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.

“Has she gone in?” she asked without preamble.

I stood up and gave her my seat so that she could watch the entrance herself, and sat down opposite her.

“Yes, a while ago. Actually I only caught a brief glimpse but I think it was her: she was carrying the handbag you used to have and wearing a navy blue coat.”

Luciana nodded. “Yes, a long coat. It used to be mine too. What time did she go in?”

“About ten minutes ago. But I told you, nothing’s going to happen to her. I spoke to him as you asked.”

“And he convinced you,” she said, looking into my eyes, unrelentingly searching for the truth. “Now you believe him.”

“I didn’t say that,” I said, uncomfortable. “But I’m sure he wouldn’t do anything so direct. And certainly not in his own house.”

“He could do other things to her,” she said darkly. “Valentina has no idea, she’s just an impulsive teenager. She doesn’t know what he’s like. I don’t know what image of him she’s built up from his novels. But remember, I know him. I know how captivating he can be.”

“That’s really what I wanted to talk to you about. His version of events is pretty different from yours.” I saw her draw back warily.

“I suppose a writer can invent all sorts of stories. What did he say?”

“That when you started working for him it never entered his head to try anything. He was too happy with the arrangement and with the way his work was progressing to ruin it all by trying anything more. He thought you were pretty but he wasn’t attracted to you. He said it was you who made him notice you. He told me that on one occasion he was dictating a section about a scar on a woman’s arm. He said you showed him the vaccination mark on your shoulder and invited him to touch it.”

“I showed him the mark, that’s true, but I never asked him to touch it. I didn’t think there was anything wrong in it. I’d forgotten all about it. I can’t believe he’s trying to give it another meaning.”

“He said it was the first time he’d touched you, and you seemed proud to have got his attention. He also said that later on you let him massage your neck.”

“Well, I see you’ve become good friends. How did you get him to tell you about that? One day he enquired about my neck. I bent my head to show him where it hurt and he started massaging it. It’s true that I didn’t stop him, but I didn’t think he had any other intention. I trusted him. I told you, I thought of him as a father. I didn’t think he had anything else on his mind. And it was only one time.”

“One time, and then another. He said he stopped the second time because you weren’t wearing a bra.”

“It may well have been twice. And I didn’t wear a bra very often in those days.”

“You did when you worked for me,” I said.

“Because I knew I had to be careful around you. But it never occurred to me he was getting ideas. Until he got back from his trip, when he seemed to have turned into a completely different person, none of it had ever occurred to me. But what are you driving at? Even if I did lead him on, which I didn’t, even if I was wrong to sue him, does that justify what happened later? Does that justify killing my whole family?”

“Of course not,” I said. “It doesn’t justify anyone’s death. I just want to know whether so far, in this part of the story, he was telling me the truth.”

“That all happened,” she said, looking away, “but he got the wrong idea. And I’ve told you a thousand times I regret suing him. But I can’t believe that this is my punishment.”

“He does blame you for his daughter’s death. You were right about that.”

I recounted what Kloster had revealed about his relationship with his wife, the fears he’d had since Pauli’s birth, and the unspoken pact he and Mercedes had had in the last few years. Luciana looked increasingly shocked: she seemed to have no idea of any of it. I told her about the wife’s reaction, her outburst when she read the accusation at the head of the letter, her immediate decision to get a divorce and the court order she’d used to separate Kloster from his daughter, using Luciana’s accusation as justification. I told her how Kloster had had to move out to a hotel, about his waiting to be allowed to see his daughter again, and what happened on the day of his visit. I tried to use the same words as Kloster had when describing that afternoon, from the time when he telephoned to when he found his daughter’s body in the bath. I told her about the crypt, the gallery of photos and the film of his daughter holding the little bunch of flowers. By the time I finished, Luciana’s eyes were filled with tears.

“But none of it was my fault,” she whimpered.

“Of course not,” I said, “but he thinks it was.”

“But it was his wife who…who…It was his wife,” she said helplessly.

“He believes it was your letter that broke their pact. He was sure he could have maintained their agreement for a few more years, until Pauli was older. He put it like this: his daughter would still be alive if his wife hadn’t read that letter. And there’s something else you’re right about: his being in Villa Gesell that summer wasn’t a coincidence. He said he couldn’t bear the thought that you were carrying on with your life as if nothing had happened, when his daughter was dead. He wanted to be there to make you remember. So that you’d think of her every day, as he did. So that your life should stop, as his had.”