises—the slam of bread dough and the whir of a coffee grinder. Although I had left the door unlocked, someone—Boris—had bolted it. The television was on and strains of the local news were coming through the door. I knocked in a state of dread.
“Who’s there?” Boris called.
“Boris,” I said. “It’s just me.”
The bolt slid and the door swung open. Boris was wrapped in a towel. His anxiety was impressive. “Oh my God!” he said, and wrapped me in a suffocating hug.
“How long have you been up?” I inquired over his fleshy shoulder.
“An hour.”
“That’s funny,” I replied. “I could have sworn I’d only been gone forty-five minutes. What’s the big deal?”
Boris pushed me back and looked at me at arm’s distance. “What were you doing?”
“I went for a walk. I wanted to see the sunrise.” I tilted my head to better gauge Boris’s mood. “It was spectacular. What on earth is wrong?”
Boris’s eyebrows descended. “It’s not safe.”
“Portland?”
“I have been horribly worried about you. He’s struck again.”
“Who?”
“William Selwyn. They are still looking for him, and now…” Boris sat down.
“And now what?”
“Just two blocks from here, he attacked and killed a young man. He killed him…” Boris was pale, sick. “He bit him. Tore a huge chunk of flesh right out of his throat. The man went into shock. He bled to death.”
“I thought Bad Billy was into women.”
“He was,” said Boris nodding thoughtfully. I noticed that Boris’s hand was on his throat.
“Do they know who it is?”
“Not yet. They think the victim was heading back to his car at closing time.” Boris pushed me back. “What are you wearing?”
“My jacket,” I said. “I didn’t want to wake you up and I couldn’t find a shirt.”
Boris shook his head then brought his hands to his temples.
“Boris,” I said, “are you all right?”
Boris thought for a moment. He shook his head. “I feel mortal,” he said.
Had he felt immortal before that? A long moment passed. “I’m going to wash my face,” I said.
I suppose I should have felt lucky but instead I felt a lingering, smoldering dread. Boris felt it too. Even though the weather had turned, no more rain, the brilliant sun seemed to find fault in everything. The charming buildings seemed more decrepit and the cheery store signs tacky and false. I was happy that Boris wanted to get out of Portland. He’d suggested we do some exploring and I agreed.
Boris and I spent Saturday driving up the coast. I was smoking like a fiend, something I’d not been able to do in a while, because Boris didn’t let me smoke in the apartment.
“You seem upset,” said Boris.
“Not at all,” I said. “Deliriously happy. It’s so beautiful.” I gestured to my right with a cigarette, indicating a bombed-out Sunoco.
“How about we go off this beaten path?”
Boris veered right dangerously—I felt sure we balanced on two wheels—and headed down a dirt road that was actually a private drive. I could smell salt and knew that had it not been for the dense forest, I would have been able to see the water. The road offered two options, one chained off, so Boris and I continued to the right. At the end, on what seemed to be a narrow point, was a small cottage. The windows were boarded over for the fall, but the last of the sunflowers and a dried-out bed of assorted petunias told me that it had recently been occupied. There was a sign out front—for rent—and a phone number.
Boris smiled at the cottage. The house itself was not impressive, but the views from all sides were stunning. There was a creek on one side and a shallow bite on the other. The property came to a point, then dropped sharply to the water. The tide was going out, leaving mudflats. A heron, its wings beating in reverse, gingerly set its feet in the mud.