Salt Skin Page 2
“I will tell you this story, Monsieur Schwartz, as if I had read it somewhere. I will narrate for you the events from different periods of time and you can put together a complete picture from its fragments. In a word, so as not to reveal outright the interesting details that would become known afterwards,” the driver interrupted and after a short pause, having thrown an ambiguous serious glance, he continued, “But, apparently, this will be after you have your dinner, Monsieur. We have arrived.”
“To ‘ell with this cassoulet! Today I prefer a story for dinner!”
Chapter 2
Let us fast-forward to the year 1997, to the day when it happened. At that moment, I had been working for Margaret for six years, and to be honest, I could not complain. Everything went as usual until one day when two hefty police officers came into the elegant building lighted from all sides with LED lights, with gigantic four-storey windows demonstrating splendour of the golden threads in the carpets shimmering in their light. The two men led the incomprehensive woman away, holding her arms and reading her the rights in front of the dumbfounded staff. The building had the status of Margaret’s main office, which she rented for the purpose of selling carpets that, by that time, had become a well-known brand in the north of England. It was located in the town centre between the courthouse and our hotel. Is that not an unusual coincidence? Such a British sur.[2]
Suspicions about Margaret Strasberg were unfounded and absolutely farfetched. At any rate, all the neighbours, acquaintances and other town residents (your honourable servant among them) claimed that she did not have and could not have had any connection to the murder of John Avery, for she was a loving wife and a respectable citizen of her country. She was a shining example for those who, just entering adulthood and having no pennies to bless themselves with, could achieve wealth and prosperity if they only make every effort.
On a hot summer day of July 20, 1997, at exactly seven o’clock in the evening, she left her house situated alongside of The Salvation Square and, having sat in her red Volvo, went to see her mother, where she stayed until eleven. The neighbours saw her car approaching the driveway and the traffic police gave her a ticket for double parking at a quarter to ten.
There was a heated discussion among the jurors in the courthouse. Amongst eleven men, Mr. Schwartz, you would find no one who was, if I may say so, unusual. All these people belonged to the middle class: fat and skinny; faces concerned with problems and cheeks of carefree pink lustre; with chiffon scarves and satin ties; foul to disgrace and even quite pleasant. But the twelfth juror was special. She was a fifty-five-year old woman of African descent, with pronounced facial features, in a light pink pantsuit, with a hairstyle that did not fit the occasion, resembling something between the fifties’ fashion and the modern one. She was not a desultory woman, but more on that later.
It was the eighth hearing on the same case, stretching across three long months, the last two and a half weeks of which Margaret Strasberg spent in temporary custody.
The long black robe of the judge, rustling from the doors to the desk, disrupted the excitement in the room, calling to silence with its presence. Just fifteen minutes ago, the jury, having retired to a separate room, had decided on the verdict for the defendant. Breathlessly, the young woman’s acquaintances, colleagues and relatives (myself included) caught judge’s every move, praying to God and hoping for justice in the citadel of Themis. I could not fathom that this beautiful creature could hurt someone. I had known Margaret for seven years, having worked for her for six of those years. I saw her every day and was convinced of her innocence. Moreover, she had an alibi and the killer was found. Besides, he admitted his guilt. What is there to understand, right?
But the prosecutor thought differently. During the first six hearings, Margaret was accused of accessory to murder, and during the seventh, for some unknown reasons, she was indicted with a new charge, this time consisting directly of John Avery’s murder. Allegedly, new evidence was found, which proved Margaret’s undeniable guilt. Allegedly, the mother of the defendant was too close a relative, therefore, her confirmation of the alibi was not convincing. Allegedly, the man who was previously charged with Avery’s murder suffered from some rare disorder, like simple schizophrenia. Allegedly, because of absurd negligence and worldly bewilderment, he took the gun whose bullet was the last witness of the murder and which was lying next to the victim's body. Allegedly, this man late at night just went for a walk in the dense coniferous forest, whereas the unexpected patrol car of the young officer, who decided to boast in front of his girlfriend that night, caught him next to John Avery’s body by another fatal accident. Allegedly, the man admitted his guilt under strict police pressure. Because of all of these allegations, the investigation had to be resumed and expanded and it reached the eighth hearing on the Strasberg/Avery case. It was rumoured that the prosecutor belonged to that unlucky camp of prisoners confined by Margaret's charms, the men who were haunted by her face at night and never left alone. In other words, those who she once refused.
“In relation to the murder of John Avery,” Tony Suite, the chief judge began, “on the night of July 20, 1997, the court finds Margaret Strasberg innocent due to lack of evidence and presence of an alibi...”
The defendant fell into a chair in exhaustion, lowering her head and hiding her face in her hands. A small sigh of relief broke out of her languishing bosom and she, slightly shaking her shoulders, started twitching. Happy cheers burst in the room from those who were waiting for the verdict and the jury smiled at her, feeling responsible for the definitely good cause of saving someone’s life. You know, Monsieur Schwartz, it is much easier for a person to feel calm if they know that they freed a guilty man rather than to have doubts for the rest of their lives that they crushed the fate of someone completely uninvolved in a crime. Thus, all of them felt tremendous relief and were already drinking sweet ale in their minds, each of them with their friends, “To a job well done!”
All but one - the very twelfth juror. With great care, she was hiding a scornful look encircling the waves of black hair of the woman formerly accused of murder. And even though seven years had passed since I first saw Margaret, she did not cease to be a fatal beauty. She lost a little bit of weight and dyed her slightly grey temples, but she still burned with her extraordinary fire on the inside, illuminating everything around her. Perhaps it was the look of one of Margaret's enviers who formed half of the town, with the chief judge’s wife on the top of the list. Perhaps the dark-skinned woman had that look naturally. No one knew and no one cared.
Numerous staff crammed into the courtroom, as well as acquaintances and Margaret’s elderly mother gathered around the liberated Margaret, full of joyous congratulations. Everyone was happy. After all, Margaret was a great boss; not only did the company flourish and become more popular with each passing year under her wing, but the people surrounding Strasberg reached such prosperity in a short time that they could not dream of. The town even had a saying, “If you want to soar, stay close to Margaret.” She helped many underprivileged families; to some people she lent money and to some she gave a job. She was strict and adamant but compassionate and fair at the same time. How all that coexisted in her, God only knows.
Leaving the courthouse, surrounded on all sides by the police who constrained the heavy pressure of the omnipresent journalists, Margaret put on dark glasses, shielding her eyes from the flashes of the paparazzi and covering one side of her face with a collar of a leather jacket. A tall strong police officer embraced her with one arm, clearing the road from the intrusive press.
How are you feeling, Margaret? What does it feel like to be accused of murdering your husband? What can you say on this issue? Are you going to marry again? Aren’t you afraid that men will fear you now?
Shouting from all sides and poking her in the face with microphones, the young and not-so-young men and women zealously tried to fish for at least one word or comment from the person they were waiting for. Something
that could bring them fame or popularity or at least a bonus to the salary. “No comments,” Margaret said sharply as she sat in the approached black ’89 BMW. “Oh, Mr. Sari! What can you say on this issue? How does it feel to protect a woman who killed her own husband?”
And to the sounds of the departing German engine, that would thrill a devotee’s soul, the whole crowd, including the accompanying police officer who was sucked into their whirlpool, rushed to the lawyer who came out of the courthouse.
Chapter 3
At approximately seven o’clock in the evening, after the trial on that last fateful day, we arrived at her home on a street alongside The Salvation Square. Turning off the engine, I looked at Margaret with compassion. Her face was dappled with deep sorrow and uncertain trepidation. It seemed to me that this trepidation did not relate to everything she went through; with some morbid unease, she was looking at her forlorn home and lingering for a while as she hesitated to get out of the car. That was like Margaret. Behind all of her merriment and unconstrained communication, with which she usually could break the ice with everybody, from simple people to big clients in whose pockets the gold was measured in billions, some true essence of her being in this world disguised. Sometimes she had inexplicable fits of irritation out of nowhere or a thought suddenly overshadowed her fair beautiful face with a dark veil, impairing on it a mystical darkness and undisclosed onerous mystery.
As a true Frenchman, I am good at reading pretty women and I am convinced that all of them keep private personal mysteries: shameful relationships, infamous events, embarrassing moments. But, as a rule, these are trifling situations that would not induce the interest of the community even if they were described by the hand of Dumas, that very condemning interest which every young girl fears. That was why I rarely paid attention to such alterations. Besides, frankly speaking, since Margaret had allowed me to admire her privately every day, elevating me to the rank of favourites, I was the only one who witnessed these sudden mood swings. Blinded by such trust, I embraced these ups and downs with equanimity, even though they sometimes frightened me. But what kind of beauty does not frighten regular people like you and me with its sweet folly?
So I attributed this unconsciously darkened mood to everything that had happened to her in the last three months. After all, it was understandable. An innocent young woman was convicted of killing her own husband and dragged through the courts at the time when she was supposed to experience and nurse her grief, surrounded by family and attention.
John Avery and Margaret were married for two years, but by the gentle way she looked at him I knew how much she loved him. The young man and woman met during one of the deals arranged by Margaret’s company and, as it was rumoured, fell in love at first sight. I must admit, this wedding came as a complete surprise to me and even a kind of disappointment as I still harboured hope, alongside many others, that Margaret’s unjustified coldness towards men overall would someday rain down all its vehemence and passion on me.
But her wedding came as a surprise not only to me. It astonished everyone who knew Margaret as no one ever suspected her to be having an affair. She was the first one to come to work and the last one to leave. Approximately twice a week she stayed late in the office and let me go home. Now I know why. No, not only because she was seeing John. There was another circumstance with an exceptional degree of sophistication and compelling to the point of absurdity, of which I will tell you later.
Hesitating before leaving the car, Margaret suddenly looked at me in a strange manner and bestowed upon me the very same smile that, seven years ago, pierced my genuinely French heart with a rapier’s point of its charm. For a second I thought that she had lost her mind, but relying on solid evidence, or rather on the precarious emotionality of all women in general, I compassionately, and as if apologising for not sharing her joy, looked at her and smiled awkwardly in response. Dejected and slightly aged in those three months, Margaret trudged to her house on her weakened legs. I watched her go with sympathy and, if I may say so, with French awe.
From behind, you might have thought that this was a weakened and exhausted woman, perhaps even a little drunk after a hard day’s work. But he who would have seen Margaret’s eyes at that moment, had she met a passer-by accidentally wandering about the area, he would have paid attention to what a worrying whirlpool and disturbing lustre reflected in their honey bays in the light of night lanterns scarcely penetrating with a dim light every dark corner near the house, in contrast to the woman’s eyes, which were devouring darkness. She went, in a manner of speaking, smoothly, without hurry, with a short, barely noticeable, stuttering gait, as if she feared something.
She was wearing a grey business suit, which her mother specially brought her on the eve of the court. A perfectly fitting jacket with slightly pointed shoulders, narrowed on Margaret’s slim waist with a golden brooch in the form of a lizard spangled with diamonds. Beneath it, a cream-beige silk blouse appeared with initials on the inside near the collar, “M.S.” A business, tight pencil skirt was reaching that very piquant part of a woman’s legs when the picture ends on a cliff hanger and a man's imagination takes over; it finished just above the knees, perfectly emphasizing her rounded thighs, which, swaying on high heels, stopped multitude of moments in the life of your narrator. She held nothing in her hands, except the keys to her house.
Just imagine, over six years of respectable service, being the closest person to her life except for her husband, although I do not think that she showed him the mood swings overcasting everything around with the clouds of negativity, I never had the honour to visit her house, not even the hallway. As you have already seen, Monsieur Schwartz, the woman led quite a reclusive life, distant from all the prying eyes. Any information about any sphere of Margaret’s life, except for the professional one, suffered from anorexia of the reality and the superfluous weight of speculations. In other words, besides the fact that she was a great leader – demanding but encouraging towards her employees – no one knew anything else about her.
Her subordinates loved her for the generous bonuses, therefore they did not take any particular interest in exposing their perfect boss' diabolic flaws. For the rest of the residents, especially the women, although Margaret's beauty eclipsed all of their charm put together and the young lady stayed single for some time, soon there was nothing left to do but to stop chewing on the topic of “ the miraculously-rich half-Sicilian.” After all, success is never blamed.
At that moment, two pairs of eyes were following Margaret. One of them belonged to me as I was still watching her silhouette swaying as though carried by waves. The other pair, small and deeply planted, held the woman in their scope with their dilated pupils blacker than night, narrowing and blinking to the rhythm of tongue clicking. They were somewhere close, but I did not know a thing about them.
Margaret opened the doors, but before she crossed the house threshold, she squeezed inside only halfway, intently peering into the darkness and feeling for the light switch on the wall with her right hand. Making sure that no one was around, she turned off the alarm and closed the doors behind herself.
You could not say it was luxurious, but it was a beautiful home, designed in the British style. It was neither big nor small, but cosy and furnished tastefully. The house fit perfectly into the row of houses just like this one in the prosperous and enviable part of town. It was a two-storey house with green marble-like trim and small columns opposite the front door. The third floor, mercilessly thrown into the attic by the architect, was covered by green non-poisonous ivy, giving the town house the look of rustic tranquillity and a kind of philosophical contemplation.
Before Margaret walked down the hall that circumflexed the broad stairs leading to the second floor and headed towards the kitchen, she turned the lights on in the entire house. Surely, the woman was afraid of the dark, but there was nothing wrong with that, was there? Which one of us has never feared dark corners?
Soundlessly but with some diff
iculty, she opened a small cupboard in the kitchen, where she usually kept her own small collection of wine. She poured herself a little of ’75 Château Margaux and wandered into the living room with a glass in her hand, twisting a strand of silky black hair around her finger.
At first, the woman wandered around the room slowly and aimlessly, fixing her eyes on the floor. But gradually, worrying and pondering something, she unconsciously started quickening her step. After a while, as if succumbing to the rotation of the pendulum, she started to rush from side to side, nervously looking down and muttering something under her breath. Her black pupils dilated so much that they almost completely covered the iris, leaving only a thin line of honey brown colour. It is unknown how much time had passed, five minutes or a whole hour, but suddenly she stopped dead in her tracks, her lips slightly trembled in some strange uneven smile, producing something like a short antsy snigger. Margaret put the glass on a table without having taken a single sip, quickly grabbed the keys to her red Volvo from the hallway and ran out to the street.
With a quick and confident step, she went around the house and stopped in the back yard near a small apetalous rose bush that was looking at her with its frequent thin interlacing of almost bare branches. Without a second thought, she began to dig with a garden shovel until the metal sounded upon hitting something brittle and hard. It was a small, black, neatly wrapped item. Shaking the dirt off, not afraid to get grimy, she shoved it under her grey jacket and, crossing her arms as if she were cold, tottered to the garage in quick steps. At eight o’clock in the evening, the pair of those black eyes saw the woman sit in her red Volvo and leave the garage. It was already ten o’clock when Margaret arrived to some old forsaken hamlet, settled a hundred kilometres outside of the town line. Having passed through the entire village, she stopped the car a little ways past the very last dilapidated and abandoned house, took a flashlight and the black bundle and got out of her car slowly. The lanterns were turned off everywhere. Apparently, the town’s power management, which was in charge of this territory, considered the light here to be an absolutely inappropriate joke and a poor use of money, for almost no one lived here. Only the full moon illuminated this, seemingly godforsaken place. Some twenty metres near the house, there was a thick pine forest. Only the chirp of crickets and occasional cries of flying birds disturbed the silence that reigned around. This natural, unfathomable tranquillity for which the townspeople are ready to go to the end of the world, here and now, in the middle of the night, pressed with the gravity of its sepulchral soundlessness, leaving audible only a pulse beating in the temples and running through the veins with those beats.