But he became aware that the text was not without a certain fascination, even though the prose was certainly not a writer’s. It was what it said that mattered, not how it was written. He continued reading with increasing attention, and gradually the attention turned to interest and finally a kind of frenzy. By the time he reached the end of the letter, he couldn’t help leaping to his feet. He felt a slight shiver down his spine and the hair on his arms stood on end, as if he’d had an electric shock.
Ziggy couldn’t believe his eyes. He sat down again slowly, with his legs open and his eyes fixed on some undefined point. A point in time rather than in space.
The great opportunity had arrived.
What he had in his hands might be worth millions of dollars to the right people. He felt dizzy at the thought of it. The possible advantages for him made him forget the definite consequences for others.
He put the pages down on the bed with exaggerated care, as if they were fragile. Then he started thinking about how to take advantage of this unexpected piece of luck. What to do, how to distil this material in such a way as to arouse the greatest interest and get the greatest advantage.
And above all, who to contact.
All kinds of thoughts moved through his brain at speed.
He switched on the printer/copier and put the sheets of paper on the table next to the computer. The first thing to do was make photocopies. A copy would be enough to arouse someone’s interest and that someone would have to be willing to pay a tidy sum just to get hold of the original. Which had to remain in his possession until the deal was done. The original he would put in an envelope and send to an anonymous postal box he sometimes used. There it would stay until someone gave him a reason to go and get it out.
And that reason could only be a substantial sum of money.
He started the copying, placing the original of each page next to the copy as he did so. When it came to work, Ziggy was a meticulous person. And this was the most important work he had ever done in his life.
He placed one of the last sheets of paper on the glass of the scanner, lowered the lid and pressed the start button. The scanning light moved through the machine until it had the whole page in its memory. As it was about to print, the sensor warned that there was no more paper and an orange light started flashing on the left-hand side of the machine.
Ziggy went to get some sheets from a ream on a shelf of the bookcase and put it in the tray.
At that moment he heard a noise behind him, a slight metallic click, like a lock snapping. He turned in time to see the door open and a man in a green jacket come in.
No, not now, not now that everything was within reach …
But what he saw in front of him was a hand holding a knife.
It was clearly that knife that had been used to force the lousy lock. And from the look in the man’s eyes he realized that wouldn’t be the only use for it.
He felt his legs give way. He didn’t have the strength to say anything. As the man advanced on him, Ziggy Stardust started crying. He cried because he was afraid of pain, and afraid of death.
But more than anything, he cried with disappointment.
CHAPTER 11
The Volvo moved smoothly through the traffic drawing it towards the Bronx. At that hour, going north could be a real journey. But once she left Manhattan, Vivien had found that the traffic was flowing smoothly. Since she had terrible the Triborough Bridge on her right, she had driven the length of the Bruckner Expressway in a relatively short time.
The sun was sinking behind her and the city was getting ready for sunset. The sky had a dark blue luminosity, so clear that it seemed to have been hand painted – the colour that only the New York breeze could offer, when it managed to blow clean that small stretch of infinity that everyone deluded themselves they had above them.
The car phone interrupted the music coming from the radio. She activated the speaker.
‘Vivien?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hi, it’s Nathan.’
He hadn’t needed to say his name. She had recognized her brother-in-law’s voice. She would have recognized it even in the clamour of a battlefield.
What do you want, you son of a bitch? she thought.
‘What do you want, you son of a bitch?’ she said aloud.
There was a moment’s silence.
‘You’ll never forgive me, will you?’
‘Nathan, forgiveness is for people who repent. Forgiveness is for people who try to repair the harm they’ve done.’
The man at the other end waited a moment, in order to let those words vanish into the distance that separated them.
‘Have you seen Greta lately?’
‘And you?’ Vivien rounded on him, feeling the desire to hit him rise in her, that desire she felt every time she found herself in his presence or even just heard his voice. At that moment, if he had been sitting beside her, she would have smashed his nose with a dig from her elbow.
‘How long is it since you last saw your wife? How long is it since you last saw your daughter? How much longer do you think you can hide?’
‘Vivien, I’m not hiding. I-’
‘Spare me your crap, you son of a bitch!’
She had shouted those words. And she had been wrong to do so. The contempt she felt for the man should not be manifested with a roar. It should be expressed with the hiss of the snake.
And a snake was what she became.
‘Nathan, you’re a coward. You always have been and you always will be. And when things got too tough for you, you did the one thing you know how to do: you ran away.’
‘I’ve always provided for their needs. Sometimes, there are choices-’
‘You didn’t have choices,’ she interrupted him sharply. ‘You had responsibilities. And you should have assumed them. That lousy cheque you send every month isn’t enough to compensate for your absence. Or even to soothe your conscience. So don’t call me now to find out how your wife is. Don’t call me to find out how your daughter is. If you want to feel better, get off your fucking ass and go see for yourself.’
She pressed the button so angrily to end the call that for a moment she was afraid she had broken it. For a few moments she looked straight ahead of her, driving and listening to the furious beating of her heart. A few ragged tears of anger ran down her cheeks. She wiped them with the back of her hand and tried to calm down.
To forget the place she had been that morning and the place she was going now, she took shelter in the one safe place she had: her work.