Poisonous Kiss (29 page)

     Celia lowers her head. She doesn't find the prissy dress or the lacy handkerchief ridiculous any more. Someone brings a glass of water. No in the room is talking.

     Ellen's voice falters but her sentences are correct and coherent. The news came as a complete shock to her. She couldn't believe it. She can't believe it now. This is the first time that she looks at Celia, blushes violently and snatches her glance away from her. Ellen believes they loved each other. You could tell it from the way they looked at each other, the way they talked.

     "Do you see what I mean?" she looks questioningly at the prosecutor.

     He nods. Of course, he sees her point. Is there any mortal, who doesn't know the intimate glances, unfinished sentences and hints couples use if they are used to each other's ways.

     "Did they ever quarrel?" He doesn't expect too much of this question. He has just about given up on this witness. It didn't do any good to have this stupid girl subpoenaed. Baruch was a good man, a nice and clever one, he even had a good sense of humor…all right, so now we know some more about him. His wife simply adored him…of course! So much so that she had him shot by her lover!

     Ellen takes her time about answering the question. Some people in the back start whispering. Even a giggle is heard. Arany loosens his tie nervously. He's had enough of this. The trial is beginning to seem like a barbaric ritual meant for the entertainment of the crowd. He'll be convicted anyway, he deserves it. And they'll never know what really happened, even if they go on badgering this girl forever.

     "Well, they didn't really quarrel…" Ellen starts, her voice hesitating. Someone laughs; the audience relaxes. Arany sighs. He's thirsty, he'd give anything for a cold drink.

     "It was more like an argument." Now, that Ellen has found the proper word her face glows triumphantly. She wants to provide the district attorney with meticulously correct answers. This trial is not a game for her. This is the first time in her life that so many people have listened to her so carefully.

     "Can you tell us what they had this argument about?"

     Some people in the audience glance at Arany, but Ellen doesn't. She shrugs her fleshy shoulder, her bag dangles precariously from her wrist.

     "Well, they argued about…the experiments. They worked together and…" here she starts crying again. Even though her distress is sincere, these tears are not as meaningful as the ones from before. Crying now seems rather pointless. The faces surrounding her grow impatient. The trial is starting to drag. The audience longs for drama.

     "They never used to argue before." Ellen's voice comes in sobs and gasps. "They worked together so well. They discussed new developments, sometimes they talked shop, even during lunch." Her eyes shine brightly, she obviously is happy to recall the times when Baruch was still alive, sitting at the table, talking about work with his wife while his soup grew cold in front of him. Few among the audience seem to be listening to Ellen. A member of the jury is looking pointedly at his watch. The judge keeps fidgeting with his glasses.

     "But in the last few months…" Ellen is searching for words again. She wants to be specific. "Something must have happened. I knew it first when all the mice died." She doesn't care about the ripples of laughter caused by her remark, she wants to get it over with quickly, she wants to get it off her chest, she wants to get rid of the feelings, which kept her depressed for months. "They accused each other. They were shouting, screaming at each other. It was horrible." Ellen doesn't cry any more, her eyes are still red, she shakes her head staring desperately into the air. Why can't she make them see what an impossible, terrible situation it was? "Professor Baruch had never shouted before." She talks too fast, her words sputter out. "Once I heard a horrible noise from the lab, as if chairs were knocked over, something shattered…but I didn't dare to go in to see what was going on."

     "Why not?"

     "Because I thought…" Ellen lowers her head. "I thought they were fighting. It was incredible! Dr. Baruch couldn't hurt anyone if he wanted to. And Dr. Allesandro even cried about the white mice that died. And…I didn't want to go in because a couple of times before that…" her face reddens to crimson but she looks the district attorney defiantly in the eye and finishes her sentence, "before, I had heard them making love."

     The audience's attention is focused again on Celia. She bites her lip. She hates having people stare at her. Apart from her fear, this is the worst part of the trial, being stared at. Why do they do that? Haven't they ever clapped their eyes on women who occasionally made love with their husbands? Or do they envy her because she had two lovers?

     Their attention shifts back to Ellen. No, she didn't go in, what do they think of her? Now her high color has subsided, she looks rosy and young, she doesn't even look as plain as before. Yes, she definitely heard them, the door isn't soundproof and she assumes the couple must have forgotten about everything in the moments of pleasure.

     Arany recalls Celia's happy moans, her hoarse cry when she reached the peak of joy. He hates Ellen, for reminding him.

     "Also, once I was tidying up the office and found a video-cassette," the girl continues with eyes shining. "I wanted to put it among the others but it wasn't labeled. So I started to play it and there they were…we used to record the experiments…they must have forgotten about the camera and simply started to…on the desk." She can't go on. She can't get herself to tell them how she was watching the recording, how she couldn't tear her eyes away from it. How could she tell them about the envy that tormented her, the excitement that took her breath away? How could she tell them that she started to masturbate and how she was wriggling there, on the floor with her skirt hitched high above her thighs, that she was moaning and had to bite into her fist when she felt a scream coming? How could she tell them that she wanted to take the cassette home to copy it but was prevented by Baruch? He turned up just after she came, while she was rearranging her clothes, and still looked disheveled, tousled and misty eyed. And Baruch asked for the cassette, which he put into his old briefcase and left.

     Celia feels an almost physical pain. Martin will never make love to her any more on the desk in the office. He won't caress her into a frenzy with his tender hands. Nothing else Ellen says really sinks in. Yes, Ellen supposes, blushing but at the same time reveling in her confession, Dr. Allesandro enjoyed it, too. The attorney for the defense, the prosecutor and the judge are contemplating if this fact will do Celia any good in the eyes of the jury. Will the jury regard her as a woman in love and take a lenient view or will they think of her as an immoral bitch?

     It all passes above the head of Celia, the woman in love and immoral bitch. The only thing she is concerned with is how the trial could have taken such an unexpected turn, how it could have deviated from the only issue that was important. Why isn't anyone interested in what the quarrel was about?

They must have taken me for a relative. Nurses eyed me curiously, looking pretty and pure in their white smocks. A nervous doctor stopped in and gave me the benefit of his knowledge in anatomy. By the time I was able to place the exact location of tissues, bones and muscles he was gone. So I was still ignorant concerning the condition of Patricia Simmons. I still didn't know if she would live or die in this frighteningly modern hospital room. I didn't know if these muffled sounds, distant shouting and the hum of cleaning-machines, would be the last she ever heard.

     This place was somehow scarier than the old, shabby infirmaries of the past, where the purpose and appearance of the institution blended into a perfectly homogenous, disgusting unity. Here the white walls were decorated with gaudy prints that seemed like a cheap backdrop to dramatic scenes of suffering and death. There were no old people sitting in the lobby watching TV. There were only healthy people in the corridors of this hospital, as if they lock the patients in their modern wards, complete with phone and television.

     New visitors arrived. A strict looking, puffy eyed woman. She was haggard and skinny, and didn't remind me in the least of the beautiful young woman whose hand I was gripping the whole time the ambulance was bringing her to the hospital. I strolled the corridor. At the vending machine was a group of boys with hands thrust into their pockets, jingling small change. One must do something or he'll go mad while waiting.

     They often glanced in my direction but didn't try to say anything. They might have expect me to make the first move. We were like dogs at the playground, none of us has decided yet whether to bark or wag tails.

     Simone entered the corridor. She didn't notice me and I couldn't catch her eyes. It took a few minutes before I realized that she was deliberately avoiding me. I walked up to the vending machine, and for the fourth time since I've been here, pressed the button for coffee. I watched the slowly dripping pale brown liquid with distaste. In spite of my ardent hope, it hadn't improved any. I went to the window and raised the cup to my lips. One gulp was enough to make my stomach turn. The bittersweet taste made me wonder if there might be such a thing as artificial coffee beans. From the window I saw the top of a truck. It was white. There were men in white overalls around it, trying to unload something. The oblong boxes were too short for coffins. Thank God for small favors.

     A nurse passed me. I could tell it was a nurse before I turned to look because of her light, brisk steps. This one had nice, caramel skin and reddish hair. Easy on the eyes, I had to admit, even though I didn't want to meet anyone in this sad and forlorn place and I was worried about Patricia. Celia, Simone, Patricia…a few weeks ago I didn't have anyone special and now—now I still didn't have anyone special. The nurse took pity on me, and generously gave me a smile. The bright pretty face made my hands tremble. Some coffee spilled. The nurse laughed and offered me a Kleenex. Then showed me to a pay phone and disappeared behind a door.

     Celia must have been out of the lab, no one answered the phone. I leaned against the long counter, and watched passers-by, listening to the phone ring on and on. The nurse with the nice smile hadn't come back, God knew what she's doing. Where could Celia be? I glanced at my watch and saw that it was past six. I hadn't realized it was so late. I brought Patricia in before noon and have been waiting since. I had shared lunch with Ericsson in the cafeteria of the hospital. He told me no news, the on-the-scene team hadn't unearthed anything important. No one saw anything, no one heard anything. Someone took a shot at Pat from a car, then left the scene. That's all. The rest is silence and waiting.

     Celia told me they'd be at the lab until late in the evening. They might have changed their minds. Even geniuses are entitled to a day off. I dialed their home number, with some misgivings. I couldn't figure out why Celia insisted on my visiting. I didn't want to talk to her husband. I didn't want to listen to him go on about his damn virus, all the while knowing that I'm the lover of his wife.

     Celia answered the phone after the second ring. I had the feeling she was expecting a call.

     "It's me."

     Her voice is nervous. All right, I didn't expected her to be gushing with love, but why did she invite me to the lab? Why did she want me to talk to her husband? What was she holding back? What the hell was going on? I had a strange premonition about the answer to these questions.

     But I needed to hear it from her. There was no other way.

     "I'm sorry." Celia's voice came through falteringly. I could picture her: pouting lips, sad eyes, her hand absently brushing a dark lock of hair off her forehead.

     "I couldn't make it," I apologized. My fingers drummed a tattoo on the counter. The fat woman behind it looked at me disapprovingly. Why the hell was I apologizing? I didn't promise to go there, or at least I didn't promise to go that day. I searched for words. How do you start explaining that a woman standing next to you was shot? What's the standard way to tell your lover something like this? Well, darling, just imagine what happened, you'd never guess…

     I didn't have to say anything. Celia was preoccupied with her own troubles.

     "You couldn't have found a worse time for calling," she said, her reproachful voice made it clear that she thought I should know better. At the same time, I got the feeling she was scared and helpless.

     "All right, I won't disturb you. But tell me one thing…"

     I knew I sounded rude. I knew I was being unfair, but it felt good.

     "Not now, please…Martin's unwell."

     I envisioned an old man lying in bed: cold compress on his forehead, nightcap on his head, a chamber pot on the floor nearby, his face haggard—the face of a dying man. Where do I get this nonsense from?

     "Have you inoculated me with that goddamn virus?"

     The fat woman looks up again. Her glance is definitely suspicious. God knows what virus she must be thinking of. Not Q-virus, I'm positive of that.

     "Please…not now! I'll tell you everything there is to know tomorrow…" she was crying. I could hear her crying and I wasn't there, I couldn't embrace her. I couldn't slap her face, I couldn't grab her shoulders and shake her. Tell me about the virus!

     "So did you or didn't you?"

     "I'm sorry." The woman I loved and hated was crying. "I'm sorry," she repeated, then all I heard was some odd noise: thuds, cracks. Screaming…"I'm sorry," she says for the last time in her soft, sad and lovely voice and hangs up.