“About how long did it last?”
“Just a few seconds. So I didn’t think anything of it.”
“Did you hear anything that sounded like an argument, any screams?”
“No, nothing like that.”
The detective listened to me with his full attention, as though afraid of missing any little detail, and then he scribbled everything down in his notebook. Even though we had just met, I felt I was already indispensable to him.
“By the way, a patient at the university hospital was stabbed to death the other day as well. We’re trying to figure out whether there’s any connection between the two incidents. Would you know anything at all about that?” He took a second photograph from his pocket.
The woman in the picture appeared to be singing in a bar. She was thirtyish, slender, with a pointy chin and a pout. She had split ends and the roots of her dye job were showing. As a hairdresser, I notice these things.
“The attacker used scissors to gouge a hole in her chest.”
“How awful! One in the throat and the other in the heart.” I could hear the minestrone bubbling in the kitchen. My apron was splattered with juice from the tomatoes. “No, I’ve never seen her either,” I told him.
“No?” he murmured, clearly disappointed. I felt as though I’d let him down. “The tiniest detail could be helpful. If anything at all comes to mind, don’t hesitate to call.” I wanted so much to be useful, to say something that would keep him interested. But nothing came to mind. “Well then,” he said, bowing politely, “if you think of anything, please get in touch.”
“Of course,” I said.
My boyfriend arrived just on time. It had been a while since we’d spent our day off together. In fact, we’d been so busy I hadn’t seen him in almost three weeks.
We were planning to watch a video and have a quiet dinner at home. Then we might go out to a bookstore or record shop, or take a walk in the park. Or maybe I would cut his hair on the balcony—though he always says it embarrasses him to be seen like that by people in the neighborhood.
Dinner was almost ready. I had seasoned the shrimp, and they just needed to be grilled. The salad was in the refrigerator, and the wineglasses sparkled. The minestrone had boiled a bit too long, but it would still taste fine. I had bought his favorite strawberry shortcake at the bakery on the plaza, and set the table with the new cloth and napkins. Everything was perfect.
“I’ve been dying to see you,” he said as he took me in his arms. Or at least that’s what I think he said. His voice was muffled by my hair, and I couldn’t hear him clearly, but I decided not to ask him to repeat himself, in case it had been something less romantic.
He took off his coat, inhaled deeply the smell of dinner coming from the kitchen, and pushed back his bangs, which were too long. We sat down on the sofa and held each other, neither of us saying much. We both knew that silence was the best way to appreciate a moment we’d been waiting three weeks for.
I could tell someone was in the apartment upstairs and wondered if the police had come back. It was noisy outside as well, but not enough to disturb our peace. His arm was around my shoulder, and his other hand held mine where it rested in my lap. I laid my cheek against his chest, and I could hear his heart beating, feel his breath on my neck.
When I’m curled up in his arms like this, I can never tell how my body looks to him. I worry that I seem completely ridiculous, but I have the ability to squeeze into any little space he leaves for me. I fold my legs until they take up almost no room at all, and curl in my shoulders until they’re practically dislocated. Like a mummy in a tomb. And when I get like this, I don’t care if I never get out; or maybe that’s exactly what I hope will happen.
Still, the moment came when I had to pull myself away and break the silence.
“Did you know there was a murder upstairs?” I said. For some reason, I couldn’t resist telling him. A murder was special, interesting.
“I saw a patrol car parked outside,” he said, his hand still holding mine.
“The police were swarming all over the building, and there were lots of reporters. It was awful. They even came here asking questions. I was a nervous wreck—the first time I’d ever talked to a detective in my entire life. Have you ever talked to one?”
He shook his head.
“He was nice enough,” I continued. “Seemed new to the job, but he was very polite. I heard some strange noises the other night, the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor. Probably had something to do with the murder. He was very interested—about the noises. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but for some reason I remembered. And I had even checked the time without realizing it. It was ten after eleven. Which is really the point. The exact time of death is always important in things like this.”
This time he nodded, and I continued.
“They said the victim was a doctor at the university hospital, that he was stabbed to death by his mistress, almost decapitated, actually. It’s too horrible to think about. But it’s an old story: blind love and jealousy. Though I don’t know why she went for the throat. I think I’d aim for a spot with more meat, the chest or the belly. The neck is such a small target; you might miss completely, and I doubt it would be very satisfying, even if you did hit it. If you were that angry, wouldn’t you want to tear his guts out or something? And there was one more queer thing: that same day, a patient was murdered at the hospital where the doctor worked. A woman who was just about to have heart surgery. The attacker used a pair of scissors, stabbed her in the chest. I wonder whether there’s a connection between the two? Something more complicated than a simple crime of passion? Oh, yes! I nearly forgot. And a reporter from one of the talk shows came around asking questions, too. How could they resist?—it’s a perfect story. But it was a shock, having a camera shoved in my face. I recognized the reporter, one of those fast-talking women with too much makeup. No one in the neighborhood had seen anything, so she was having trouble digging up information. But I told her everything I knew about the woman upstairs. That she was beautiful, wore designer clothes … Oh! Also she followed the recycling rules of the building. I only knew her from saying hello in the elevator. But the reporter seemed really grateful; she said my information was very useful. Of course, they’ll hide my identity when they put it on TV. No one wants to have their face splashed around in connection with something as awful as this. She said the interview would be broadcast tomorrow. I’ll have to record it. Who knows, maybe what I told them will turn out to be the key to solving the case. Do you think so?”
I was out of breath from talking so much. At some point he had let go of my hand.
We fell quiet after that, but it was an uncomfortable silence, different from the peaceful moment we had been sharing just a few minutes ago. The wineglasses shone on the table. Steam was rising from the pot on the stove. And the noises upstairs had stopped.
“Do you find it amusing that someone died?” he asked.
“Oh, I forgot to make the coffee,” I said, pretending I hadn’t heard him, and then ran to the kitchen. I clattered the cups against the door of the cupboard as I took them out, hoping the noise would break the silence— and deflect his question. But it was no use.
“Do you find it amusing that someone died?” he repeated in the exact same tone, now standing in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed.
“What do you mean?” I said. “There’s nothing amusing about it. It’s just that I…” But before I could finish, he grabbed his coat and walked out, slamming the door behind him.
I’m not sure how long I sat there, alone. The water boiled, but I realized I no longer needed it. I put the coffee cups back in the cupboard. Then I went out.
I had no intention of running after him. It was as though he had already gone somewhere far away, and I could run and run but I would never catch him.
What had I done to deserve such treatment? I may have let myself get a little carried away, but I didn’t think there was anything funny about the murders. I was truly sorry about what had happened. I’d been very serious when talking to the detective and the reporter. If I got excited, it was just because I was so happy to see him.
In the end, I guess my explanations were no use—there was no one to hear them anyway.
It was a weekday afternoon, the plaza in front of the city hall was almost empty. The ice-cream cart and balloon vendor came only on Sunday. A man was taking a nap on a bench. Some young people were reading on the steps in front of the clock tower. The bakery where I bought the cakes this morning was quiet now. A flock of
