Or madness. Antonia wasn’t sure what she ought to think of herself as she hung up. At any rate, she was back in the Here and Now. She got up in almost childish anticipation of the remainder of the descent.
Amazing. The Whispering Gallery. In her rush to the top, she’d completely overlooked it. Antonia looked around her, saw no security guards. Which was logical if you consider that genuine tourists go all the way up, which is to say keep strictly to the order in which you’re supposed to tour the points of interest in the cathedral. First the Whispering Gallery, then the Stone Gallery, then the Golden Gallery. And then down and out to the next tourist attraction. Based on that approach, Antonia had missed a stop on her tourist itinerary. She looked around again and stepped out onto the empty Whispering Gallery, where allegedly a word whispered on this side of the gallery would reach the ear of a listener on the other side, across the cathedral, with complete clarity.
Amazing. Sweat poured from every pore even though the distance to the railing was at least a yard and she hadn’t even looked over it. But she felt it. Just ninety-nine feet, that’s what it said in the guidebook. Antonia pressed herself back onto the stone bench. She’d give anything to feel Peter’s hand in hers. Hear his reassuring murmur that he would carry her, Superman-style, across every abyss. Peter. He’d loved teetering on the edge of a sheer drop. The police had made that much clear to her. If he hadn’t died at the hands of those thugs, he’d have shuffled off his mortal coil in the thin air of his high-flying business deals, that’s what they meant. It hadn’t comforted her to hear that, it had been more of an illuminating shock. His stock deals had been nothing more than hide-and-seek. Insider trading and a few other tricks had contributed to soiling his image. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, even after all those months of therapy. She’d found excuse after excuse for him. He’d been blackmailed, he’d been naive. But never guilty.
Antonia ran her hand across the stone of the bench rubbed smooth by billions of visitors. Her new insights felt smooth like that. There was no way to evade them anymore. She’d been blinded by love like a teenager. The thought relieved her mind, because in a strange way it excused her as well. Peter had been her first love. She’d had sex before, and what people generally referred to as “relationships.” But love, she’d only found that with Peter. He’d been her God. Antonia laughed. The sound died away, nothing came back to her. Would it work if she giggled quietly against the wall, her hand held in front of her mouth? Abruptly the giddy feeling dissipated and gave way to strange sentences and images that came into her mind. There was something negative and important about them, but Antonia couldn’t pin them down. Never mind.
Amazing. An experience as mean as her fear of heights had brought her to this insight. And when she looked at it like that, Peter’s death wasn’t her fault. Yes, the fight they’d had was bound to happen, but it could just as easily have happened any other time, given the foundation of their relationship. It was all the same whether she’d spoken of her desire for children that day or any other day. He would always have reacted the same way, because he would always have had problems with his illegal business deals. He would always have gotten angry, and she would always have responded by bursting into tears. And they would have sworn eternal enmity, as they always did. And in time he might have gotten into another nasty situation, probably one that had more to do with his business. Oh yes. And when you looked at it that way, his death at the hands of those thugs was merely justice served a little early. But why justice, why did she think of it as justice? Because the images rose up, unbidden, that’s why.
The color green. A bloodbath. A dead mobile phone. Arriving home late. Green.
That strange raid on the nightclub around eighteen months ago. It had been green candy wrappers and his image in that blurry newspaper photo, but she’d buried that fact deep inside her, so deep that she hadn’t known it anymore. Amazing, the admission didn’t hurt at all. Yes, admission — because those vitamin candies might be common in England, but they weren’t in Austria. Who was he, really, the man she’d been planning to grow old with?
Antonia sat hunched on the stone bench. Maybe there really were hobgoblins, spirits with a strange sense of humor who thought they knew what was good for us. She had to travel to London and climb to dizzying heights chasing after a stupid and insignificant beret wearer to realize that the great love of her life had been a ridiculous self-deception. At least her fear had been productive. She didn’t need any more therapy. She’d probably jerk instinctively the rest of her life every time she saw a green candy wrapper, but that was nothing in comparison with the feeling of seeing Peter around every corner.
Amazing how easy it was.
Antonia looked around. Other than her, there was just one solitary figure on the other side of the gallery. She glanced from a distance down into the cathedral. Visitors were scarce down there, too. She leaned against the walclass="underline" The guidebook said you had to whisper behind your hand.
“Peter can kiss my ass.”
She smiled, because she knew she was free.
“I’ve always liked doing that.”
Antonia stared, first at the wall, and then at the man across from her, but he was looking out into the air. There was no one else there. She was crazy after all. The hallucinated answer was proof of that. She’d only imagined she was cured. Wished it. She was a nutcase. Yes, he’d always had fun saying the things she knew but didn’t want to say. And she’d enjoyed it. Her fantasy, her longing — they’d all played tricks on her. Was that necessary for the healing process, too? Whispering her feelings in public? What would her imagination answer?
“You’re the nightclub murderer.”
“You’re right about that.”
Yes, it was her imagination that said this thing she’d never admitted to herself. How liberating. But did it free her from every fear? Antonia leaned forward, peered over the railing down into the depths. It wasn’t that far down at all. It wasn’t dizzying in the least. What was it about her fear of heights? It was a childish refusal to grow up. Nothing more. That’s right. Children live in a fantasy world; adults live in the real world. And reality knows no fear of heights. Antonia leaned on the railing and looked down into the cathedral. Looking downward had a liberating beauty. Exhausted, she fell back onto the stone bench. She’d overcome her worst fear. She’d have to tell Valentina right away. She was free. Yes, she was. Smiling, she leaned toward the wall, held her hand in front of her mouth, and whispered.
“You’re dead, Peter.”
She felt the sound wave reproduce itself down the length of the smooth marble wall. What would all the tourists think of that sentence if they could hear it? But they weren’t there; they were all being ushered out by the security guards. There was only the one man on the other side, staring into the air. Who pulled something out of his coat pocket. Something soft, that looked to her, standing on the other side, like a hat made of felt. And then he bent toward the wall.
“You’re wrong about that, Butterfly.”
That name, his pet name for her, drove her to her feet like a jolt of electricity. She looked out across the divide, which dissolved before her eyes into a nothingness that invited panic. She pressed her fists to her eyes, against the tears, and for a fraction of a second her vision cleared and she saw the man unwrap something from a piece of paper. Green rushed across the distance between them. Reflexively she dropped her eyes and the pews began to rush up at her. Or was she rushing at them? The floor of the cathedral tilted and began to pump like a huge heart. At the same time, its surface became soft, tempting her to jump. It looked like one of those rescue air-cushions used by the fire department. How long would the fall last? Ten seconds? Twenty? Or just five? Her eyes registered, only half aware, that the man put the candy into his mouth and pulled on the beret. Peter was alive. And the fall didn’t even take two seconds.