“Katherine. I’m sorry. I think you should get up.”
“What time is it?” I asked, still asleep. The room was bright.
“It’s two. Boris has called about fifteen times.”
“You didn’t answer the phone, did you?”
“Of course not. He’s been leaving these weird messages. I think you should listen to them.”
I sat up in bed and Arthur handed me a mug of steaming coffee. I leaned against him while I drank it and he stroked my hair.
“What’s Travis up to?”
“He took the dog for a walk.” There was some commotion in the kitchen. I heard a chair being pushed across the floor and strange voices. “And the police are here,” said Arthur. “I don’t know why.”
I pulled on some clothes and went into the kitchen. I recognized Officer Browning but the other guy wasn’t familiar.
“Your phone’s been ringing all morning. Maybe you should answer it,” he said.
“And maybe you should finish that coffee and go find out who killed my friend.”
The officers looked at each other then both got up. Officer Browning raked his hand through his hair and put on his hat. “We didn’t mean to inconvenience you,” he said.
“Good.” The phone started ringing again. “Then you won’t mind if I want some privacy while I’m talking on the phone. I don’t think there’s anything, other than coffee cake, of interest in the kitchen.”
I picked up the phone. “Katherine?” It was Boris. I waited until Arthur had shut the door behind the policeman before I spoke.
“Boris, what on earth is wrong?” I asked.
“I thought it was because of you that he would not answer the phone. I thought you told him not to speak to me…”
“What are you talking about?”
“Because you didn’t want me involved in your divorce. That is why I thought he hadn’t returned my calls.”
“Are you talking about Silvano?”
There was a pause on the phone. I could hear Boris’s breath whistling through his nose.
“What is it?”
“Katherine, Silvano is dead.”
Boris didn’t like it when people didn’t answer the phone. He took it very personally, even though he had one of those blocking things that didn’t let caller ID announce who you were. And in Boris’s case, this was probably a good idea. Boris hadn’t really taken my anger seriously. Clearly, he was the correct person to oversee the divorce proceedings. As I drove off in the cab feeling at least the power of having made a scene as I left, Boris had already moved on to phase two of his plan. He probably didn’t notice that our conversation had ended abruptly. He was wondering if he’d lost face because of Silvano, if people thought I was playing him. He never thought, “Is she using me?” Only, “Do other people think she’s using me?”
And Ann had been trying to get him to understand that for some time. She had encouraged Boris to go confront Silvano. I don’t think she meant me any harm. I believe that there was something of an admirable morality to Ann where she really did believe in the truth, even if it was ugly and didn’t improve her life. I didn’t understand it, but it helped me understand her.
So after Boris’s eighth unanswered phone call to Silvano, Ann was on the phone with her friend who owned the Cygnet boutique, trying to get his home address. And succeeding. And Ann was at the door with Boris’s coat and scarf and hat telling him that he was absolutely right, that no one had the right to treat him like that. Ann loved Boris. She probably was outraged. I’m surprised she didn’t go with him.
The doorman was actually happy that Boris was looking for Silvano. The neighbors who lived beneath Silvano’s apartment had complained that morning of an odd smell as they’d hurried off to work. The doorman put a call into the super and was still waiting to hear back. Boris merely looked at the doorman and cleared his throat.
“And what is the number of his apartment?” he said.
Boris took the elevator, which was nicer than the elevator in his building and this bothered him, up to the fifth floor. The door slid open and he stepped out, surprised to find the same wild rose/trellis pattern on the floor leading to Silvano’s apartment as his own. He walked down the hallway at a quick step, managing to rekindle his anger. He paused at Silvano’s door. There was an odd smell and Boris— to his surprise” felt the sudden desire to leave. But Boris had suffered the insult, so he raised his fist and struck the door confidently. There was no answer. He pounded again and the door, on greased hinges, swung open.
“Falconi!” shouted Boris. “Falconi! Now we will talk.”
But it was not to be. Boris looked into the room. On the dining table, a vase of daffodils had been knocked over and the flowers were wilted. Boris could see a shattered wine glass on the floor to the right of the table, beneath the window, where a thin red stain colored the glass. Boris entered the room.
“Falconi?” he said. “What is the meaning of this?”
But Silvano didn’t answer. As Boris was drawing nearer to the stain on the window (someone threw the glass at the window? Why? Maybe they were aiming at someone’s head, about the right height) when his foot bumped something lying on the ground. It was Silvano lying eyes wide, staring upward.
“My God,” said Boris, which was strange, because Boris didn’t have a god.
Silvano’s neck was peeled open, flaps of skin flung to right and left like a loose leather ascot. There was a deep red stain around the carpeting and on his forehead, just where his perfect silver hair met the skin in a widow’s peak, a deep bruised hole. Beside Silvano was his walking stick with the falcon head, the beak now dipped in blood. He heard a low growl coming from the kitchen and saw Cosimo, hackles raised, lips pulled, at a frightening stand-off.
“An intruder,” said Boris.
“And what about the neck wound?” I asked. Arthur looked up from his coffee.
“His dog,” said Boris.
“Cosimo? They think Cosimo ate him?”
“There was no food for the animal. And the dog was left like that for three days.”
“Three days?”
“You were lucky, Katherine. You and the intruder just missed each other. Maybe you even saw him.”
“No,” I said. “I’d remember that.”
Silvano was an old man who did not have long to live, but I still felt saddened by his death. I went to stand by the window. I could hear the hiss of water coming from the bathroom—Arthur taking a shower—and the accompanying groan and creak of pipes. Down the hall, Travis was arranging his things in his room. I heard the distant jangle of hangers and the slamming of a dresser drawer. The police were probing each corner of the property, searching for a killer, and despite the brightness of the sun I felt cold. There was a cold chill in the coils of my stomach. A breeze was blowing across the bay, creating line upon line of creases on the water, and I began to wish that I could just leave everything, take a ship to some forgotten place where I could disappear. But would it be better there? Or would all this darkness follow me, track me over the surface of the water, assert itself wherever I went? Was I destined to pollute each virgin land I found with the same despair that seemed to arise and then arise again with ever faster frequency? Or was each land already corrupted, each Garden of Eden just a stage for man’s betrayals?