Zig Zag (4 page)

Finally,
she managed to pull it out of her bag, but as she did, it slipped
from her sweaty fingers, falling onto the car seat and then bouncing
from there to the floor. She had to retrieve it.

Suddenly,
a shape came out of nowhere and filled her windshield. She didn't
even have time to scream. She instinctively jammed on the brakes. The
force of the sudden stop slammed her hard against the seat belt. The
guy, a young man, jumped back and then angrily pounded the hood of
the car with his fist. Elisa realized she was in a crosswalk. She
hadn't been paying attention. She raised her hand in apology and
could easily hear the man's insults through the window's glass. Other
pedestrians glowered at her disapprovingly.

Calm
down. You can't do anything in this state. Calm down and get yourself
home.

Her
phone had stopped ringing. Still sitting there in the crosswalk,
Elisa ignored the other cars' honking and bent down, grabbed the
phone, and glanced at the screen. Blank. No phone number showing
where the call had come from.
Don't
worry; if that was it, they'll call again.

She
placed her cell carefully on the passenger seat and continued on her
way. Ten minutes later, she pulled into her building's parking garage
on Silvano. Ruling out the elevator, she rushed up the three flights
of stairs to her apartment.

Though
she knew it would do no good, she locked each of the four security
locks and the magnetic chain on her reinforced door (she'd had it
installed three years ago, and it had cost a fortune). Then she set
the alarm. Next, she made her way through the apartment,
systematically closing all of her electronic blinds (even the ones on
the kitchen door that led to the laundry room) and turning on all the
lights. Before closing the dining-room blinds, she peeked out to look
down at the street.

Cars
drove by, people strolled along, their sounds muffled as if they were
in an aquarium; she saw almond trees and graffiti on walls. Life went
on. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Elisa closed the last blind.

Next,
she turned on lights in the bathroom, the kitchen, and her little
exercise room, which had no windows. Then she switched on the
night-table lamps flanking her unmade bed, magazines and math and
physics notes scattered across it.

A
wad of black silk lay bunched up at the foot of the bed. Last night
she'd been playing Mr. White Eyes and still hadn't picked up the
underwear strewn across the floor. She bent down and grabbed it now,
shuddering (thinking about her "game" now made it seem even
creepier), and stuffing it untidily into a dresser drawer. Before
leaving the room, she stopped for a moment in front of her huge
framed picture of the moon (the first thing she saw when she awoke
every morning) and flicked the switch on its frame. The celestial
body took on a white, phosphorescent glow. Back in the dining room,
she turned on the remaining lights (floor lamps, undershelf lighting)
from a central control panel. Finally, she did the same with two
battery-charged lamps.

Her
answering machine flashed the number "2." She listened to
her messages, holding her breath. One was from the publisher of a
scientific journal she subscribed to, and the other from her cleaning
woman. Elisa only had her come when she could be home; she didn't
want anyone invading her privacy in her absence. The cleaning woman
wanted to know if she could change days next week so she could go to
the doctor. Elisa didn't call back. She just erased the message.

Then
she turned on her forty-inch digital TV. On several news channels,
she found the weather, sports, and financial reports. She opened a
dialogue box, typed in a few keywords, and the television did an
automatic search for the news she wanted. No results. She left CNN on
in English and muted it.

After
thinking for a minute, she ran to the kitchen and opened an
electronic drawer below the thermostat. Elisa found what she was
looking for at the back of it. She'd bought it a year ago for this
very purpose, despite the fact that she knew it would do no good.

She
stared for a moment at her own terrified eyes, reflected on the blade
of the sixteen-inch butcher knife.

ELISA
waited.

She'd
gone back to the dining room and, after picking up the phone to make
sure it was still working, and double-checking the battery on her
cell, dropped into an armchair in front of the TV, the knife in her
lap.

Waiting.

The
enormous teddy bear her colleagues had given her for her birthday
last year sat in a corner of the sofa across from her. It wore a bib
that had "Happy Birthday" stitched in red, with the
Alighieri University logo (Dante's aquiline profile) underneath. On
its stomach, in gold, was the university motto:
The
sea I sail has never yet been passed.
The
bear's plastic eyes seemed to spy on Elisa, and its heart-shaped
mouth looked like it was speaking to her.

Go
ahead, do whatever you want. Protect yourself, fool yourself into
thinking you're safe now. But you know you're dead.

She
glanced back at the screen, which was broadcasting the launch of a
new European space probe.

Dead,
Elisa. Just like the rest of them.

The
shrieking of the telephone made her jump. But then a surprising thing
happened: she reached out calmly and picked up the receiver in
something resembling absolute composure. Now that she'd finally
received the call, she felt unbelievably serene. There was no hint of
trembling in her voice.

"Hello?"

"Elisa?
It's Victor..."

The
overwhelming disappointment left her dazed. It was as if she'd tensed
up for a punch and suddenly the fight had been called off. She took a
breath, as an irrational wave of hatred for her friend suddenly
flowed through her. It wasn't Victor's fault, but right then she
couldn't have wanted to speak to anyone less.
Leave
me alone. Hang up and leave me alone.

"I
just wanted to see how you were doing. You seemed a little ... Well,
just not yourself. You know..."

"I'm
fine, don't worry. Just a headache... I don't even think it's the
flu."

"Oh,
good." He cleared his throat. And paused. Though she was used to
Victor speaking at a snail's pace, right now it was thoroughly
exasperating. "Don't worry about the seminar. Noriega says no
problem. If you can't come in this week ... just... let Teresa know
in advance..."

"I
will. Thanks a lot, Victor." She wondered what he'd think if he
could see her now: sweaty, trembling, curled up in an armchair with a
sixteen-inch stainless-steel butcher knife in her right hand.

"I...
I was also calling to tell you ... something else," he added.
"There's been some news." Elisa stiffened. "Are you
watching TV?"

Frantically,
she snatched up the remote to switch to the channel Victor said it
was on. A man stood in front of an apartment building with a mike in
his hand.

"...
at home in Milan's leafy residential neighborhood near the university
has rocked Italy to its core..."

"You
knew him, didn't you?"

"Yeah,"
said Elisa calmly. "What a shame."

Act
indifferent. Don't you dare give anything away over the phone.

Victor's
voice began the struggle to commence another sentence. Elisa decided
it was time to cut him off.

"Sorry,
I've got to go ... I'll call you later... Thanks, Victor, really."
She didn't even wait for his reply. She hated to be so brusque with
Victor, of all people, but there was nothing else she could do. She
turned up the volume and hung on every word. The newscaster assured
viewers that the police were not ruling anything out, though robbery
seemed the most likely motive.

She
clung to that idiotic hope as best she could.
Yes!
Maybe that was it. A simple robbery. After all, I still haven't
gotten the call...

The
newscaster held an umbrella. The sky was gray in Milan. Elisa felt
like she was watching the apocalypse.

THE
lights
at the Medical Institute at the University of Milan were blazing,
despite the fact that almost all the employees had gone home. A light
but unrelenting rain fell on the city that night, and the Italian
flag drooped from its pole at the entrance of the somber building, a
steady stream of water coursing off of it. There, on Via Mangiagalli,
a dark car pulled to a stop beneath the flag. The shadow of an
umbrella could be seen, and a man waiting in the doorway greeted the
two individuals who emerged from the backseat. No one spoke: they all
knew who they were and why they were there. The umbrella closed. The
silhouettes disappeared.

Their
footsteps rang out through the institute's hallways. They all wore
dark suits, though the new arrivals also wore overcoats. The man
leading their way was the one who'd been waiting in the doorway; he
was young, pale, and so nervous that he gave little leaps with each
step. He waved his hands around constantly as he spoke. Though his
English was good, he had a strong Italian accent "They're making
a detailed study ... Still nothing definite. The discovery was made
yesterday morning, and it took until today to round up the
specialists."

He
stopped to open the door to the Dental and Anthropological Forensics
Laboratory. Inaugurated in 1995 and remodeled in 2012, it boasted
state-of-the-art technology; Europe's top-notch forensic scientists
worked here.

The
new arrivals hardly noticed the photos and sculptures lining the
hallway. They sped past plaster models of three human heads.

"How
many witnesses?" asked the older one. His hair was white,
thinning on top, though he disguised that by wearing it slightly
long. His English was unidentifiable, a blend of several accents.

"Just
the woman who cleaned his flat every morning. She was the one who
found him. The neighbors hardly saw a thing."

"'Hardly?'
What does 'hardly' mean?"

"They
heard the cleaning lady scream and questioned her, but no one entered
the apartment. They called the police right away."

They'd
stopped by a painstakingly detailed anatomical drawing of a woman, no
skin, a fetus inside her open uterus. The young man opened a metal
door.

"What
about the woman?" inquired the white-haired man.

"In
the hospital. Sedated. And under protective custody."

"She
must
not
be
released until we've spoken to her."

"I've
taken care of all that."

The
white-haired man spoke with apparent indifference: his face
expressionless, hands in pockets. The young man responded in the
urgent tones of a lackey. And the third man seemed lost in his own
thoughts. He was burly, and his suit and overcoat looked like they
were two sizes too small for him. He looked younger than the older
man, and older than the young one. He had a crew cut, clear, green
eyes, a neck as thick as a Gothic column, and a grayish five-o'clock
shadow. It was patently obvious that he was the only one not used to
executive attire. He moved determinedly, swinging his arms, and had a
military air about him.