Chapter 34 There Is a Monster Among Us
There Is a Monster Among Us
Roberto remained silent, too confused to say anything. His mind, already befuddled by the fall into the sea, refused to process the mass of information that was now assaulting his brain.
“It’s you,” he finally managed to say. “You’re the Tangarano. You’re the murderer.”
“Come now,” Varatorta said with a smile. “‘Murderer’ is a very ugly word. I think of myself as an artist. Or someone who investigates human nature, if you prefer.”
“Where are we?”
“I already told you: in my secret lair. My refuge. My laboratory, you might call it.”
“No.” Roberto shook his head. His throat was in agony. “I mean . . . what is this place?”
“Ah, this!” Varatorta smiled, satisfied, and swept his hair back over his bald spot.
“It’s an old sea shaft, similar to the Devil’s Hole that you fell into last night.
Thousands of years ago, in this very place, the water came crashing in and ate away at the cliff above us.
At some point, a rockfall blocked the entrance.
Now, there’s only one way in. Incredible, right? ”
“How . . . how did I get here?”
“Oh, I thought that was obvious!” The lighthouse keeper opened his eyes wide in surprise. “I brought you.”
“How is that even possible?” Roberto closed his eyes. “I don’t remember . . . I don’t know . . .”
“My dear friend, when you arrived at that woman’s house,” Varatorta said, pointing his plump thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of Elvira Couto’s head, “I was outside, waiting in the bushes.”
“You were waiting for me?” A shiver ran down his spine.
“I didn’t know it was you.” He shrugged. “I saw someone walking along Melide Beach and guessed they must be on their way to Elvira’s place, so I decided to wait. I was curious to know who was out on a night like that.”
Roberto struggled on the table and was rewarded with a shooting pain in his side.
“I was about to come and introduce myself to you there,” the lighthouse keeper continued, “when all those people showed up, and I decided it was better to wait.”
Roberto recalled how he had felt as if he were being watched when he arrived at Elvira Couto’s hovel. Perhaps the Docampo party had unwittingly saved his life . . . before trying to kill him themselves.
“I was very intrigued, if I’m honest.” Varatorta stroked his goatee. “I didn’t know what was happening or what scores the Docampos might have wanted to settle with you, so I followed them.”
“How come nobody saw you?”
“Everyone was concentrating on you,” the lighthouse keeper explained. “It was a piece of cake. By the way, I was very impressed by your little trick with the fishing line. You should have seen the surprise on their faces when the bullet went off!”
“I need some water,” croaked Roberto, becoming increasingly uncomfortable. “Please.”
“I’m so sorry. I’m forgetting my manners! I’ll bring you some right away.”
Varatorta went over to the shelf where his victims’ heads sat in jars, and came back with a flask. As he gently poured liquid into Roberto’s mouth, Roberto savored the taste of fresh water.
“You must have swallowed a lot of seawater,” Varatorta said. “Your throat will be raw.”
“Tell me how you got me out of the sea.” Roberto shuddered as he remembered the moment when the waves had dashed him against the cliffs. “I don’t understand.”
“Well, that was a stroke of luck.” Varatorta sat down again, placing the flask at his feet. “When the wave washed you up against the rocks, I lost sight of you for a while. But then I saw you floating, unconscious, with your head above water. Your parka saved your life.”
“My parka?”
“Yes.” Varatorta pointed to Roberto’s disheveled coat, hanging on a hook and dripping slowly onto the floor.
“When you fell into the sea, it got wrapped around your neck, and because there was lots of air trapped in the filling, the parka acted like a life jacket. If it hadn’t been for that, you’d have been pulled down, and I’d never have found you. ”
Roberto licked his cracked lips. He’d been cursing his leaky parka ever since he arrived on the island, but in the end, it was only thanks to it that he was still alive. He was sure that was something the coat’s designers couldn’t have even begun to imagine.
“The current washed you to a slightly calmer spot,” Varatorta explained. “As soon as the Docampos left, I pulled you out of the water and, well”—he opened his arms wide—“here we are.”
“I suppose I should thank you.”
“That would be polite”—Varatorta nodded—“but such formalities are hardly necessary between friends. It doesn’t matter, seriously.”
“Why am I tied up?” He struggled on the table. “Let me go.”
“No, no, no.” The lighthouse keeper shook his head vehemently. “You’ve been through a lot. You have several fractured ribs, you have a cut on your head, and one of your knees is in a bad way. I think it’s better if you stay there, for now. And it will make everything much easier.”
“Easier? What are you talking about?”
“Slow down. There’s no hurry. We’ve finally got time to chat. You’ll find out soon enough.” Varatorta tapped his nose with a conspiratorial gesture. “I’m hungry. Do you mind if I have a little snack?”
Without awaiting a reply, the lighthouse keeper got up and disappeared from Roberto’s field of vision.
A moment later, Roberto heard him clattering around at the other end of the cave.
He took the opportunity to try to loosen his restraints.
The plastic cables around his wrists were tight, but there was some slack in the rope that tied him to the table.
Carefully, he puffed out his chest to make some space, and the pain in his broken ribs brought tears to his eyes.
But even if it was just a few fractions of an inch, he could feel that the rope was now looser.
That small triumph revived his spirits. He rocked a little, and the table creaked under his weight, squeaking ominously.
Roberto stopped, fearing that the lighthouse keeper had heard him, but the noise of the dishes continued uninterrupted.
He repeated the movement, and the rope loosened again. Bit by bit, he was making space.
After a few minutes, he heard his captor approaching, and he stayed still. Varatorta dragged an old school desk over and put it next to the chair. Ceremoniously, he covered it with a cloth, on top of which he placed a plate of scrambled eggs with bacon, and a glass of red wine.
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” he said as he sat down. “That’s what my mother always said. I’m sure yours told you something similar, Roberto.”
“I don’t understand,” Roberto said, sounding slightly dazed.
Varatorta looked at him, his fork halfway to his mouth, a look of mild surprise on his face. “You don’t understand why my mother said that?”
“No.” Roberto nodded toward the glass jars sitting on the shelf. “I meant those.”
Varatorta followed his gaze and contemplated the jars in silence. Then he turned back and gave him one of his strange smiles. He delicately rested the silverware next to the plate and took his time before speaking.
“I’ll answer your question, but before I do, I’d like to know what you think about it.”
“I think it’s the work of a madman. A psychopath.”
There was a tiny spark of annoyance in Varatorta’s eyes, but it was replaced almost instantly by an expression of pity.
“You disappoint me, my friend,” he sighed. “That wasn’t the reply I’d expected from you. It’s so . . . unimaginative. I’d hoped for much more from a writer of your reputation, to be honest. Please, have another try.”
“What do you want me to say?” Roberto asked, measuring his words carefully. He couldn’t help noticing how sharp the knife resting just a few inches from his head was. “Give me a clue, at least.”
“I was sure you’d recognize the intrinsic beauty of my work.” Varatorta was suddenly very serious. “From one artist to another, one creator to another, an objective valuation of the delicate balance and subtlety of a work of art.”
Jesus, he’s out of his fucking mind.
“I’m not sure we’re the same kind of . . . artist,” Roberto replied cautiously.
“Think about it!” The lighthouse keeper waved his hands in the air, enraptured. “We’re like soulmates! We both take the human essence and mold it until we’ve transformed it into something else, something that transcends the vulgarity of daily life.”
“I’m just a writer.”
“You’re far more than that! You’re a dream weaver—you allow people to escape from their boring lives and have exciting adventures.
And I . . .” Varatorta looked at him with a faraway expression.
“I take their tired, fragile, failing bodies and transform them into works of art that exceed the imagination. How can you not see that?”
“I don’t know if Elvira Couto and Ricardo Docampo would agree,” he replied dryly. “Perhaps they were happy with their bodies as they were.”
Mind your tongue. Don’t provoke him.
Varatorta banged the table, and the silverware clattered. “No!” he roared with an anger that didn’t fit his peaceful appearance. “That’s not true!”
Roberto swallowed again. He wasn’t in a position to argue with the man. He decided to try another tack. “Tell me, then. I want to understand. From one artist to another.”
Varatorta gave him a hurt look but with a flash of hope. “Really?”
“Absolutely. I want to know everything about your work.”
“What a delight to meet someone who understands me!” Varatorta clapped. “You don’t know what it’s like to spend years here with nobody to talk to about all this. It’s such a relief.”
Roberto took advantage of the moment to puff his chest out again. The ropes loosened a tiny bit more.
Keep him talking. Say anything, just keep him talking.
“Well, I have to admit it took me a long time to reach this level of virtuosity,” the man boasted, unaware of the bacon fat that was trickling down his beard. “I had to master the technique that enabled me to take the conversion of bodies to these heights.”