I said nothing for a moment, holding Kloster’s contemptuous gaze. So not only had he read my unfortunate article but he’d remembered it word for word. Wasn’t he showing me, despite himself, unwittingly, his bitter, vindictive nature? But then I too remembered every word of bad reviews and could have repeated a few verbatim. And if it didn’t make me a criminal, how could I use it against Kloster? I felt I had to say something.
“True, I find classical causality in literature boring, but I can distinguish between my literary views and reality. And I expect that if four of my closest relatives died I too would find it alarming and would start looking for other explanations.”
“Can you really? Distinguish between your fiction and reality, I mean. For good or ill, that was what I found hardest when I began my novel. “Fiction competes with life,” said Henry James, and it’s true. But if fiction is life, if fiction creates life, it can also create death. I was a corpse after I buried Pauli. And though a corpse can’t aspire to create life, it can still create death.”
“What do you mean? That there are deaths in your novel too?”
“There is nothing but deaths.”
“But aren’t you worried that it’ll start to seem…unbelievable?” I felt silly, and rather contemptible: Kloster’s commitment to verisimilitude in his novels was something I myself had made fun of.
“You don’t understand. You can’t. It’s enough that I believe it. It’s not for publication. It’s not intended to convince anyone. Let’s just say it’s a personal declaration of faith.”
“But in your novel,” I insisted, “do you uphold the hypothesis of chance?”
“No, I don’t. What I’m saying is that you should. Or at least consider it. But I suppose there could be other explanations, for a writer with enough imagination. Even a policeman like Ramoneda was able to conceive of another possibility.”
“Please! The only thing an Argentinian policeman can come up with is that the victim is also the prime suspect. Why would Luciana do such a thing?”
“For the most obvious reason: guilt. She knows she’s guilty and she’s giving herself the punishment she thinks she deserves. Because her father, a religious fanatic, instilled in her a belief in the whip, in self-flagellation. Because she’s crazy, yes, but to an extent that neither you nor I can imagine.”
Kloster said it without emphasis, with the calm coldness of a chess player watching a game, analysing possible moves. I said nothing. Again he pointed at the plastic folder under my arm.
“So what are you going to do with that? You still haven’t told me.”
“I’ll keep it in a drawer for now,” I said, “and I’ll wait: as long as there are no more tails in the sequence that’s where they’ll stay.”
“That’s rather unfair,” said Kloster, as if trying to talk round a difficult child. “Unless I’m much mistaken, Luciana’s grandmother was already very elderly ten years ago. She was in a care home. And if she hasn’t died yet, it could happen at any time.”
I didn’t detect any hint of a threat either in his expression or in his voice. He simply seemed to be making a logical objection.
“A death from natural causes obviously wouldn’t count,” I said.
“But don’t you see? Luciana wouldn’t consider anything a natural death. Even if her grandmother died in her sleep she’d claim I climbed down the chimney and smothered her with a pillow. She thinks I poison cups of coffee and spread toxic fungi and free prison inmates, so nothing will stop her.”
“But I can judge for myself and I know the difference between a sequence of four tails and one of seven.”
“The number seven,” said Kloster, as if he were suddenly fed up. “You shouldn’t make the same mistake. Apparently Luciana’s father didn’t teach her about biblical symbolism. The Hebrew root of the word ‘seven’ is related to the completeness and perfection of cycles. That’s the way the number seven is used in the Old Testament. When God warns those who want to kill Cain, he’s not referring to a literal number, to a numerical ratio, but to vengeance that is complete and perfect.”
“Don’t you think the death of four loved ones is sufficiently complete vengeance?”
Kloster looked at me as if we were arm wrestling and he acknowledged my effort but wasn’t prepared to give an inch.
“I can only know my own pain,” he said. “Isn’t that, basically, the problem with punishment? A dilemma, as Wittgenstein would say, of private language. I don’t know how many deaths are equivalent to the death of a daughter. And anyway it’s not something that depends on me, or something I can stop. As I said, I’m simply writing a novel. But I see I haven’t convinced you, and it’s getting late. I’ve got an appointment: a girl from a secondary school is coming to interview me for her school paper…”
Kloster stopped, possibly because he’d seen the look of surprise and alarm on my face. I hadn’t mentioned Luciana’s fears for her sister in the pages I’d given him to read. I stood, frozen, waiting for him to say more. But he simply motioned peremptorily towards the stairs, indicating that I should leave at last. As I descended the stairs I turned: he was still standing at the top, as if he wanted to make sure I really was going.
“You said on the phone that you had a question for me,” I remembered suddenly. “But you haven’t asked me anything.”
Kloster made a gesture, almost like a wave.
“Don’t worry. You’ve already told me what I wanted to know.”
Eight
In the street I looked for a phone. I didn’t have my address book with me so I called Directory Enquiries and gave Luciana’s name and address. A moment later an automated voice gave me the number. I dialled it immediately before I forgot it.
“I’ve just spoken to Kloster,” I said. “He made me leave because a girl was arriving to interview him for her school paper. Could it be your sister?”
For a moment there was silence at the other end.
“Yes, my God, yes,” she said faintly. “I thought she’d given up on the idea. But she must have arranged it behind my back. She’s just gone out. She wouldn’t tell me where she was going but I saw her put one of Kloster’s novels in her bag. I thought that was odd because she’s already read it. She’s probably taken it for him to sign.” There was desperation in her voice. “I could get a taxi, but it’s too late now: I don’t think I can catch up with her. Where are you calling from?”
“I’m just round the corner from his house, in a call box.”
“Then you could wait for her and stop her, until I can get there. Would you do that for me? I’ll get a taxi straight away.”
“No, I’m not going to do it,” I said as firmly as I could. “You and I need to talk. I’m sure Kloster wouldn’t try anything stupid in his own house. There’s a café on the corner; I think I can see the entrance to the house from there. I’ll keep an eye out until you arrive and then we can talk. I’ll sit in the window and wait for you.”
“All right,” she said reluctantly. “I’m leaving now. I just hope Kloster hasn’t convinced you too.”
I went into the café, which was almost empty at that hour, and sat at a table by the window from where I could see Kloster’s house across the street. Before I’d even had time to order coffee a small handbag passed the window. I would have recognised it anywhere. I leaned forward to look out but the girl had already crossed the road and a bus at the traffic lights was blocking my view. By the time it moved away there was no sign of Luciana’s sister and Kloster’s front door was just closing. All I’d glimpsed of her was the handbag inherited from Luciana, and the sleeve of her navy blue coat.
Luciana arrived half an hour later. As she came through the swing doors she glanced at her reflection and made a furtive, desperate attempt to tidy her hair. I realised my call must have got her out of bed and she’d only just noticed what she looked like. Her face was drawn, without make-up, and her eyes were glassy as if she’d taken sleeping pills.