Daughter of Ashes, page 10
Teresa offered her face up to the first rays of the rising sun—that same sun which showed up every morning, unvanquished by the night. Yet darkness still lingered in the gardens of the villa. It may have retreated to its lair for the time being, but it was still very much present, seeped into the green hues of the plants and the purple of the flower petals, blackening the victim’s blood and the earth that had absorbed it.
Which horrifying variety of human was it? Someone who was thrashing about in that pool of blood trying to quench his thirst for an unattainable peace. It reminded her of Lucifer’s words in Milton’s Paradise Lost. “What though the field be lost? All is not lost; the unconquerable Will, and study of revenge, immortal hate, and courage never to submit or yield. And what is else not to be overcome?”
She stood up.
“A creature who has stumbled, who has fallen, but is not yet defeated.”
Chasing that creature meant following it right into the Abyss, the darkest, deepest part of the biblical inferno.
Teresa walked to the nymphaeum, retracing the killer’s footsteps from the opposite direction. Her colleagues had completed their search, placing numbered tags next to each footprint and all the way to the traces of blood, which Teresa had previously been too far away to see.
The actual murder had taken place close to the edge of the water. The markers left by the forensics team indicated the positions the killer and his victim had assumed. The grass was dirty. Had the killer looked his victim in the eyes as he lay dying? If it was true that he no longer knew fear, that must mean he didn’t experience shame, either, and any hint of unease would have been suppressed by that feeling of omnipotence he aspired to as a way to cancel out his own self-loathing.
Teresa pictured him sitting in his lair right now. He was probably thinking about the death he had caused, basking in the enjoyment of the totems he had collected, the trophies he had torn from his victims. But soon the euphoria would fade, and his need would come roaring back.
What kind of need, Teresa?
She answered her own question.
“The need for power—absolute power over another human being.”
She crouched down. The pond glistened with reflected light. The water lilies were unfurling their cerulean corollas. A pair of dragonflies—entirely unperturbed by Teresa’s presence—kept orbiting the statue, brushing the surface of the water and displacing clouds of midges at their passage.
Teresa watched the smaller of the two as it settled on a budding flower right where the pond lapped at a cluster of mossy limestone rocks. In the murky depths of the pond she noticed an arm cut off at the humerus, its sheer whiteness revealing its presence. It was the missing piece from the statue. There were no traces of mud on it, not even a light coating on the surface. It can’t have been down there for more than a few hours.
Teresa leaned forward, her heart on edge. The dragonfly fled. Something glimmered around the arm’s index finger, which was pointing gracefully at a tangle of aquatic roots. An unnatural, metallic glint.
Teresa rolled up her sleeve and plunged her hand into the pool of diluted slime.
Someone gave her hood a sharp tug, and she lost her balance, falling onto her back.
Albert was towering over her. He pulled her up unceremoniously.
“I told you to keep off the villa grounds.”
Teresa gasped with rage.
“You told me to keep off? Off the case, I suppose.”
“You need to deal with the evidence.”
“You mean the evidence they finished cataloging hours ago?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself, Teresa. Do not challenge me.”
He turned his back to her.
Teresa tried to collect herself. Albert was as incandescent with rage as she was, but for a different reason: Teresa had shown that she had been right about the case all along, while his theories had been washed away by the blood of a second victim. But he was still her boss, and the superintendent in charge of the investigation.
“Albert, wait. Please.”
The conciliatory note in her voice persuaded him to acquiesce, but his expression remained furious.
Teresa took a step toward him.
“Do you want to solve the case? Then listen to me.”
“So much arrogance . . . Whatever it is you have to say, say it quickly.”
“This isn’t the type of homicide you’ll find in our usual handbooks. There are profound motives at play here, Albert. This isn’t about money, or jealousy, and it isn’t just an outburst of anger, either. Every single detail in our surroundings is telling us the killer’s story; we just have to figure out how to read it.”
Albert had kept quiet, which was something. Teresa continued, her tone solemn.
“He’s using his own language to talk to us,” she began, waving her hands in the air as if to grasp for the right words. “It’s kind of like a Ouija board. Letter by letter, he’s telling us where to look.”
“A Ouija board.”
“It’s just an example . . .”
“Out. Get out of here. Go back to where I told you to be. And stay there this time.”
Teresa opened her hand, still slick with silt, to reveal a wedding ring twinkling in the light. She offered it to him.
“It was in the nymphaeum. I am sure it must be the one that was taken from the first victim. It’s a message, Albert. He knew we would come here.”
He grabbed her wrist, and the ring fell to the ground.
“You picked up a piece of evidence with your bare hands?”
Teresa’s breath hitched. That was exactly what she had done, her judgment clouded by the hunt. But it wasn’t the realization of her mistake that was crushing her chest until she felt her heart might burst.
It was the masculine violence in Albert’s hold, a reminder of what awaited her when she got home that night. The weak oppressed; the strong triumphant, and drunk on her fear.
“Are you even aware of what you’ve done?”
Albert tightened his grip, tightened the noose around his prey.
It was too much.
Teresa twisted her arm, trying to wrest it from his grasp. She let out a hysterical scream.
“Don’t touch me! Don’t you dare touch me again!”
She freed herself.
Albert gaped at her, outraged. Everyone was staring now. All those men who did not understand, could never understand. And her: the only woman there.
Someone else came up behind her, guiding her purposefully toward the gates of the garden. In the gentleness of his gestures, Teresa recognized Parri’s hands.
15
Today
FOR THE PAST FEW months, the hours of darkness had been a torment for Teresa, but that night the specter of loneliness took pity on her and let her rest, rather than curling up on her chest and forcing her eyes wide open.
Teresa woke up to find the sun warming up the room. The sky outside held the promise of summer. Her muscles felt looser, and her pain levels had finally receded to something more bearable. She hadn’t even been able to climb the stairs to her bedroom the previous evening, yet now, as she lay on the sofa, she was suffused with a feeling of lightness. She hadn’t realized how intolerably heavy the mask she’d worn and the subterfuges she’d employed had been until she had finally been able to shrug them off.
She’d left her job, and doing so hadn’t killed her after all. Who would’ve thought?
And who could say for sure that the future would only bring despair? Perhaps forgetting was a recipe for happiness, and this was her journey to the end of the night.
She stretched her hand out into a patch of light and swirled the dust motes that hung suspended in the air. She used to do the same when she was little, pretending it was magic.
All of that would stay, really—that childlike, physical awareness and enjoyment of the world. Her body would figure out a way to sidestep her short-circuiting mind and find solace curled up in some comfortable nook. But she would never know. All she could do right now was hope, and that was no longer something she was used to doing. Just as she wasn’t used to the kinds of sounds that animated her house that morning: the buzz of chatter hinting at shared confidences, the sudden bursts of laughter, the tinkling of crockery, a dog shaking its fur.
She sat up just as Smoky leapt up onto to cushions to nudge her cheek with his damp nose—his version of a kiss. He barked excitedly, whipping the air with his tail. Teresa ruffled his head.
“I’m coming, I’m coming, give me a minute.”
She stood up gingerly—every part of her, visible and invisible, seemed to be holding firm so far—and followed him into the kitchen, her feet dragging on the floor. She pushed the door slightly ajar, but remained half-hidden.
Blanca and Antonio were busy putting lids on several boxes of food. She would seal them shut and he would label them, noting their contents in his spiky handwriting. As soon as they spotted Teresa, they stopped chatting and welcomed her inside.
Come, Teresa, sit, Teresa. Are you feeling better? Are you hungry? Oh, this little feast? It’s for you, of course. You mustn’t worry about cooking. We’ll put everything in the freezer. It’ll be ready for you.
Teresa let them get on with it, feeling a little bewildered.
They’d stayed with her through the night, filling that space that had always been devoid of any other human presence with so much tenderness that all her anxieties had been soothed. They were the reason for the peace Teresa had felt upon waking up that morning.
They had lunch together, speaking the language of family. Sitting across from them at the table and holding a piece of bread in her hand, it seemed to Teresa that there was nothing holier than to be able to share it with those who persevered at her bedside.
But there was someone missing, and everyone was aware of it. Nobody mentioned Massimo, but his absence was like a presence. And the reason for his absence was even more obvious: he must be kept out of harm’s way, away from the heart and away from her impending decline, he who was the most beloved of them all.
Nobody mentioned the mishap, either: when they had opened her front door the night before, they had been engulfed by the smell of gas. Teresa had forgotten to turn off her old-fashioned stovetop.
They spent the rest of the afternoon in a state of uncharacteristic inertia, though she could sense some kind of important restoration work going on inside of her. Sprawled across the cushions, they listened to music and talked about celebrity gossip, Antonio made popcorn, and they watched old movies.
They did not talk about her illness much. Antonio brought it up when he walked past a mirror.
“You need to get the house ready.”
Teresa looked around. It felt like preparing for a siege. And perhaps that was what she was doing, in a way. The possibility of a nursing home hadn’t even been raised.
“I suppose I do. Lots of things will change. Some already have.”
“We’ll help you.”
Oh, those plural pronouns.
When evening fell, Antonio was the first to leave, stretching his back as he got up. He had to go to work. He promised he’d come back as soon as his shift was over. Teresa fixed the collar of his jacket.
“Go home and rest, Antonio.”
“I’ll go where I feel good. And this is home.”
He kissed her on the cheek. Before she even knew it, he’d closed the door behind him and walked past the end of the driveway.
Blanca was still on the sofa.
“My father will be here soon. He wants to take me out for pizza.”
She said it as if to excuse herself, or as if she were asking to be saved.
Teresa sat down beside her.
“Why don’t you tell him to come inside? Just for five minutes. It would be nice to meet him.”
“Maybe next time.”
“Next time I might already have forgotten about it.”
Blanca did not reply. She distanced herself with secrecy, in a manner Teresa had understood by now to be her usual way. Blanca’s silence was her way of avoiding having to say no again, and Teresa wasn’t particularly interested in forcing her to do so. This father, then, who was present in Blanca’s life but whom the young woman kept hidden away, would have to remain faceless for a little longer—too long, perhaps.
Teresa watched Blanca feel around for the bag she had left on the floor, pick out a hairbrush, and start unraveling the tangle of knots generated by their afternoon of idleness. Her bracelets tinkled, and the piercing in her eyebrow shone when it caught the light.
“May I?”
Teresa took the brush and slowly ran it through the waves of Blanca’s silky blue hair.
“I have always believed I was going to have a son,” she murmured. “I still think of him that way, though I don’t know for sure. I never wanted to know.”
The cause of this admission also remained unknown. Blanca handed her a hairband and a clip.
“Have you told him about your illness?”
“Told who?”
“Massimo.”
“That’s a strange association to make. No, I haven’t told him yet. He was too upset. He would not have taken it well.”
“Teresa . . .”
“I know, I know. I’m making all this fuss, but I would have had to downshift anyway once I reached retirement age.”
Blanca was biting her lips, a nervous tic that seemed to be getting worse recently, leaving the skin there in tatters.
“Are you really going to stop solving cases?”
“It won’t be long before the only case I have to solve is how to put a pair of trousers on and tie my shoelaces.”
“You’re not just giving work up. You’re giving him up.”
“He has a partner. He’s about to become a father. I’m not giving him up. I’m freeing him.”
“I bet Massimo wouldn’t agree.”
“When does Marini ever agree?”
“You always refer to him by his surname.”
She tried, she really did try to keep him at arm’s length.
“You should trust him, Teresa.”
“I do trust him.”
“You’ve told me, and I’m still here.”
Teresa stroked her face.
“It’s more complicated with him.”
“What is?”
“Everything.”
“Have you ever wondered why that is?”
Teresa tied her braid and gave her the brush back.
“You’re a friend, and good friends are there to hear about our catastrophes.”
“And what about him? What is he?”
Teresa was too tired to keep circling around the matter. She had no time left for lies.
“He’s a son. But I’m not his mother. He already has a mother. God, I could keep a therapist busy for days.”
“I think that’s beautiful. And people don’t go to therapy for loving someone.”
“They should if it’s the wrong person, or if the emotion is all-consuming.”
Blanca smiled, but she looked sad.
“I don’t think that’s how it is with you two, Teresa.”
Blanca’s phone pinged. An automated voice read out the message she had just received. Her father was waiting for her outside.
“I should go. Do you mind if I go?”
“Of course not. Don’t worry about me.”
“I’ll be back soon.”
“Come whenever you want. There’s no rush.”
“Please don’t turn the stovetop on. Just use the microwave.”
Teresa laughed. Apparently she was still capable of laughing at her own misfortune. An excellent sign.
“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. Enjoy your evening with your father.”
Blanca stretched her arms out to envelop her in an embrace that smelled of hair conditioner and peppermint sweets. When she let go, Teresa held her for a moment longer.
“You know you can trust me, right?”
Their smiles vanished. A car sounded its horn.
“I need to go. Talk to Massimo. Don’t put it off any longer.”
Teresa went up to the window and pulled the curtain aside. Blanca was getting in her father’s car, an old runabout which looked like it had just been deep-cleaned—perhaps in honor of the occasion, or perhaps because of the care that people of limited means generally dedicate to important items. He was holding the door open for her. His tweed blazer had lost its shape around the shoulders and elbows. Smoky was already on the back seat, observing Teresa with his head cocked to one side and those funny little clumps of hair sticking out of his upright ears.
Teresa watched them leave with a feeling of loss she had not been prepared for.
The house surrendered to its usual silences—brimming with books, with professional publications, with objects she’d gathered along the way and photographs she herself never appeared in. A joyous mess of memories.
Teresa ran her hands across her manuals and the many files of notes she had collected over decades of work. She had studied hard, she had learned from the best, she had learned from the victims and their executioners, and now all of it was destined to disappear with her.
She took her diary out of her bag and held it in her hands for some time before putting it in her desk drawer. That part of her life was over now.
She needed to start thinking about how to move her furniture around, how to organize her belongings. Post-it notes on kitchen utensils wouldn’t be enough. The “after” was already here and there was no time to waste. Sooner or later she would get to the point where she couldn’t cook for herself anymore, or shower, or get dressed. No longer a woman, but a little girl without memories, with no heart (or perhaps with too big a heart), stripped once more of all experience. Who would be there to gather her dignity when it slipped off, and drape it back over her shoulders?
She placed her hand over her chest. In spite of it all, the urge to keep living in the world was beating in there, and with such vehemence, too. There was no anger there anymore, nor commiseration—only the will to live, pure and simple. She looked out at the dark sky outside the window.
What now?
The confusion didn’t last long, and was soon supplanted by other questions: What was she doing? Why were all these books open on her desk? Old notes on yellowed pages—and faxes. Who was the person sending them from Chicago and signing off with an R? What a mess.
