pigeons flew into the air and then settled around a bench.
Four o’clock sounded, the door in the tower opened, and the wooden figures—soldier, rooster, and skeleton —marched out for their little parade. A few tourists gathered around to take pictures.
Since my boyfriend and I had usually met at the plaza, I had seen the show so often I was sick of it. Especially since he was usually late.
The angels appeared with golden wings fluttering. The left wing on one of them was loose and looked like it was about to fall off, while the jaw of the skeleton seemed to be stuck. Paint was chipping from the rooster’s comb. I knew every last ugly detail.
The angel at the back of the line turned on its spool, the skeleton rang the final bell, and the door closed. The tourists wandered off. I skirted the tower and took the road behind the city hall. Most of the souvenir shops were closed.
I had a friend once who was dumped by her boyfriend because he didn’t like a coat she had bought. It was a very nice cashmere coat, but for some reason it disgusted him to see her wearing it. At least that’s what he told her. She cut it up, doused it in lighter fluid, and burned it, but her boyfriend never came back.
Another girl I know lost her boyfriend for using eyedrops in bed. They were just normal drops, but he said he couldn’t stand seeing her put them in. Strange that a little thing like a coat or an eyedrop can ruin everything.
I walked for a long time, turning down narrow and deserted streets, hoping to avoid people—because every time I saw another person, I thought it might be my boyfriend. I passed the library, a dry cleaner, a beauty parlor that had gone out of business. A little playground with just a swing and a sandbox. A hedge of Red Robin. A puppy playing in the grass. At some point I lost sight of the clock tower.
When I finally got tired of walking, I stopped in front of an old stone house. A huge oak tree grew in the front yard. There were lace curtains in the windows, and bright red flowers in the planters. An elaborate design had been carved into the paneling on the front door. There was no sign of anyone in the house, only the sound of oak leaves rustling in the breeze.
The rusted sign on the gatepost was hard to read, but I managed to make out the characters for “Museum of Torture.” Just the spot for me right now.
Bright colors streamed in through a stained-glass window high above the lobby. There was a curved staircase at the back of the room. An umbrella stand with a mirror, two high-backed chairs, a piano that looked like it hadn’t been played in years. A hat rack and a few other carefully arranged pieces of furniture. The rug on the floor was soft and deep. An empty vase had been set on a side table, and a porcelain doll with curly hair sat on one of the chairs. A lace runner with a pattern of swans covered the shoe cupboard. Everything was very elegant.
But the air was stale, as though the room were holding its breath, and the only thing that moved was the light from the windows when the oak leaves fluttered outside.
I looked around for a reception desk, but there was nothing like that—no pamphlets or arrows showing where the tour started, no ticket machine or anything else you might expect to see in a museum. The doors on either side of the lobby were closed.
I screwed up my courage and called out, “Excuse me!” To be honest, I wasn’t sure I wanted to see the Museum of Torture, but for some reason I couldn’t stop myself. After all, torture might have been better than going home to my silent apartment.
“Excuse me!” I called again, but my voice seemed to die away. I thought for a moment, and then chose the door on the left. I always go left when I have to choose. He was left-handed.
“Welcome,” said an old man in a bow tie. He held out his arm to show the way, as though he had been expecting me. But I was startled and froze for a moment. “Please come in,” he said, running his hand through his white hair. His cologne smelled like a fern. The handkerchief peeking out of his breast pocket matched his tie; his cufflinks were set with pearls.
“I tried calling from the lobby, but no one answered. I apologize for barging in like this.”
“Not at all,” he said. “But tell me, have you come to see the collection? Or are you here to contribute a piece?”
“A piece?” I said.
“An instrument of torture,” the man answered, smiling just a bit. I shook my head. “I see,” he said. “Very well then, I would be happy to give you the tour.”
We were standing in the living room. The furniture included a pair of couches; a claw-foot cabinet; a long, narrow table like something from a church; a rocking chair; and a record cabinet. There was a real wood-burning fireplace at the end of the room.
It was a fancy room for a rich man, the kind of place I’d like to live in myself. But there was one strange thing about it: every bare space was covered with some device for torture.
They were crammed in the cabinet and lined up on the table, stacked in the bay window, on the mantel, under the chairs, behind the curtains. Even hanging on the walls.
“Are all these yours?” I asked.
“No,” he answered, as though the idea seemed ridiculous. “I simply look after the collection. I give tours for our visitors, take care of the items on display, and appraise new acquisitions. We have to guard against fakes and forgeries.”
“Is there a difference between the genuine article and a fake when it comes to things like this?”
“Why, of course there is. We consider an item genuine only if it was actually used to torture someone. If it was simply intended as a decoration, it’s a fake.” Then he turned and pointed at the wall. “Well then, shall we begin here?”
A set of four iron rings, each dangling from a chain, had been mounted a few feet off the floor. It looked like some prop for a magician or a circus act. The metal was rusted and there were brown stains on the wallpaper behind it.
“The rings would have been placed around the victim’s hands and feet, and then horses would pull the chains in different directions. It’s a fairly conventional device, used in France at the beginning of the eighteenth century. In later years, the horses were replaced with winches, so the pain could be inflicted in more carefully calibrated increments, which is the whole point when it comes to torture.”
The old man had pronounced the words “carefully calibrated” with special care.
“Next we have this leather strap and these pliers. The victim’s wrist was attached to a table with the strap, and the pliers were used to extract the fingernails. Note the unusually delicate tips of the pliers.”
It might have been a trick of the light, but the strap looked wet. The pliers seemed almost harmless.
“This house was owned by twin sisters, daughters of a coal baron. They were maiden ladies who lived well into their eighties, and they traveled the world assembling this collection.”
“But what did they want with all this?” I asked. “Rich people usually collect paintings or jewels or things like that.”
“The desires of the human heart know no reason or rules. I suppose I might ask you instead what you hope to discover by coming to see us today?” He coughed and put his hand to his throat, as though about to straighten his bow tie. I caught another whiff of his cologne.
“You said that people bring things to you, to add to the collection?”
“That’s right. From time to time, patrons come to us with items they’ve discovered. I examine them, and if they seem suitable, I purchase them and put them on display.”
“But how can you tell whether they’re genuine or not?”
“First, I test the age of the materials: iron, wood, brass, leather, fabric, tin. An object may look old, but only the proper scientific testing can reveal its true age. Then I have to determine whether the instrument has actually been used or not—but that’s generally far easier than testing the age. You simply have to check for the presence of blood.”
I looked back at the rings and the fingernail pliers and wondered whether the spots on the wall and the moisture on the leather strap had something to do with blood.
“If you’re ready, we can continue,” the old man said.
No one joined us for the tour. I was alone with the old man for what must have been hours. Every room had
