Samedi the Deafness (24 page)

—Twelve pieces.

—That's not fair at all, said the first Grieve. Of course she knows how many pieces I cut my sandwiches into. She's my sister. We grew up together. Ask something that she couldn't possibly know, that only I would know.

—Don't listen to her, said the Grieve on the ladder. I answered the question. Ask her one. You know she's lying. She's the one you saw this morning in bed with the orderly.

James held up his hand.

—Quiet for a moment, both of you.

The Grieve he had been holding began to cry again.

—Don't cry, he said, just wait.

To the Grieve on the ladder, then:

—When you stole my wallet, which pocket of my pants was it in?

Grieve climbed the rest of the way up the ladder.

—Listen, she said, this is stupid. I love you. No more of these questions. I answered one already. She hasn't.

—Answer, said James.

The first Grieve's sniffling could be heard behind him.

—Answer, he said again.

Grieve on the ladder unbuttoned the front of her dress and opened it. She was naked beneath, and all was as he remembered it.

—Don't you recognize me? she said. Don't you remember me?

The other Grieve let out a wail.

—I hate you! I hate you.

—Answer my question, said James, backing away.

—The back pocket, she said. The right back pocket.

Aha!

—But it wasn't in the right back pocket, said James.

—I meant, right when I'm facing you, she said. Not the other way.

—It wasn't in my pants at all, he said, drawing the crying Grieve to him and putting his arms around her.

—It was in his coat, you bitch, said Grieve.

—God damn it to hell, said Lara, buttoning up her dress. Well, it was worth a try.

—I hate you, said Grieve. You always try to ruin everything.

She buried her face in James's shoulder.

Lara climbed back down the ladder. Her footsteps could be heard away in the corridor.

—Grieve, said James. I'm sorry about what I said. Your father confused me.

—Don't worry, she said. I forgave you while you were saying it.

James climbed underneath the root of the tree. It soon became dark. He pushed between other roots with his little arms and found his way into a sort of DEN. There was a little firepit with coals and a Dutch oven. The smell of fresh-baked bread rose in the thick dimness. But the light was kind and steady from the coals, and his eyes grew steadily clear and accustomed. He soon made out seven tiny shapes, animals seated and washing their paws in flat, high-rimmed water bowls.

—Come sit with us, they said.

And James did.

They took off his dandy little coat and gave him too a bowl of water.

—Wash, wash, said one.

—Wash, wash, said all.

James washed his hands.

Grieve said something quietly. James did not hear what she said. He asked her to repeat it.

—I'm horrified, she said, a little louder, by this drawing. It really looks like you.

James looked at the sheet in her hand. The elephants again.

—It does, he said. I want to bury it with the mask. You know, I hate that mask. You should never, if you're ever trying to catch a guy's eye, give him a convincingly made rubber mask of his own face. It's really not the right thing to do.

Grieve laughed, still sobbing a little.

—I know, she said, but I couldn't help it.

—And why, he asked, the threatening note that came with it?

She slid down and curled her head and shoulders in his lap.

—Because, she said, I was trying to be a part of what the others were doing. I knew they had sent someone else to do the job and talk to you and fetch you back, but I wanted to do it, so I went ahead anyway. That note was a bit silly, though. After all, we didn't want to scare you away; we wanted to bring you here!

James ran his hands through her hair.

—Your sister is a bit crazy, he said.

—Yes, said Grieve. Do you know how you can always tell which one is me?

—How? asked James.

—Because of this, she said.

She lifted her left ear.

—Look here.

He looked behind her left ear. There was a little tattoo there, a flower. But it was an odd-looking flower.

—I drew a lily and on top of it a violet, and blended the two, and then had it tattooed here. That's how you'll know it's me.

—I think, said James, she moves a little differently from you also. She moves like a weasel.

—Yes, said Grieve. Lara is a weasel. I've always hated her. The only happy week I had as a child was when she fell from the roof and went into a coma. She came out of it, though. Everyone was so happy.

—Is that true? asked James.

—No, said Grieve. But they would have been happy. Everyone thinks she's so clever. And I would be happy if she went away and never came back.

Another hour had passed. James was sitting in his room, holding the pistol in his hand. It was loaded still. A note had been wrapped around it, presumably by Graham or McHale. When the note had been put there, he could not say, as he hadn't looked at the gun in days.

The note said:

Better to dispose of this. It will look bad if you're caught with it.

James threw the note in a basket on the ground. The door opened suddenly, and Grieve came in. She was still wearing her maid's uniform.

—I'm a bit early, she said. What's urgent?

—This, said James.

He handed her an envelope.

—I want you to take this to the police.

He had come up with a plan and he intended to stick to it. Using the gun, he would escape with Grieve from the house and grounds. He was sure she would go with him. Her father and these others were so demented. She couldn't possibly stay. In the meantime, he would have sent the maid Grieve with a letter to the police, explaining everything. The police would come to the house, apprehend Stark and the others, and take them away. If Stark was out in the open and could not reach his shelter, he would act to stop the disaster, as he would certainly not want himself to be caught in it. Of course, he might have underestimated Stark's dedication, in which case, he and Grieve would be out in the world on the seventh day.

The maid took the envelope out of his hand.

—You want me to go right now? she asked.

—Right now, he said. It's important. And when you do, don't come back here. I don't know exactly how much you know about what's going on, but it's very bad. Things are going to get bad around here. You're better off gone.

Grieve looked at the pistol.

—Are you going to use that? she asked.

Her voice sounded concerned.

—Only if I have to, he said. They killed McHale, I think. They wouldn't flinch from killing me.

Grieve went to the door and paused, looking back at him.

—Then it's good-bye.

There was a tear in her eye.

—Good-bye, he said, but did not get up.

She came back across the room.

—I'm sorry, she said. I'm sorry, but . . .

She leaned down over the chair where he sat and, before he knew what was happening, had kissed him on the lips.

—Grieve! he said.

—I'm sorry, she said. Good-bye.

Her face was bright as she stepped out the door.

Now, thought James, Lily Violet will come back here to meet me and the two of us will bust out. He looked the gun carefully over and wished he could test it to make sure it worked. He clicked the safety off. He clicked the safety back on.

He waited ten minutes. He waited twenty minutes. And still she did not come.

There was a knock on the door. He slipped the gun into his waistband and went over.

They can't have seen me through the observation post, he thought. I've blocked that. But maybe there are other windows, other false doors. There was a mirror on the wall. He went over and took it down. But there was nothing behind it, no camera, no window from another room.

He went back to the door and slid it open a crack. No one was in the hall. He took the note from off the shelf.

We caught Grieve trying to leave the house.

You shouldn't have done it.

A panic ran through him. He pulled his coat on, hiding the gun, and went out the door. If he had to, he could force them to let her go.

He got onto the stairs. He could hear a conversation at the foot; it sounded like McHale and Carlyle talking, but when he reached the bottom, they were gone. He heard the sound of a girl's crying in the front room by the entrance, the room in which he had first met the second McHale.

As he reached the door, the crying intensified. He went through and saw Torquin standing over Grieve, not James's Grieve, but Grieve the maid, who was lying on the ground, sobbing.

—Torquin, he said. What's the idea?

Torquin turned to look at him.