What Lot's Wife Saw (13 page)

All the time that I’d been sponging up the water that was pouring off of the dead Bera’s bed, I was wondering who the true hunter in this scene was, and who his victim. I was thinking that it’d be important not to repeat the same mistake twice. Was the superiority of the Seventy-Five a foregone conclusion or had Bera wriggled out of the destiny that they’d ordained for him and, out of desire for revenge, had he now succeeded in destabilising the Colony? I didn’t really believe that Bera was capable of such a satanic plot, but my admittedly more immature reasoning had failed to correctly predict the winner of the Australopithecus v Sabre-Tooth contest. Is this the dawn of a new era in which the laws of the previous era do not apply and the balance of power between the protagonists has altered? Or has nothing changed, including my own insistence on inventing radical differentiations in the existing framework, because I never understood it in the first place!

Out of the corner of my eye, I observed the others going about mopping the room, dragging towels. I watched them run their fingers along their foreheads and then wipe them on their clothes and wondered what our role was in this hunting scene, for we were definitely playing some kind of role. If, let’s suppose, we were covered by the tephra of Vesuvius, like in ancient Pompeii, and anthropologists excavated our casts centuries later, what would they imagine we were up to? Six baboons around the bed of a sabre-tooth? Or maybe, six baboons and one Australopithecus in the cave of the carnivorous Seventy-Five?

Bera’s corpse was like evolution’s warning bell, ringing in the fundamental changes that I should be preparing myself for. And how was I to interpret his smile? Was it the triumphant smile of the sabre-tooth that had emerged victorious from the isolated contest with the all-powerful Seventy-Five, or the frozen smile of the first mighty dinosaur to die when their nemesis was unleashed on the earth, and which heralded their complete extinction?

DOCTOR FABRIZIO

… At that moment, I hadn’t the slightest doubt of their guilt. The two satanic lovers had planned and executed this abominable crime and were now leading us in a deceptive charade.

I really don’t know how they did it. The Governor’s body showed no sign of any sort of bruising and it gave the impression of having succumbed to a gentle natural death. Perhaps they had used some poison that I’ve never heard of, although all the poisons in the Colony are locked in the Infirmary and you cannot order anything like that without my written approval. In other words, the circumstantial evidence at my disposal was insufficient to press formal charges of murder, but my mind was irreversibly made up on this matter.

One glance at them should have been enough to convince anyone of their duplicity; her with her platinum-blonde hair and her provocative dress and manner; him with his priest’s silvery ponytail, his affected goatee; and both with their made-up eyes, their long manicured nails and their sardonic smiles. Shiny and metallic, their love-making took on the semblance of two swords clashing. Two cold-blooded snakes, attracted by their similarity, the two halves of a frozen full moon, the day and night of an Arctic equinox. Who knows how long they’d been planning this murder, in between their love-making in some room a few metres distant from the Governor’s bedroom. They’d waited patiently for a night with impenetrable fog, like that of the previous day, when the citizens would be restricted to their homes, activity would be paralysed under the violet blanket and they could carry out their crime unseen.

I’d no knowledge of their past, for the Colony is ruled by silence: you are what you claim to be and you accept others without question, so you don’t know who you’re dealing with. I must say, however, that I’d grave doubts that Desert was a bona fide Lady and Montenegro a true priest. He claimed that he’d come from some monastic mission in Africa, but I can reveal that when he came to me suffering from cramp and I massaged his leg, I saw on his thigh a monstrous tattoo of two dragons kissing and on his calf two gunshot wounds. He’d hastily explained that they were the scars of an old snakebite and had quickly covered them up with his cassock. Did he imagine he could fool a doctor? I can certainly tell the difference between snakebite and a bullet wound, and I assert that his story was fraudulent. What kind of missionary does that make him? Only lowlifes are marked by bullet wounds and adorn themselves with hideous tattoos.

Since I didn’t know if anyone else was their accomplice in this heinous crime, I pretended not to suspect them. You can imagine how I felt in that room, trapped with five unscrupulous characters whom I had difficulty in recognising. The Governor was dead and no one could protect me anymore. They kept on bringing more ice to cover the body, obviously waiting till nightfall to burn it in the incinerator. They’d emptied the Palace and locked the staff in the basement. They sat down and began to argue about how they were going to run the Colony. I was forced to watch and listen to their infamy without reacting, in case they should decide that they must get rid of me as well.

My suspicions became a certainty when we’d had to strip the body so that I could examine it. I was shocked to find that the key for the Green Box was no longer hanging around his neck. I shouted, “The key! The key is missing!” Everyone froze since Bera had never taken the key off his neck; in fact he couldn’t, for it hung from a short claspless, unbroken, chain which would take wire-cutters to remove.

The discovery interrupted Siccouane while he was expounding on some theory involving suicide, rendering him speechless. The key’s absence had just invalidated most of the leading theories of Bera’s death. Even Drake, who’s particularly lacking in grey cells, seemed to suspect that something was odd.

I found the strength to declare that the key must have been stolen by Bera’s murderer, who now had access to the confidential correspondence between the Governor and the Seventy-Five. Was it a coincidence that the Governor had been discovered dead on one of the nights when the Green Box is delivered to the Palace? Was the key missing from his neck by chance? Was it pure coincidence that Desert could roam freely about the Palace with ample opportunity to commit the deed and chance that she’d been the first to “discover” the body? And was it some quirk of fate that had decreed that Desert would first summon the Priest, Montenegro, and not the Doctor, who would have been anyone’s logical first choice? I was certain that the Priest hadn’t arrived there in the morning, as he claimed, but had been lurking around the Palace since the previous night, explaining why Desert had had to insist that she’d sent for him first.

I asked them whether they realised the dangers facing the Colony now that the key was in the wrong hands, hoping to find at least one who’d share my views. Thankfully, Bateau snapped out of the trance that he’d been in these last few hours and remembered that on the previous night, when he and Siccouane had brought the Green Box in, Desert had got rid of them post-haste and had forbidden them to see Bera. The murder must’ve been already in progress and their presence disruptive. Siccouane corroborated that account, adding that he’d begged to be allowed a few minutes with the Governor as he had to finalise details for the reception of the famous tenor, Regoleone, and so had found Desert’s obstructive behaviour most suspicious.

Captain Drake added meaningfully that Priest Montenegro hadn’t been at his villa the night before and that Bianca had been met only by Ali, his servant. Perhaps Ali was lying when he’d asserted that Montenegro had spent the night in the cyclists’ quarter, which was, by definition, not provable. He could easily have been in the Palace all night and committed the murder with his paramour. If the Priest had had an important reason to leave his villa in last night’s fog, he should’ve requested an escort of guards. Why hadn’t he?

Montenegro answered defensively that he’d illegally read the last rites for a miner who’d perished in the galleries, and that was why he hadn’t requested an escort and why he hadn’t sought permission. He hauled out his leather-bound Bible, which he still had with him, as proof of his conducting the service. We found this feeble proof of his innocence laughable.

Desert strode across the floor to where I was sitting cross-legged, and viciously stamped her pointed heel into my palm. I cried out in agony.

“Do you really believe I could be so naïve, Fabrizio, as to incriminate myself and not think that you would suspect me? If I’d been the one to put an end to his life, then rest assured that I’d have arranged it that he was found on the floor by servants and I would’ve insisted that the doctor be the first to enter the room to certify the death. I would’ve had all night at my disposal to rifle the Green Box and, having studied its contents, to return the key to his neck. In other words, if I’d killed him, the key would have been around the Governor’s neck. So, in conclusion, it must’ve been one of you, who don’t have the run of the Palace as I do, and so didn’t have all night for your crime and have had to wait for an opportune moment to open the Box.”

Captain Drake drew his pistol and ordered us all to strip and empty our pockets so that the culprit would be exposed and the key recovered. We agreed on condition that he would as well so we could search him. We threw off our clothes, underwear included, turned out our pockets, ripped the linings and punctured collars and cuffs. Belts were cut open, shoe soles ripped off, hands and mouths stretched wide for inspection, anuses and vagina scrutinised. We must’ve been verging on madness but all we could think about was finding that key. Unfortunately, the key wasn’t found. Whoever had stolen it had hidden it elsewhere.

We collapsed on the floor, naked and exhausted. We used scraps of our clothes to wipe ourselves down since they’d been shredded beyond redemption. The midday sun had set fire to the Colony, pushing the thermometer past forty-five, making the sweat pour off us. The wooden floor, soaking from all the ice water, was the coldest part of the room and offered our overheated bodies relief. We lay down naked so that we wouldn’t faint from the heat. We’d moved beyond shame by then, our anxiety about the ominous future had overshadowed everything else. That unwelcome emotional shield was only penetrated by the gnawing woodworm of mutual suspicion. Someone in this room was putting on an act, someone was to blame for the hell we were going through.

Drake asked us each to declare our whereabouts between midnight and four in the morning. We quickly realised that it wasn’t just Montenegro that had no reliable alibi. Siccouane, the pistol-waving Captain and I had been alone in our villas. Our servants could corroborate our stories, but only up to the time when they’d gone to bed themselves.

Siccouane, who doesn’t have any domestic staff in his downmarket flat, was worse off than the others. “Isn’t it obvious,” he shouted, “that the Governor swallowed the key before committing suicide, to prevent it from falling into our hands? The fact that it’s missing proves my theory beyond doubt. Bera obeyed a direct order from the Seventy-Five and we sit around like idiots, trying to figure out who the murderer is.”

Captain Drake cried out in exasperation that he couldn’t stand it any longer; every second someone suggested a new theory. He’d much prefer to shoot us all and keep his own head in one piece. Montenegro countered sarcastically that that would simplify the next Governor’s task, when he was presented with but a single suspect for Bera’s murderer. Drake settled back into silence, chewing his moustache.

We kept renewing the ice around the body since it melted quickly. The cupboards and wardrobes were steadily being emptied as we brought out endless towels, linen, blankets and clothes, which we spread in every corner of the room and under the doors to stop up the gaps and absorb the water. The quantity of water was so great that the floor was showing signs of swelling and it’d be only a matter of time before the water passed through the floor and dripped from the ceiling beneath.

Meantime, it was early afternoon and the servants who’d been cooped up in the basement for several hours by then must’ve been getting hungry and running out of patience. Surely they’d wonder what was happening. And we? Unshaven, naked, exhausted, hoarse from fruitless arguments, splashing on the wet floor in the company of a corpse, we were a short step from the lunatic asylum.

We agreed that it was imperative to expel all the staff from the Palace to avoid being seen in this condition, and more importantly, to ensure that news of Bera’s death wouldn’t leak out. Information like that would create a panic in the Colony with unforeseen consequences. The eviction order would have to be given by Desert as chief of staff. I, however, insisted that she shouldn’t be allowed to descend alone. She had to be kept under constant surveillance near the Governor’s office where the Green Box was. Montenegro volunteered his services but Drake used his pistol to thwart him. “Anyone but you, Montenegro,” he said, correctly. The two conspirators must be kept apart. We decided that she’d be accompanied by the Captain and Judge Bateau.

Desert found some dry clothes from the wardrobe, Bateau wrapped himself as best he could in his tattered gown and Drake pulled on his trousers and uniform jacket but not his boots. Anyone seeing them, sweat dripping, hair plastered, clothes shredded, feet unshod, would wonder from what shipwreck they’d just survived. It was agreed that only Desert would show herself as her eccentric appearances no longer surprised the colonists and her companions would observe hidden, from a distance. They exited the room, leaving me to guard the body from Montenegro and Siccouane, who, in turn, made a pretence of guarding it from me.

LADY REGINA BERA

… As I went down the stairs in the company of the two escorts that Fabrizio had forced on me, I began thinking that this harmonious accord between the Secretary and the Doctor was worthy of deep suspicion. They agreed on every word and every move, as if they’d worked it out beforehand. Now that would be strange for Siccouane since it had been his habit to automatically disagree with any of the Purple Star Bearers, as he’d been denied the honour.