Zig Zag (48 page)

She
didn't look at Victor, or at anyone. Instead she cast her gaze toward
the reading lamp's dim beam of light.

"As
I said, Victor, we accepted their explanation of what happened on New
Nelson and went back to our lives, after swearing we'd follow their
orders: no contact with each other, and no talking to anyone about
what happened. The supposed accident in Zurich caused a little stir,
but in time everything just went back to normal... at least on the
surface." She stopped and took a deep breath. "Then, four
years ago, it was Christmas 2011."

She
spoke in hushed tones, as if trying to send a child off to sleep.

In
a way, that was exactly what she was trying to do. Cradle her own
fear.

PART
SIX

The
Terror

Scientists
are not after the truth; it is the truth that is after scientists.

KARL
SCHLECTA

22

Madrid
December 21, 2011 8:32 P.M.

IT
was
a bitterly cold night, but the thermostat was always set at
seventy-six degrees. She was in the kitchen making dinner, barefoot.
Her nails (fingers and toes) were painted bright red, her makeup was
perfect, and her silky black hair glimmered with new salon
highlights. A lilac robe hung to her knees, barely covering the sexy
black lace lingerie underneath. No stockings. From the cell phone (on
speakerphone) resting on an electronic pedestal came her mother's
voice, prattling on. She was spending Christmas with Eduardo (her
current beau) in the Valencia house and wanted to know if Elisa was
coming to spend Christmas Eve with them.

"I'm
not trying to pressure you, Eli, believe me. You do what you want.
Though I suppose you've always done what you wanted. And I know
you're not into holidays, but—"

"I'd
love to, Mother, really. I just can't commit for sure yet."

"Well
when will you know?"

"I'll
call you Friday."

She
was making
escalivada,
a
dish of roasted peppers, eggplant, and onions, and turned on the
extractor fan as she poured the contents of her mortar into a hot
pan. Angry sizzling made her step back. She had to turn up the
speaker volume to hear.

"I
don't want to ruin your plans, Eli, but I just thought if you don't
have any ... I mean, it would be nice if you made the effort. And I'm
not just saying that for my sake." She sounded hesitant. "You
could use some company, you know, honey. I know you've always been a
loner, but it's different now. A mother picks up on these things."

She
pulled the pan off the burner and sprinkled its contents over the
vegetables.

"You've
been withdrawn for months, maybe years. You seem so ... distant, so
off in your own world. The last time you came home, when you were
here for Sunday lunch, I swear you weren't the same."

"The
same as who, Mother?"

She
grabbed a bottle of mineral water from the fridge and a glass from
the cupboard and walked into the living room, toes curling into the
springy carpet. She could still hear her mother's voice perfectly
from there.

"The
same way you used to be, Elisa."

There
was no need to turn on the lights: they were all already on, even
those in the bathroom and bedroom that she wasn't using. She always
flipped them all on the moment the sunlight began to fade. It cost a
small fortune, especially in the winter, but she couldn't stand the
dark. She even slept with a couple of lamps on.

"Well,
don't listen to me," her mother said. "I didn't call just
to get on your case.
Sure
seems like it,
Elisa
thought. "And I really don't want you to feel forced into it. If
you have plans with anyone ... like that man you told me about...
Rentero ... just let me know. I won't be upset. I'll be delighted, in
fact."

Oh,
Mother, aren't you sneaky.
She
placed her glass and the bottle of water on the table, in front of
the flat-screen TV that was on mute, and walked back into the
kitchen.

Martin
Rentero had been an IT professor at Alighieri until that year, when
he'd gotten a job at the University of Barcelona and moved. But he'd
come to Madrid the week before for a conference, and Elisa had seen
him again. He had thick, black hair and a mustache, and he knew he
was good looking. Over the years at Alighieri, he'd invited Elisa out
to dinner a few times and confessed how much he liked her (it wasn't
the first time she'd heard that type of confession). She had no doubt
that when they met up again he'd make another play. And, indeed, he
did. As soon as he saw her, he suggested that they have a weekend
getaway together, but she had to go to the physics party with her
colleagues at Alighieri. So he tried again, telling her that he'd
planned to rent a house in the Pyrenees and would love to spend the
holidays with her. What did she think?

It
sounded too intense, that was what she thought. She liked Martin, and
she knew the company would do her good. But she was scared, too.

Not
scared of Martin, but
for
him.
Scared of what might happen with him if she broke down, if she lost
her cool, if her obsessive behavior gave her away.

I'll
make up an excuse, for him
and
Mother.
I don't want to get involved with anyone.
She
turned off the stove and grabbed the
escalivada.

"You
know, if you have plans, it wouldn't hurt to tell me."

"Well,
I don't."

Just
then, the living-room phone rang. She wondered who it could be. She
wasn't expecting any other calls that night and really didn't want to
talk to anybody; she'd been planning to spend a few hours "playing"
before bed. She glanced at the digital clock in the kitchen and felt
relieved. It was still early.

"Sorry,
Mother, I have to go. I've got a call coming in on my land line."

"Don't
forget, Eli..."

She
hung up her cell and walked into the dining room, thinking it was
probably Rentero, the source of her mother's third degree. She picked
up just before the machine kicked in.

There
was a pause. A soft buzzing noise.

"Elisa?"
It was a young woman with a foreign accent. "Elisa Robledo?"
Her voice trembled, as if coming from a place much colder than her
apartment. "It's Nadja Petrova."

Somehow,
across the miles of cable and the ocean of wavelengths, the chill in
her voice reached Elisa's half-naked body and made her shiver.

"HOW
are
you this month?"

"Same
as last."

"Does
that mean 'good'?"

"That
means 'alive.'"

THE
truth
was, she never forgot about any of it; it was always with her. But
time was like a wool lining, something that protected her numb, naked
body. Time didn't
heal
wounds;
that was crap. What it did was
hide
them.
The memories were all still there, intact, inside her, neither more
nor less intense, but time masked them, at least to other people. It
was like a blanket of autumn leaves covering a grave, or like the
grave itself, hiding a mass of wriggling worms.

But
she really didn't care about that. Six years had passed; she was
twenty-nine and had a permanent post as professor at a decent
university and taught what she loved. She lived alone, true, but she
was independent, had her own place, didn't owe anybody anything. She
earned enough to be able to buy whatever she wanted, and she could
have traveled if she'd wanted (she didn't) or had more friends (no
thanks). And as for the rest... what else was there?

Her
nights.

"ARE
you
still having nightmares?"

"Yes."

"Every
night?"

"No.
Once or twice a week."

"Could
you tell us about them?"

Silence.

"Elisa?
Could you tell us about your nightmares?"

"They're
pretty fuzzy."

"Well,
tell us what you can remember."

Silence.

"Elisa?"

"Darkness.
It's always dark.

WHAT
else?
She had to leave the lights on all the time, of course, but some
people couldn't stand being in elevators or walking through crowds.
She'd had reinforced doors and security blinds installed, and
electronic alarms with motion sensors. But hey, times were tough. Who
could blame her?

"What
about your 'disconnects'? Do you remember that term? Those episodes
where you have waking dreams?"

"Yes,
I still have them. But not as often."

"When
was your last one?"

"About
a week ago, when I was watching TV."

Once
a month, a group of specialists from Eagle came to Madrid to give her
a secret checkup: blood tests, urine tests, X-rays, psychological
tests, and an interminable interview. She just let them do their
thing. The place she went for all this wasn't a clinic, it was a
nondescript apartment in Principe de Vergara. The blood and urine
tests and X-rays they did a week earlier at a doctor's office, so the
specialists already had the results by the time she saw them. Those
visits were a trial: they took almost all day (psych tests in the
morning, interview in the afternoon), which meant she had to skip
classes, but she'd gotten used to it. In fact, on some level, she'd
grown to need it. At least she could
talk
to
those people.

The
specialists thought her nightmares were lingering side effects from
the Impact. They said that other members of her team reported the
same thing, which, for some reason, relieved her.