Bereavements (31 page)

Now he reached for and caught the hem of her skirt, pressing it to his wet fallen mouth, continuing between sobs: “. . . To clasp her night and day in your sleeping and your waking dreams, and to have nothing to offer her but an object of fear and disgust. . .”

It went on and on, she stepping closer and closer to Dori’s door. Was the man asleep, couldn’t he hear?—while this fantastic, mad little boy all but threw himself upon her.

“. . . Your arteries boil” she heard, “your heart is bursting, your head splitting, your teeth tear your own flesh . . . inexorable tormentors: love, jealousy, despair! . . .”

Her hand touched the doorknob and she threw it open, a corner of one eye in a backward glance seeing Dori, who, fully dressed, must have fallen asleep with the light on, rising, startled, from his bed.

And this groveling little man, reading his fate, shrieking into the room at her: “Mercy! . . . Have pity!. . . Repulse me not!. . . Oh say thou wilt not have me?” And now, the voice trembling and soft, the head cocked, the color of his eyes all but hidden in his head: “. . . I should have thought that the day when a woman could reject such a love, the mountains would dissolve . . . and fall into the sea . . .”

The snow had stopped as suddenly as it had begun, leaving a good half-inch.

Martin returned, determined to find his Brooks Brothers Gift Certificate. All that was needed to put the two halves together was a little scotch tape, and if the paper was wet he would dry it.

He found it all right, with no trouble at all, but finding it, also found Bruno who was standing across the street, as motionless as one of the street lamps.

Curious, guilty, just a little ashamed, Martin approached the little boy—man—creature—whatever it was, saying quite gently and friendly enough: “So . . ! You got thrown out, too.”

There was no reply, only something polished and slender, and blue and white, drawn from an inner pocket. It opened into the unmistakable gleam of a straight-edge razor.

Martin had strong slender legs, well-muscled, hard from dancing, and he had, in highschool, won prizes for running, yet he was no match for the gnarled little man whose feet were heeled with the wings of absolute desire.

This way, that; stumbling, falling, flying the length of a block, then over a fence, hoping, praying to lose his pursuer in Washington Square. He’d passed a car coming toward him and yelled wildly, waving frantic hands at the driver who, this being New York at two in the morning, wouldn’t stop.

Bruno caught him just before he reached the arch fronting Fifth Avenue where Martin’s foot hit a patch of snow-covered ice, sending him flat on his back and spinning.

A revolution and a half—and then his throat was cut with a single, deep, swift stroke by the frenzied homunculus squatting on his chest.

Beginning to drift, drift gently, nerves calmed, anxiety lessened, sweet sleep a promise away, Mrs. Evans rested her dizzied head against a pink pillow. Her eyes had already adjusted themselves to her occasional double-imaged vision: two lamps, two bureaus, two mirrors where only one of each should be. If Angel were here, she’d have twins; four grubby hands, two greedy mouths stuffing themselves full and bursting as if he—they—couldn’t get Cook’s marvels in fast enough.

The divine woman had baked him a gingerbread boy for Christmas, marvelously decorated with multi-flavored icings of all different colors, and had it under tissue and wax paper to keep it fresh in a lovely ribboned box so big and flat it looked as if it might contain a pizza.

Is that what he’d think he was getting? A pizza for Christmas. And she laughed a drugged laugh, happy that this dreadful day had ended. Another minute of it and she would have been as mad as that terrifying little boy groveling at her feet. What in heaven’s name had he been quoting?—as if his mind had gone centuries back in time—“Thou deemst thyself miserable; alas! . . .”

She had wept, never so heartsick and terrified in her life—not since Jamie’s death—to see Dori drag the kicking, shouting little being down the hall, using all his strength, indeed in danger of losing the battle, for despite his diminutive size and twisted body, Bruno had proven fantastically strong, once righting himself on his two spindley legs and throwing the entire man—Dori’s 190 pounds and six-feet-two-high through the air and hard against a wall.

But finally it was managed. More by cunning than by strength, Bruno was dragged, pushed, thrown, literally kicked out the door where she caught a last glimpse of him rolling and tumbling down the snowy steps.

“Shall I call the police?” Dori asked, breathing hard, the door slammed and locked.

She shook her head, weeping. “No. Just. . . watch for a while. Make sure he isn’t hurt. Make sure he goes away.”

Later, deeper into her drugged heaven, or nightmare, she heard the dwarf’s soft, sad voice, whispering this time: “I should have thought that the day when a woman could reject such a love, the mountains would dissolve . . . and fall into the sea.”

The words were repeated, and again, as if his beautiful, dreadful mouth were pressed to her ear.

The mountains would dissolve . . . and fall into the sea . . .

Now the sound of a police siren; the undulant shriek of it pulled her back into a moment’s reality.

How close! So loud! The car apparently passing directly in front of the house, speeding toward Washington Square.

Because the night and the early morning hours had proven such an emotional strain and she didn’t doze off until almost dawn, Mrs. Evans woke about noon.

She was hungry and finished all her breakfast, down to the last few crumbs of cinnamon toast which she picked up with a tongue-moistened finger.

Curious Rose had sat there watching her, a most peculiar, open-eyed expression on her face, the
Daily News
folded on her lap. Something was afoot.

But Mrs. Evans was content to wait, like a patient chess player for her opponent’s move.

The move didn’t come. So finally, warmed and content from her breakfast, she playfully goaded the girl to speak.

“Rose-dear-Rose. I see you have news of importance,
bad
news, though I cannot imagine what. It is written all over your face and into your manner as plainly as colored chalk on a blackboard. It seems you cannot
wait
to spoil my Christmas Eve.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“You are not sorry. For some reason I have never been able to understand, servants, if you’ll forgive the anachronism, are always the first and happiest to bear bad tidings to their employers.”

But her levity was short-lived as Rose read her the brief, apparently press-time item about Martin, under the title “Washington Square Murder” appearing boxed on page two of the newspaper.

“The body of a man identified as Martin Dzierlatka of 122 Grove Street, Manhattan, was found, his throat cut, in Washington Square Park early this morning.

“Police say the victim, described as white with dark hair, 32 years of age, was discovered shortly after three a.m. near the arch at the Fifth Avenue entrance to the area.

“The man, about six-feet-one and weighing 170 pounds was dressed in a dark grey flannel suit and tan cashmere overcoat. A hat was found some distance away. He also wore a St. Christopher medal and a gold ring on his left hand. His wallet contained ID, credit cards and fifty dollars in cash as well as a torn but probably usable $500 men’s store gift certificate. Because of these items, robbery was ruled out as a motive for the killing.

“Police said the neck wound was so deep that the head was almost severed from the body.

“The victim was found by a resident of the neighborhood who was walking his dog.”

Mrs. Evans was sure Martin had her name, address and telephone number scribbled somewhere—in an address book, perhaps. And he did have a roommate who might know of her. Even so, she would be only one name among many, perhaps hundreds, since the lives of people in the theater were always weighted with friends, contacts, the slightest of countless acquaintances who might one day prove useful.

So it did seem possible that the police wouldn’t question her, seeking information. If they did, she’d pretend ignorance, or remember only vaguely that she had, yes, been introduced to the young man socially, and then ran into him once or twice in a restaurant. That would do. Nevertheless, she felt compelled to warn the servants, telling them, if a detective turned up, what to say—which was nothing.