Let the Dark Flower Blossom (41 page)

“I did what he asked me to do,” she said.

“I always did what he asked me to do,” she said.

She drank.

“I spent the night with his friend,” she said. “When I went back to our room in the morning—Ro was gone.”

“He left you there?” I said.

“He left a plane ticket for me. That was it. I don't know,” she said. “I went home. I went to the movies every day. I saw everything at the Cineplex. One day, or maybe it was night, I saw this picture—this movie about the Trojan War. Have you seen it?”

“No,” I said.

“The man,” she said. “Ro's friend. From the bar. He was in the movie.”

Susu said that she watched the movie. With a terrible ominous feeling. She waited for the credits. And then she saw the name of the actor who played Priam.

“The king,” I said.

She said. “The king.”

“Who was it?” I asked.

“Zigouiller,” she said.

“Zig,” I said.

“Jesus,” I said.

“In the hotel—” she said. “Where we stayed. There was a statue in the lobby. Ro called her Our Lady of Situations. There was a story that she could heal the sick and all that. It made the place popular with tourists—they came to see the lady. To take a picture with the lady. It bothered Ro that the place was becoming popular with tourists. He said, he said—‘the world may change, but not me.' That's what he said. So he always tried to knock her over,” she laughed. “When he walked by. Gave her an elbow—a shove. He
couldn't help himself. Some people said the hotel had been built around the lady. But the night porter's wife told me that the owner of the place won the statue in a card game.”

She laughed.

“I knew that Ro was going to Iowa,” she said. “He had told me about it. How he was going to give a graduation speech. At his old school. So I went to Illyria. I went to him. He was staying in a guesthouse. The door wasn't locked. I walked in. He wasn't even surprised. He asked me was I hungry? He had just ordered dinner. ‘I'm so happy that you came,' he said. ‘You always know what I want. Just when I want it,' he said. I—I told him about the movie, that I saw, that I had seen the movie. That I knew who his friend was. He laughed. He said, ‘So you saw Zig?' He said, ‘Poor old Zig.' He said that he had never liked Zigouiller. He said that actors were stupid parrots; weren't they? I asked him why did he trick me? I asked him why did he do that to me? He seemed, oh—sad. ‘To you?' he said. ‘What does it have to do with you?' he said. It was a joke on Zig. That's what he said. He said, ‘Zigouiller has nothing to do with us.'”

“And then I knew,” Susu said.

“Or maybe I had always known,” she said.

“Knew what?” I said.

She looked at me.

Her smooth forehead. Her moon-round face.

Her green eyes. Her dark hair.

“I knew that Roman was my father,” she said.

I was looking at Susu.

“You don't mean?” I said.

“You mean—?” I said.

“Don't be vulgar,” she said.

“He said that we could go away together. Someplace where things like that didn't matter. I wanted to go with him. I really did,” she said.

“I asked him, ‘What about my mother?'”

“‘Your mother?' he said.”

“Do you know what he said then?”

“He called her a whore.”

Susu laughed.

“
Whore
is such a funny old-fashioned word,” she said.

“‘Your mother,' he said, ‘lost a bet, and here you are.'”

“‘Do you believe me?' he said.”

“Did I believe him?

The television was on. He was watching a baseball game.

He said that it was just us now.

And didn't we have an understanding?

Didn't we get along so well?

He came toward me.

There was a pearl-handled letter opener on the table.

Wasn't that just like him?

To leave such a dangerous thing lying around?

A sharp silver knife.

A beautiful thing.

He came toward me.

He didn't stop.

He saw me looking at the knife.

He said that he had gotten it for me as a gift.

Because it was so beautiful.

Because I was beautiful.

And because I always liked letters so much.

That I should have a silver letter opener.

He handed it to me.

Its handle toward my hand.

I took the knife from him.

I pushed it in.

As hard as I could.

I stabbed him.

He fell back.

I took the knife.

He wanted me to have it.

It was such a beautiful thing.

Oh, and this. His watch.

Because mine had stopped.

He didn't need his anymore.

What could time mean to him?

Do you think it's ugly?

I'll sell it when I run out of cash.

I took the watch and the knife.

Then I left.

I got on a plane that night.

I haven't been back since.

And now here I am,” she said.

Susu sat by the window—

Just as Ro had all those years ago.

“I look like him, don't I?” she said.

I couldn't look at her.

“My mother spent my whole life trying to protect me from him,” she said. “Maybe she should have tried to protect him from me.”

“Does she know?” I asked.

“I came to you,” Susu said.

She came toward me.

In her hand was an envelope.

She handed it to me.

She put it in my hand.

Then she turned away.

She asked for a drink.

I filled her glass.

She drank.

On the envelope was written:
S. Z
.

I opened it.

Inside there was a folded sheet of paper.

I read it.

There was one sentence.

Handwritten, inked—

How does the story end?

Susu stared out at the water.

The birds flew dark-winged—

Snow was falling.

Night fell and was fallen.

I tried to give her the paper.

It fell from my hand.

It fluttered.

To the floor.

She picked it up.

She crumpled it in her hand.

And she threw the paper in the fire.

She watched it burn.

She laughed.

She held out her glass.

She wanted more.

“I'm a monster,” she said.

I handed the glass back to her.

She tapped her fingers on the windowpane.

“He knew,” she said.

“He knew all along. And he thought that it would be a good story,” she said.

“Is it?” she said.

And she stood.

She drank.

She set down her glass.

She sat.

She sat across from me.

I looked at her.

She became her father.

A storyteller in love with a story.

“I killed him,” she said.

“Why?” I asked her.

She paused.

She stared into her empty glass.

“Because that was how the story had to go,” she said.

She laughed.

Susu leaned back in the chair.

She rested her cheek against the velvet cushion.

Her features softened.

She was her mother.

She was Eloise Schell with that look on her face—just before she would call out,
Hey Shelly—no hands
—and plunge downhill on her bicycle.

When Father taught us right from wrong.

When Mother's kindness was a beautiful thing.

“Aren't you afraid?” I said.

“Of what?” she said.

“Getting caught,” I said.

“Caught?” she said.

“I don't worry about getting caught, no,” she said.

“I only had one father,” she said.

She held her glass out to me.

I refilled it.

She drank.

“I loved him,” she said.

“Love?” I said.

“Am I being too vulgar?” she said.

The snow fell and fell.

“What will you do now?” I said.

“Now?” she said.

“What would you do?” I asked.

“If you had a lot of money?” I said.

She set her glass on the table.

“I'd go away,” she said.

“I want to give you,” I said. “Everything.”

“Your wife's money?” she said.

“It's mine,” I said.

“I don't want your money,” she said.

“Why not?” I said.

“It seems like a punishment,” she said.

“It is,” I said.

“Rock, paper, scissors me for it,” I said.

“A game?” she said.

She was quiet.

She did not speak.

She placed both her hands flat, palms down on the table.

Then she made a fist.

We counted out.

One, two, three.

She chose scissors.

“Did I win?” she said.

There was a rap at the door.

Beatrice stood in the doorway.

She asked did we want coffee?

Did we want chocolate cake?

Susu said that chocolate cake sounded good.

She rose.

She stood—

And then she saw the broken swan.

A snapped neck; a wing; a black glittering eye.

Susu found the broken statue.

She held the broken glass in her hands.

And she began to piece the swan back together again.

Whores or no whores? That is the question.

That night the story ended.

Dr. Lemon passed from this life into the next.

In the manner of a saint.

I would not believe it if I had not seen it.

I saw it for myself.

I was with him as he lay upon the bed.

Under a white blanket.

At his head was a candle.

There were candles about the room.

Beatrice had lighted them.

A cold wind passed through the room.

And the candles flickered.

I felt all the pain of knowledge pass from me.

And there was an attar of roses.

Beatrice reached forward and closed her father's eyes.

She did as he had asked of her.

She always did what he asked of her.

She placed a new penny upon each closed eye.

As payment to the ferryman.

My hair has gone to silver.

Like Moses before the burning bush.