The Two Deaths of Senora Puccini (30 page)

As Pacheco had been talking, I'd been watching the door. It was open just a crack, perhaps an inch. At first there was just a shadow behind it, but as Pacheco neared the end of his story I saw part of a face pressed to the opening. Of course it was the housekeeper's face but it was a moment before I recognized it, so distorted did it seem. Mostly I saw an eye. It seemed swollen, as if it were open too wide. There was too much white. Then it disappeared.

Dalakis was very upset. He refused to look at any of us and paced up and down in front of the fireplace. “But that was attempted murder. You should be in jail.”

“I was never caught,” said Pacheco. He glanced at the door and I realized that he'd known someone was there all along. “As a matter of fact, this is the first time I've ever admitted it. Of course, Batterby with his superior intelligence managed to guess correctly and since he did, then I had to tell you the rest of the story.”

Dalakis appeared more and more distraught and his big hands were pressed to his face as if he were trying to keep his head from breaking apart. Like others in the group, he had always seen Pacheco as a hero. He still couldn't look at him but stared off in the direction of the liquor cabinet, where Malgiolio was gazing down at the rug with his arms crossed, looking rather like a statue, I thought.

“You nearly killed her fiancé, then you blackmail her,” said Dalakis. “How can you justify that?”

“I don't try to. You remember in
Crime and Punishment
when Raskolnikov argues that some people have the right to kill? I think his theory had something to do with Napoleon. Of course, that's all foolishness. But there are certain courses of action, certain passions, which one follows no matter what. That is not to justify them, it is simply how the road went. From the moment I touched Antonia's ankle, the destruction of her fiancé was inevitable. Perhaps it was even inevitable that I would someday be describing it to three middle-aged men with Antonia listening outside the door. That is not to justify or apologize or condemn. It is just to describe. Clearly, it was wrong, but that wrongness doesn't affect its inevitability. Clearly, I shouldn't have done it, but that admission doesn't affect the fact I did it. I couldn't help doing it; that was the road I was traveling. That is not to say I'm not responsible. I am completely responsible. I wanted a woman and I ruined another human being in order to have her. Actually I ruined three human beings, myself included. But, Carl, knowing all this, I would still do it again, and tonight I will take her body with just as much pleasure as ever.”

Pacheco stubbed out his cigar and took another Gauloise from his shirt pocket, lighting it from the candle on the mantel. Then he walked to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a small brandy. Again I was struck by the precision of his movements, that no gesture was wasted. From the street we could still hear shouting and occasional gunshots.

“If you're such a fatalist,” asked Malgiolio, stepping back out of his way, “then how can you condemn me?”

“Because your relationships are based on self-hatred and a desire to humiliate yourself.” Pacheco paused and swirled the brandy around in the glass, warming it. I had the sense he was tired of this talk, that he wanted us gone.

“You don't love this woman or even desire her,” Pacheco continued. “She is just the tool of your punishment. That trivializes your affair to the point of ridiculousness.”

“And yours is a high passion?” asked Malgiolio mockingly.

“There's nothing high about it. It's simply the hunger of one human being for another. Your relationship is basically with yourself. I had a passion and I pursued it. Batterby had a passion but he grew afraid and ran from it. Dalakis had a passion and he let it defeat him. He never fought for it. He surrendered as soon as the conflict was raised. But you, Malgiolio, your passion was with yourself and it has dwindled down to letting some fat woman piss on your head.”

Malgiolio took a quick step toward Pacheco, who reached out his hand and pressed one finger against Malgiolio's chest, stopping him.

“This is the second time tonight you've wanted to strike me,” said Pacheco. “Perhaps it is good for you. In any case, I'm not judging you, I'm describing. If I tell a patient he has cancer, that is not to judge him. You have a kind of emotional cancer.”

“And what do you have?” I asked.

“Me?” said Pacheco. “Oh, I'm one of the damned: one of those fools who value something more than their own souls.”

“Isn't that excessively romantic?” I asked, thinking how often that charge had been leveled at me.

“Of course, but unfortunately it's also true.”

“What about her?” asked Malgiolio, still angry. “Aren't you afraid of her revenge, even that she might kill you?”

Pacheco returned to the couch, sat down, and loosened his tie. His cheek where Quatrone had hit him was still bright red and looked like raw meat. Looking at it was like looking at something inside of him. Not his soul perhaps, or psyche or id, but rather the creature he was when he was alone by himself.

“She might want to kill me but she won't,” said Pacheco. “Several times during our early years together she'd come into my room at night after she thought I was asleep. I'd hear her muttering to herself. Once I saw the glint of a knife. She'd prowl around the room but she couldn't bring herself to stab me. Another time when I had humiliated her in some awful way, I forget what, I gave her a loaded rifle. She pointed it at me and I'm even sure she wanted to shoot, but she couldn't. We've played out that little scene several times.”

“Why couldn't she shoot?” I asked.

“Perhaps she is not capable of hurting another human being. Or it may have been because it would have given me the pleasure of seeing her react to my prodding. Or maybe she knew that Collura would again wind up in a charity ward. Or maybe it was just to spite me. I asked her, of course, but of course she wouldn't say.”

I heard some noise out in the hall and the door opened. It was Colonel Carrera who entered briskly, then stopped when he saw the seriousness of our faces. He made a little bow. “I'm sorry to bother you again, but I've heard some definite news about your friend Kress.”

We all knew by his expression that Kress was dead, and so his words felt anticlimactic.

“He was shot, I'm afraid. I thought you'd want to know.”

Although it was a terrible shock, I also found myself thinking that at least Kress wouldn't hear of our discussion tonight. “What happened?” I asked.

“He was killed when his regiment tried to link up with the mutinous air force regiments. We don't have the particulars but there appears to be some talk of putting his body on display as a warning.”

And then I began to feel sorry for Kress and remember him as he had been at twelve years old—thin and blue-eyed with severe blond bangs cut at an angle across his forehead, a demon at soccer, a terror with girls, a coward with his teachers.

“Schwab's dead too,” said Dalakis. “We saw his body.” Then he began to weep. He did it entirely without shame and dragged his great gray handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped it across his eyes. Malgiolio too appeared upset.

“I know about that,” said Carrera, still standing in the doorway, “but I don't know how it happened. There's a story that he was carrying gold. When Quatrone found him, he was alone in his armored car and there was no gold to be seen.”

“So his own men killed him?” I asked.

“Possibly. There is no certainty in these things.”

Dalakis pressed Carrera about what was happening in the city but he knew little more than he'd known earlier. Radio communication was difficult. There was still fighting and a lot of sniping. Several of the poor neighborhoods had been turned into rebel fortresses and apparently there was a battle going on in the park downtown and around the post office as well. Yet Carrera assured us that there was no danger, the government was still in control, and within a week everything would be back as it had been.

I wondered if he were so naive as to believe that, but I felt too upset to argue. Not because of Kress or the fighting, but because I could feel thoughts surging deep in my brain which I couldn't reach. I kept imagining Antonia Puccini's startled white eye in the crack of the door. What would such an admission mean to her? What would she do? And I suppose I was thinking of my own wife and son and Pacheco's accusations. But it was still betrayal. She had betrayed me and Pacheco had betrayed me too.

I stepped out to the hall. Seven or eight soldiers lay on a row of pallets against the far wall while medics moved between them. About ten more were standing around. One was eating an orange, another appeared to be writing a letter. There was noise and moaning and people shouting at each other. Now and then the door would open and I could see soldiers in the street. The candles sputtered and there were shadows everywhere. Again I was looked at suspiciously as if I might suddenly pull out a gun.

Quickly I crossed the hall to the dining room. The table was as we had left it with the huge cake and empty wine glasses. I had neglected to bring a candle and I took one from one of the candelabra. Need I say that I also took the smallest piece of cake? I could hardly help myself. When I reached out for it, I accidentally bumped the small white-coated figure that stood for Pacheco and it fell from one layer down to the next, landing on its back in the red frosting. As I looked at the small figure, it occurred to me that perhaps Pacheco had lied about running Roberto Collura off the road. He had known that Antonia Puccini was listening. Considering his wish to shock her, he could easily have made up the story. Perhaps he had actually gone out and watched Collura go by, but as for knocking him off the road, really, we had no proof. Perhaps that is even why he'd been smiling, because I'd forced him into an admission that otherwise he would have had to volunteer. If I hadn't accused him, he would have had to make up the lie himself. Unwittingly, I had helped him. As I thought that, my eyes again settled on the vase with the scenes from
A Midsummer
Night's Dream.
Perhaps the figure with the donkey's head was nobody but myself.

I crossed the hall to the patio and walked back toward the kitchen. There was no sign of Señora Puccini. The candles surrounding the old woman had been extinguished. Her grandson was curled up on the floor and appeared to be asleep. I looked for the pistol but it was gone. I moved the old woman's skirt, feeling under the folds of fabric, but it wasn't there. Lighting several of the other candles, I quickly searched through the patio and kitchen. The birds, seeing the light, began to twitter in their cages. The pistol was nowhere to be found and I could only suppose that Señora Puccini had taken it.

I hurried back across the patio. From the front door, I heard someone talking loudly. Entering the hall, I saw Captain Quatrone standing by the door with about a half dozen soldiers. They were as wary as crows and moved their automatic rifles back and forth across the room, even pointing the weapons at their own comrades. One soldier knocked over one of the standing buckets of red flowers and it fell to the floor with a crash, scattering the flowers and spilling the water. Quatrone was arguing with Carrera as Pacheco stood nearby. Dalakis and Malgiolio watched from the door of the library. You know that expression: the air felt charged? Even the soldiers were aware of it and looked uneasily at each other as if we stood on the brink of something calamitous.

“The shots came from this house,” Quatrone was saying. “They were fired from an upstairs window.”

“But that's impossible,” said Carrera. “This is Pacheco's house. We're using it as a hospital. There're only our own men here.”

“I still should search it,” said Quatrone. “How do we know who's upstairs?” As before, there was a certain tension to Quatrone—both high-pitched and electric—and he seemed to bite off his words as if he didn't want them to rest too long in his mouth.

“Was anyone hurt?” asked Pacheco.

Quatrone didn't immediately acknowledge Pacheco's question and when he spoke it was to Carrera. “That's not the point. Two shots were fired. One struck a jeep. Someone could have been hit.”

“Was it rifle fire?”

“No, a pistol.”

Although there is no way to prove it, I was certain that Pacheco knew the shots had come from this house and was pleased by it, as evidence of something he had been waiting for. I realized he had known all along about Señora Puccini's pistol and I had the sense he had orchestrated the entire evening with her in mind, that he had meant to tell the story of his life with her whether he had three guests or fifteen, ending with the confession—whether true or false, who knew?—that he had run poor Roberto Collura off the road. And he was still trying to make her respond. The chance that she had fired the pistol into the street pleased him as proof that she had put aside her passivity. But at what point did it occur to me that there was still another alternative: that Pacheco also wanted her as the instrument of his punishment? Suddenly I wanted to take him aside and ask about Collura. Had he really run him off the road or had he said that only because he'd known that Señora Puccini was listening? But there was no way to get to him.

Carrera and Quatrone were still arguing. “You will not search the house,” said Carrera. “If there were shots fired, then we will discover who did it, but I don't intend to let you and your men rampage through here doing whatever violence you care to commit.”

Quatrone kept his eyes lowered but was clearly furious. Carrera, on the other hand, appeared completely calm, a sort of disdainful, superior calm. Really he was one of us. Although he didn't belong to our group, he easily could have. He was polished, urbane, and wealthy, while Quatrone belonged to another class altogether—he being one of those energetic and angry young men who join the army as a private and bully and fight their way up through the ranks. He reminded me of a bull terrier, those ferocious little dogs that sink in their teeth and refuse to let go. Just as Malgiolio saw in these troubles a chance for advancement, so, presumably, did Quatrone.