The Serpent Papers (57 page)

Recently.

Pulling the crumpled Serpent Papers
out of my bag, I open the second drawer in the kitchen island, and shove them beneath a set of napkins. Close the drawer quickly.
No one is taking this from me.
I walk forward to the bedroom, I call out again –
Hello?
Determined to banish my ghost.

Then stop.

Looking down at my feet. At the centre of the living-room floor, initially obscured by the kitchen island and the low Ikea coffee table, lies a fat, dead bird. A large bellied street pigeon, purple and grey, head twisted round, feathers puffed out, vacant bird eyes gazing at me. Ribs snapped open by a sharp blade, the entrails neatly arranged in a shape of a star on the hardwood floor. It reminds me of something I have seen a cat drag in. A creature played with. Dismantled. Organs dark bluish red. Left out for beloveds.

Retrospectively I hear – perhaps in memory alone – a short sharp breath. But mostly I remember the pain. A wailing crack at the side of my head, hands round my throat. As to my sanity? A roar like the raging of a bull between my ears – my own scream silenced, pounding against my face. A gasping lurch for air
.

Human fluids, a crease in the sheets where a body has pressed into me. Ants crawl over my breasts.
They want to eat my lungs.
I am struggling to breathe – my chest breaking – and for all I feel I cannot open my eyes –
Please! Let me wake!
But no sound – no sound emerges. Empty as a hollow seed. I reach to my mouth, but where lips once were, black scabs, pus mountains, leading from my nose over boils of broken skin. No lips where lips once were. No tongue to chastise or kiss! A tooth wriggles into my hand and I stare at the shape of my canine, its hard pronged tail – I choke, I cry –
Let me wake.
Like thunder I turn towards the pillow.

I smell him. Cologne, clean and bright. Rose soap. My tongue! My tongue!
Intact!
Hot rivers down my cheeks. I choke – and hear myself choking and choke harder – moving my feet to see if they make sounds – and scrape they do against the sheets.
A dream.
My legs bare white candles – and then nakedness. Nakedness consumes my groin – the base entirety of my form – the vulnerable damp between legs – my heart beats louder –
Wake up! Wake up!
Whiplash round my forehead, an ache in my pelvis – mind dozy, confused – but! With certainty comes the pain.
This is no dream.
I shiver. Panic rising. On the side of my bed, someone has left a robe. Fish swim against the darkness, the cloth catching on the dryness of pricked goose-bumps.
Where am I?
I pull myself up – knees into my chest, shaking –
You have nothing!
I choke –
You can’t remember anything. Gather yourself.
I scan the shadows, looking for a form, and then, cumbersome, sight fogged by fear, the lightning rod of pain – drift towards the window before the bed –
Can you climb out?
My hands on the smoked glass leave warm impressions –
No. Too high – you’ll break your legs – you’ll fall. You have no shoes!
And the city? Ripped away. A thick indigo haze – woods beyond the drive lined with iron-cast lamps, layered with green glass, suspended against the silhouette of bare trees. Fairy lights woven from branch to branch, connecting Moroccan metal work. I can see the opposing side of the house, looping around a central square – built of stone, in the traditional Catalan style, an old manor house, blue urns line the steps, glazed a rich aquamarine, planted with miniature lemon trees. Laden with thorns and unripe fruit. A single lamp hangs from a fixture beneath the tree at the centre of the drive – I see the outline of a bench, the lamps’ metalwork casting patterns of light on gravel. My vision hazy, my hearing muffled –
Is that a moaning that I hear? Like a baying at the moon – a male voice, deep and full-throated?

I am alone.

The hinge behind me creaks, an internal breeze from some open window deep within rushing towards my bareness. I turn and watch the door sway, back and forth, ever so slightly, as if the room were breathing. A dozy tranquillity grips me, a false calm, a dullness between my ears – and instead of moving, I listen –
is that music? Music from the ground floor?
The purple notes of a record player and a man’s voice on the radio – Spanish and lilting.

I follow the sounds, each step a momentous effort, my feet recoiling from the cold tiles, the rich carpeted floor, following the black corridor to the electric orange glow emanating from stairs, swirling down and down and down.

Before I reach the door I see him.

A figure striding, animal and handsome, white shirt and gym trousers, hands ruffling wet hair with a towel.
He has been exercising.
With an arm across the bottom of the stairs, he blocks my way. Looks me up and down. Smiles.

‘Can I offer you a glass of wine?’ he asks.

My vision spins 
– You recognize that voice
. Music from some ethereal source . . . Miles Davis drifting through the house like wind. In the entryway, an exquisite reproduction of the Black Virgin of Montserrat, fat baby perched on her lap, golden orb clutched in her right hand. A vase of fresh roses, pink and red, on a Victorian table inlaid with ivory and green glass. Every few feet along the black panelled corridor leading to the kitchen, there is a space cut into the wood. Displays for a growing art collection. A silver-plated foil from the Spanish Conquest mounted vertically on the wall, an Etruscan in flowing robes, a bust of Shakespeare. He leads the way swiftly.

‘My latest acquisition,’ looking over his shoulder, ‘is a small sketch of Picasso’s . . . Made while he was in Paris, the first time of course. Haven’t found the right place for it yet – but as soon as it’s on the wall . . . You have to come back around and I’ll show you. Take a proper tour of the house.’ I keep my gaze fixed ahead. The kitchen glows like a fire at the end of the long hallway, doors leading to unknown quarters remain firmly closed, as this man walks with a spring in his step.

My mind locks into gear –
Old Provençal,
Auriol.
Medieval Latin,
Oryolus – from the golden – Aureus
.
Painfully obvious.

‘I’m cooking a stew. A lamb from the neighbouring farm.’

My nostrils flare with the smell of red wine, rosemary, pepper.

‘It’s a very slow process. You have to wait for the meat to fall from the bones, but then it melts in your mouth.’ He takes the lid from the pot and stirs the contents slowly.

‘I find cooking very calming . . . especially after what has happened. It helps to have a distraction . . . Try this.’ Oriol dips a spoon into the bubbling stew on the stovetop. He leans across to me, holding the spoon out, with a hand beneath to catch the drops. The flavours are rich and full. His fingers nearly touch my lips.

‘Fresh oregano makes all the difference. I’m sorry if you’re not comfortable.’

Oriol catches my eye.

‘Wine then. Red? White? What would you like? Sit.’

I settle myself into the barstool.
Again this strange, dozy acceptance. My mouth fogs around his name – has he bewitched me? Hypnotized or drugged? A dull ache pooling between my legs. Do not think – no, do not think about what could have happened –
I right myself. Both hands on the countertop.
Steady.
Oriol pours two glasses of Rioja, lifting the first to his mouth and inhaling.

‘A very pungent bottle. Woody. Reminds me of raspberries. Now –’ he smiles, taking me in with his breath – ‘I’m ready! You may ask me anything you want. For this evening I’m yours.’ Oriol strides across the kitchen to open French windows leading into the garden.
There is nothing I want to ask.
The cold night air flows in. ‘Do you hear that?’ Oriol’s voice lilting. ‘You can hear the noises of the forest – I love how loud this stillness is . . . There is nothing louder than the silence of my woods, if you listen closely enough! There is no one for miles,
Querida
.’

Obedient, I shut my eyes and listen for the call of the nightingale, the rustle of the fox, snort of the wild boar. Bats drink from the water of Oriol’s fountain, dipping into and out of the sky, and the smell of pine from the garden pervades everything, a thick heady perfume, lavender and thyme, grown fresh in the garden, marrying the earthy aroma wafting from a bowl of pine needles Oriol keeps in the kitchen. He shuts the doors behind him and drifts back towards the stove. He plucks a tomato, brown and overripe, from the wicker basket on the kitchen counter, and slices it through the middle with a knife. He rips two chunks of bread from the baguette he had purchased in town for dinner and toasts it on a metal sheet placed over the open flames of the stove. Next he cracks a garlic clove from its bunch, cutting the end with his knife before prying away the papery skin. My nose tingles with the grease of garlic. Oriol smiles, bending his head down to the table to breathe a deep, all-encompassing scent. When the bread is finished he rubs it with the raw clove, before crushing the tomato and smearing its juices onto the white flesh of the bread, black at the edges.

‘A little snack to keep you going,’ Oriol says, handing me a piece of blackened bread. ‘I’m glad you’ve come. I wanted to show you,’ he says, drying his hands on a dish-towel, ‘what I do.’ His eyes green-gold and open. ‘Would you allow me to share something personal? Something so personal I have never shared it with anyone before?’

I nod.

‘I made a copy of your keys, by the way. The night I let you inside. Hope you don’t mind.’

His face parts into a beneficent smile.

‘As soon as I finish this I’ll take you to my studio.’ His gaze rests gently on my hands. ‘I think you’ll find it very special. Very informative. You must understand. What I do, not everyone understands. Above all else, it is an art form. It is an art. I’m here to talk. I want to know how far you’ve got. What you’ve discovered. It’s important that we are clear about these kinds of tragedies.’

A little rush of energy bursts at the base of my spine.

‘You have an open face. Very frank. Honest. Beautiful, really.’

A sliver of heat ripples from my neck up onto my cheeks. Oriol comes towards me, making a dramatic sweep through the air with his hands, as if he were opening a door to another universe. ‘After tonight I think I may even be in love with you – but I’ll show you everything. All her secrets. You’ll see it through her eyes. That’s important as a writer, isn’t it?’

I nod. He whispers very close to my ear.

‘Natalia enjoyed spending time here.’

His mouth near to my skin. Then he touches my neck with his hand, brushing me with such rapidity I barely realize he had moved. My breath quickens.

‘You had an ant below your ear.’ I watch him crush something black between his fingers, which he then flicks into the air. Very lightly he touches my skin, hooking his finger into the silk along my neckline; he pulls the cloth down, cupping my breast with his hand. His eyes rest on my nipple, hard against the cold. ‘Such beauty,’ he whispers before catching himself. A pounding thunder between my ears, a rising, choking rock of fear, up and up in my throat – I have no control of my body as he caresses me, his eyes roaming over my shoulder, his breath tightening on the lines of my neck – suddenly he turns.

‘She loved the gardens. The azaleas were her favourites. We used to sit on the veranda and run our lines overlooking the flowers.’ He pulls away and walks to the window. When he lifts his face his eyes are filled with tears. Oriol points to the garden. ‘I can show you, if you like, where she used to work when she stayed here.’ He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Please excuse me,’ he says. ‘The onions are very strong.’

His face smooth as he returns to the central countertop in the kitchen. He rests both hands out on the wood, splaying his thick fingers wide, then takes up a knife and slices a hunk of cured meat, thin strips he arranges elegantly on an Andalusian plate. My eyes scan the walls behind him. Blue castles and yellow fields.