It was only after she’d posted this that she realized that it was a mistake. In fact if the police took no action, she could no longer tell them personally about her suspicions without giving herself away; alternatively, there might be some kind of row and then probably Signora Goggi would think she had some kind of fixation and dismiss her; not to mention the reactions of the owner of the house, the porters, the other tenants. Nobody likes visits from the police.
But the police didn’t appear, days passed and no one in the Goggi household or the porter’s lodge—as if word had been sent around to avoid the subject—made any mention of the monster in the attic; all of which added to Ghitta’s feeling of unease. She had difficulty sleeping at night, and no amount of rational thought could any longer persuade her that the horror in the attic was, in fact, nonexistent. By now the agonizing memory, which had been in some way blurred or attenuated by her immediate panic, rose again in her mind very distinctly; she pictured the minutest outlines of the incredible body: its folds, its revolting color, until she saw that hallucination was quite out of the question. The top of the house seemed weighed down almost unbearably: at night she felt this weight pressing down on her all the way from the attic above while the rest of the house, accomplices or innocents, slept on in blessed peace.
Until, about two weeks later, she felt she could ask for the key again without arousing suspicion. The portress told her that the attic was no longer available for the use of tenants; a firm had taken it over as a small storeroom; and her husband had taken everything that was in it to another attic; that was why the door had been padlocked.
“But that’s impossible!” exclaimed Ghitta, smiling to hide her dismay. “You remember the day I had that fright? It was open then. But the padlock was put on that very evening . . .” (even before she’d finished the sentence she realized how unwise she was being). Gina in fact looked at her in surprise.
At that moment her husband came in from another room. “Enrico,” said the portress. “You remember the time when Miss Freilaber had such a fright in the attic? She says the padlock was put on that same evening. Do you remember?”
“The same evening?” repeated Enrico with his unruffled good humor. “How should she know? Don’t you remember, miss, that it was I who went up there when it was already dark? No, no, you’ve got it wrong. . . . I can’t remember offhand, but we must have emptied it the next day or the day afterward, shortly afterward anyhow. . . . Why did you want to know? Have the Goggi lost something? . . . Or did you want to have a quick look at your monster?” But was his laughter really sincere?
“Did you need something from up there?” Enrico insisted.
“Oh, no,” said Ghitta, relieved. “We were just talking.” So the porters had been a little alarmed. Possibly they understood her suspicions, but they had also been afraid. But on whose behalf had they taken action? For whose benefit were they so eager to avoid all inquiries about, or visits to, the attic? Why was Enrico standing there looking so undecided? Why was he no longer joking? This time it was Ghitta who smiled. She looked at her watch. “Gracious, how late it is,” she said. “Goodbye.” But she felt that the whole world was against her because she was blundering and indiscreet, because she had discovered its secrets by chance and had not known how to keep them.
Seven Floors
ONE MORNING IN MARCH, AFTER A NIGHT’S TRAIN journey, Giovanni Corte arrived in the town where the famous nursing home was. He was a little feverish, but he was still determined to walk from the station to the hospital, carrying his small bag.
Although his was an extremely slight case, in the very earliest stages, Giovanni Corte had been advised to go to the well-known sanatorium, which existed solely for the care of the particular illness from which he was suffering. This meant that the doctors were particularly competent and the equipment particularly pertinent and efficient.
Catching sight of it from a distance—he recognized it from having seen photos in some brochure—Giovanni Corte was most favorably impressed. The building was white, seven stories high; its mass was broken up by a series of recesses which gave it a vague resemblance to a hotel. It was surrounded by tall trees.
After a brief visit from the doctor, prior to a more thorough one later on, Giovanni Corte was taken to a cheerful room on the seventh and top floor. The furniture was light and elegant, as was the wallpaper, there were wooden armchairs and brightly colored cushions. The view was over one of the loveliest parts of the town. Everything was peaceful, welcoming and reassuring.
Giovanni Corte went to bed immediately, turned on the reading lamp at his bedside and began to read a book he had brought with him. After a few moments a nurse came in to see whether he needed anything.
He didn’t, but was delighted to chat with the young woman and ask her questions
