Let the Dark Flower Blossom (29 page)

And
tock
and
tick
.

And
scissors
and
rock
.

Between
either
and
or
—

The coffee drip by drop fell into the pot.

The green glass dessert plates were set one atop the next.

And the drifts of snow lay white in the dark woods.

Susu stopped to touch her palm flat to the broken face of the goddess before leaving the hotel.

Inj said, “Benny, his story will help you more than a haunted typewriter.”

Salt said, “You want a story?”

Eloise said, “Do you remember the morning that you broke the clock?”

Inj said, “I'm sorry, Benny. I really am.”

Zigouiller did not speak, not just yet; because there was no line written for him.

Eloise said, “—When we lived by the ocean? You used to bring me that awful salted licorice.”

“I thought that you liked it,” Zigouiller said.

“Liked it?” she said. “I hated it. Then I came around to it.”

“What do we do now?” said Beatrice.

Zola barked at a shadow.

“Would you like to know how Inj and I met?” said Salt.

“It's a tradition,” said Salt. “To tell stories. To tell ghost stories. If you are lucky enough to be snowbound in an old house in the middle of nowhere.”

“Where did you hear that?” asked Schell.

“Oh,” said Salt, smoking.

He exhaled. “Henry James, I think.”

“Ashes,” said Inj as she pushed a saucer toward him.

“—To ashes,” he said. “Inj and I met at a funeral. Inj in black, crying. Inj with white lilies. Do you know what she said to me? Do you? She came up to me, this girl. Look at her. She said, ‘Roman Stone is dead.' It was a stupid thing to say, because I was, because we were at his funeral. Weren't we?” Salt said.

Eloise said that sometimes now she absolutely craved licorice.

Inj said, “Benny, stop.”

Benny did not stop.

Zigouiller said, “What clock?”

Eloise said, “My brother killed a girl.”

Eloise did not tell Zigouiller the story of the broken clock.

Zigouiller said nothing.

This was exactly what Eloise wanted him to say.

Salt said to Schell, “Inj wants me to stop. Should I? Would you? Would you stop? No, no you don't even know how to begin.”

Inj said, “We met in a graveyard.”

Salt looked at Inj.

“At the heart of all things is a knife,” she said.

“Here comes the end,” he said.

“Here comes everyone,” she said.

“Now you've got the hang of it,” said Salt.

“I do,” she said. “Don't I?”

“You're the cat at a bowl of cream,” he said.

“I love cats,” she said.

“I love cream,” she said. “Isn't that stupid?”

“In the end,” he said, “someone is going to be left holding the knife.”

“Is this the end?” she said.

Salt looked across the table.

He looked at Beatrice.

“What are you looking at?” he said.

“You're a strange bird,” he said.

He turned to Schell.

“She's a strange bird,” Salt said.

“Beatrice,” said Salt. “Are you ever afraid?”

“Of what?” said Beatrice.

He paused.

He smoked.

“Falling,” he said.

“Falling?” said Beatrice.

“You might fall from a branch and break a wing,” said Salt.

“Leave her alone,” said Inj.

“Beatrice,” he went on. “Beatrice—are you superstitious? Do you believe in ghosts? Or poetic justice? If, say, I were cursed,” he laughed. “How would I break the spell?”

“You aren't cursed,” said Inj. “God, don't say things like that.”

“I am cursed.” he said. “And stop calling me God.”

“Drumroll, please,” he said.

Inj pounded the table with a drumroll.

“Sheldon Schell,” said Salt with mock reverence.

“Who is S. Z. Schell?” he said.

“What?” said Schell.

“S. Z. Schell,” said Salt. “Author. Or not. The has-been who never was. The hermit self-exiled to a life of depriving the rest of us of his greatness. How's that for a story?”

“I don't have the typewriter,” Schell said.

“I know about the girl,” said Salt.

The manuscript sat upon the table.

No one moved.

Not a spoon, nor finger.

While in the woods the snow fell.

And was falling.

“What girl?” said Schell.

“Have there been? are there,” said Salt.

“Benny, don't,” said Inj.

“—So many girls that you've lost track?” said Salt.

Salt laughed.

“Let me clarify,” he said.

It was quiet.

It was so quiet.

Schell was aware of the falling snow.

And the beating of his telltale heart.

Could everyone hear his heart?

“Your wife,” said Salt.

“My wife?” said Schell.

“She died,” said Salt.

He paused.

He smoked.

“And she left you a fortune,” he said.

“So?” said Inj. “People die all the time.”

“Well put,” said Salt.

Salt pointed at Schell.

“You're a ghoul,” he said.

“He's a ghoul,” said Salt.

“What?” said Inj.

“A ghoul. Living off a dead girl.”

“Picking her bones clean,” said Salt.

“Don't talk about his wife,” said Inj.

Salt laughed.

“Look at Inj,” he said. “She's going to tell me—to tell us—how to bury the dead. She's been places. She's done things. Just look at her, will you? Look at Inj. How can you not look at her? Whatta face. Where are her ships? Where is her army? She's got a story too. Tell them your story,” he said. “Go on. Tell them about Roman and how you inspired him.”

“I did so
inspire
him,” she said.

“I loved him,” said Inj.

“Do you ever think before you speak? Jesus,” said Salt.

“Benny,” she said.

She put her hand on his arm.

“Don't be angry,” she said.

“Benny,” she said.

Inj looked at him.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“I'm so sorry,” she said.

Salt shrugged.

He smoked.

“So?” he said.

“So Inj lied,” he said. “At least she's sorry, right? Inj told me that you promised me the typewriter. I just had to come here to get it. What did she promise you?”

The manuscript lay on the table.

He ashed his cigarette.

And with his white hands like small furious doves—

Rising out of a silk hat—

Salt reached for the manuscript.

Just as he did—

Beatrice grabbed it.

She held it in her arms.

And she ran from the room.

Inj searched the house for Beatrice.

If Susu Zigouiller were, say, a work of art; if Susu were a book: she was not a good book. Not the sort that is easily understood or enjoyed. She was not a best seller or a page turner. No, rather, she was a great novel, a book whose greatness rests entirely in the willing reader's heart. And one cannot say why or how this mysterious greatness is achieved, and yet there it is.

Zigouiller helped Eloise off with her dress.

Louis Sarasine made a compelling case for his own moral objectivity. He defended the innocent and the guilty alike. He was aware of the absurdity of this: the terms
guilt
and
innocence
are antiques—a Grecian urn, a golden bowl, an ossuary box—best placed upon a high shelf.

“I believe,” said Louis. “That there are monsters in the world.”

What you believe or do not believe is, of course, entirely up to you.

There was a book on Eloise's bedside table.

Schell said to Salt, “Crash, bang, boom.”

Zigouiller picked up the book.

“The truth is,” said Eloise, “I've never read it. Isn't that stupid of me?”

Eloise had never read
Babylon Must Fall
. She bought copy after copy. Every time that she went into a bookstore she bought a copy. She tried to read it, really she did. She had tried time and again, but she could never go past the first line.

At the heart of all things is a knife
.

Salt said to Schell, “We didn't meet in a graveyard. It wasn't a graveyard. It wasn't a funeral. When I heard that Stone had died, had been killed—when I read the details: the knife, the cake—I knew that I had to go to his funeral; but there wasn't a funeral. He was already turned to ash. So I went to the memorial. I don't like that word:
memorial
. She was the nanny, Inj was. An
au pair
they call it. For his boys. I met Inj. In her black dress. I saw his wife. I saw his boys. I saw his life; I—I hated him. I hated him for being real. I hated him for dying. I hated him for being dead. I wanted to be part of the story. I wanted to write myself into his story. I needed his typewriter. I knew that the only way that I could write myself into his world would be to do it on his typewriter. I saw Inj. I met Inj. She got me an ink pen. But, I wanted the typewriter. She told me that you had it; that you would give it to me. She said that she could get it from you. I believed her. I want the typewriter. I need it. I want it. I am part of the story. I always was.”

There were many lines, and Eloise had not read them.

“That story about your father—is it true?” said Salt.

“Did he really make coffins?” said Salt.

“Coffins, caskets—” said Schell.

“And he taught you how to do that?” said Salt.

“How to use a hammer,” said Schell.

“He killed your mother?” said Salt.

“You must have hated him,” said Salt.

“My father?” said Schell.

“No,” said Salt. “Roman”

They sat in silence.

As the candles burned.

“Do you know who killed Roman?” said Schell.

Salt removed his eyeglasses.

He set them, bows down, on the table.

He rubbed his eyes.

The candles were burning down.

Salt said, “I think Inj exists only for me. Is that wrong?”

“It isn't right,” said Schell.

“No?” said Salt.

He gave a dry laugh.

“But then, what is?” he said.

Schell said nothing.

Schell was thinking about his wife in her hospital bed.

Schell was thinking about the girl's naked body in the snow.

He was thinking about kerosene and turpentine.

About the locust.

And the flood.

And Babylon the great sweet mysterious harlot.

And the difference between sugar and salt.

And the mold upon roses.

Rocks, moss, stonecrop, iron, merds.