He thought that he should like her more. That he should want to hold her, be close, feel someone living, just to feel loved. But he just felt sick. He thought he should be able to tell her exactly what he’d seen and she would know — without pause — to offer comfort. But she would blame him, she would tell him: nothing is free. Didn’t you see what you were doing? Didn’t you ask yourself: what is this for? Did you have no understanding, no perspective? She would tell him nothing that he did not know.
He stayed in the bathroom, lodged his foot against the door just in case she had the bright idea to check on him. He always knew what to do, in every situation, he always knew the answer. He’d speak to his brother. Lemi would know. And then he realized his brother couldn’t begin to calculate the complications or the dimension of it. Every way he looked at this he was in trouble. He would be held responsible. Culpable. To the end of his life.
The room would have to be cleared. Either him, the police, or someone else would have to tear down the plastic, pack it in bags, take it elsewhere. It would not stay like this. It could not.
* * *
Marek kept the basement keys in his pocket, where he could feel them digging into his leg. He closed the shutters, lay on the bed, tried to sleep so that he didn’t have to explain himself, but didn’t want to close his eyes because the room stayed with him. He told himself it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be, he’d taken it wrong. They’d butchered an animal, that’s all, some dog picked off the street. That’s all this was. Not a joke but a prank, although how could this in any shape be seen as something funny. A tongue in a bag. Teeth. A room drenched in blood.
At five o’clock he heard a knock at the door, and felt his heart stop then quicken. This would be the police and they would take him now. They would want to know why he was asking at the school about the Japanese woman. Why had he bought those materials? Whoever were these people, Mr Wolf and Mr Rabbit?
He heard Lanzetti’s voice and rose immediately. Paola at the door — uncommonly nice, even welcoming. She held the door open and invited the pharmacist in, explained that Marek wasn’t feeling well, a stomach bug from a short trip, but here he is.
‘Ah, the hotel.’ Lanzetti smiled and looked to Marek then Paola. ‘How was it?’
Paola nodded, too eager, surely she knew she didn’t need to play it this way. ‘He’s picked up something. Stomach.’
‘Have you been sick?’
Marek shrugged. It wasn’t much of anything. A little rest and he’d be fine.
‘Water,’ Lanzetti smiled. ‘Make sure he drinks lots of water. He’s sweating. People dehydrate quickly. You have no idea how quickly, it’s so hot. If he isn’t well in the morning come by and I’ll give you something for it. Some salts. Something also for the stomach if it doesn’t go.’ Lanzetti held the brothers’ book in his hand. ‘I came to return this.’ He offered the book to Marek.
Paola stood at the door, looked hard at the book, and Marek felt that he needed to explain himself but couldn’t think of anything.
‘It’s…’ Lanzetti paused, turned the book in his hands, his expression showing some distaste. ‘It isn’t nice.’
‘Nice?’ Paola gave a short scoff.
‘It’s hard to say,’ Lanzetti looked like he would rather explain this to Marek alone. He held the book out. ‘It isn’t what I would usually read.’
Marek didn’t want to touch the book. He turned and Lanzetti stepped into the apartment. Paola asked if he would like a drink, and Lanzetti appeared relieved. He asked for water, if that would be all right. It was hot this afternoon.
Once Paola was in the kitchen Lanzetti asked Marek if he knew what the book was about.
‘The subject is — it’s a little strange.’ Lanzetti looked quickly to the kitchen. ‘It’s about a building, a palazzo such as this, a place where a lot of people live, and how the main character takes revenge on them because they didn’t stop an event from happening, an event which involves his sister. He has a room, a basement room … and he turns this room into a slaughterhouse.’
And now Marek was paying attention.
‘He prepares this room…’
Paola returned with the water, ice clinking in the glass. ‘I have to work.’
Lanzetti accepted the glass with a smile. He gave a small and formal bow and apologized for stopping her. He stood and Marek stood as if in a confrontation, then they both walked to the kitchen.
‘I’m not sure I understand. But there are elements from the book that are familiar.’
‘Elements?’
‘A word was scratched on the door, on the main door. This word was painted on the doors of collaborators at the end of the war. It’s mentioned in the book. I think your friends, although this doesn’t make sense, believe that this is the same palazzo as the place described in the book.’
‘And the room?’
‘The room. The room is where a killing takes place. Only it’s staged. It isn’t real. He wants the people in the building to be punished. So he pours blood onto the walls and floor and makes it look like a slaughterhouse. He makes it look like the people in the building have been killing American soldiers and selling them as meat.’
‘It isn’t real?’
‘No. It’s staged. It isn’t real. The man uses blood he’s stolen from a field hospital. He uses body parts. A tongue. A hand. A foot. All taken from the hospital. He leaves these where they will be found to incriminate a doctor, a lawyer, a magistrate, because he blames them for something that has happened to his sister.’
Marek accepted the book.
‘It’s not even a good book.’
* * *
Paola slept beside him, uncommonly affectionate, first spooning, then, because of the heat, lying separate but keeping a hand at the small of his back. Marek lay awake, now confused. So they had a book, a story, a script to follow, and what had they done? He knew blood, he knew the smell, but had no way to know if this was real. If this was animal blood, how could such a quantity be stored? A human has seven litres of blood. This they had taught him in the army. Seven litres, which, with an arterial cut will vent a fountain two or three metres, and take three to four minutes to bleed out. There were ropes hanging from the ceiling with tethers made from duct tape, and spatter on the ceiling and the wall. An elaborate hoax if it was a hoax. He wanted to ask Lanzetti about the mechanics of the hoax, the similarities with the book. He wanted to know the ending.
It was clear that Marek needed to return to the room and remove anything that would identify or connect him, and then he would leave the city. Take his money and go.
MONDAY — TUESDAY: DAYS I & J
Marek spent the day in bed, turned to the wall, the same thoughts racketing endlessly without result and couldn’t sleep. In the late afternoon he rose, and decided he had no choice. Before he returned to the basement he contacted English Tony and asked for a car. It didn’t have to be the Citroën, but he needed a car as soon as possible. Tony said that he could take the Citroën and Marek asked for something different. Anything would do, it was just to move Paola’s bags, and he didn’t want to spill anything in the Citroën. Already he was explaining too much.
‘Take the Citroën,’ English Tony insisted. If something happened he could clean it. Just take a little care and fill it up. It’s only shirts, right? This is what she does, she stitches shirts?