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During yet another quarrel, Margaret’s voice drowned in the flood of Krisi’s shouts and insults. Incredible severe pain pierced the woman’s lower abdomen. Margaret bent in half and, barely breathing, through the tears, which blinded her, only vaguely distinguished the blood red stains on her trembling hands. The bitter smell cut through her thoughts distracted by the quarrel, when she brought her hand closer to her face. Appalled and horrified, the woman took only a sharp breath and fainted. It turned out that Margaret was pregnant but was not yet aware of it. The peace, which the women in her state usually need, was in acute shortage.

  Upon waking up in the hospital, she found Krisi next to her, holding her hand. Although, it seemed that the young man did not dream about children, he was worried somewhere in the depths of his shrewd heart, still tightly wrapped in Margaret’s magic. The most terrifying thing that he now envisioned was that this time the woman would definitely decide to leave him, unable to forgive him the direct responsibility for the situation and the manifested callousness.

  However, Krisi could not allow his reputation to fall even more in Margaret’s eyes. Shamelessly, driven by some devious skill, he displayed the situation in a light favourable for himself, as if this was purely Margaret’s fault, as she was a woman, which implied being a mother who needed to be responsible for the situation.

  They say that was the moment when a black demon of revenge was born in Margaret’s mind, which needed at least one more reason to break free.

  Too weak, she did not try to deny her guilt. Glowering from the overwhelming burden of pain and sorrow, Margaret was trying to withstand stoically all slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. The fleeting gleam in her eyes, sad ever since, seemed to be a mystical glimpse of death.

  However, Krisi was still worried and troubled. The first few weeks after the incident, when the woman needed absolute peace, he was especially loving, demonstrating himself to be the most attentive man in the world, constantly trying to cheer Margaret who stopped smiling altogether. He carried breakfast to her, made dinner for her, never raised his voice, did not make any scenes, whispered sweetly into her ear about how much he loved her and how he would always be by her side, “I will never leave you, amore mio[3], I will always be with you. I love you.”

  ***

  However, our memory tends to lose those fragments washed away by a surge of time and new emotions. Three weeks after the incident, when the young woman grew stronger and Martin came to his senses, the conflicts without which this relationship could not exist started vibrating with new unprecedented force.

  It was beyond his capacity to cope with the overwhelming feelings of being now dependant on another person; the man reproached Margaret for his weakness and for having the morbid fear that she would leave him one day. Conceived in fear, the treacherous mania developed into an incurable phobia. Reproaching the woman for the powerlessness, which he felt laughing in his face when she was around, Martin unconsciously started to punish her with his contemptuous and disrespectful attitude. Not wanting to look like a fool, he tried with all his might to humiliate the young woman.

  He would call Margaret less frequently with gentleness and his warm hands no longer caressed her breasts surging ardently with excitement. Increasingly, he began to deceive and lie shamelessly to her, sometimes arranging his illegal little things, other times having an affair. A special pleasure lay in the ease with which Margaret swallowed these diabolically woven lies, blindly believing in the genuineness and honesty of her beloved. He punished her with his deceits, ridiculing and laughing at the young woman in his head. Gradually losing his mind, Martin started drinking and one day, utterly drunk, he broke into Margaret’s house, shouting curses, calling her a whore and telling her to go to hell. But each time, almost weeping, he tightly clutched her knees, begging her to forgive him this “one last time.”

  Margaret constantly walked away, but she would come back with no less consistency. No one will ever know why these quarrels, burned through with negativity, forced her to return every time.

  Hugging him, once again forgiving yet another breakdown, Margaret would smile dolefully through a waterfall of burning tears and whisper in Italian, “Stupido.”[4]

  “Stupida,” he changed the inflection, thankfully lifting his glowing eyes to her and, hugging her tightly as if for the last time, he would carefully wipe the tears from her cheeks with his rough but gentle hands. It was one of the lovers’ common jokes, symbolizing the end of a quarrel. Margaret, being part Sicilian, was fluent in Italian and Martin always wanted to keep up with his loved one and he gradually learned this most emotional language in the world. When the girl thought that he was lying, she would tell him “mentitore,” which meant “liar.” He would say the same thing to her in reply and they would start laughing, embracing each other tightly. “I will never let you cry again. I cannot watch what I am doing to you,” Krisi repeated after he earned yet another chance. But every time, he brought her to such a state that Margaret, choking on tears and insults, had to leave for some fresh air so that she could breathe easier.

  Both played some wild, subconscious game, and both unconsciously derived special pleasure from it.

  Conflicts continued daily until the turning point in this story when Margaret started to withdraw into herself during yet another Krisi’s fit. She retired into motionless, sepulchral silence and the lustre of her honey eyes darkened with a blackening veil of hatred born of resentment and anguish. She was now trapped in a gilded cage of suffering and pain and despite the small, slightly opened door on it, she could never leave.

  In order to make the sitting, detached young woman come to her senses, Martin would shake her with all his might, squeezing his fingers tightly on her thin delicate arms, leaving at first blue and then blackened bruises on the olive body. But Margaret remained silent and motionless. Her faded black glance would only slip fleetingly over the man's lips, which were spitting curses. Each time, hating her silence more and more, Martin shook the woman’s arms, spangled with old bruises, harder and harder with tremendous strength, yelling at her and trying to elicit any response.

  In one such situation, he hit her for the first time. He hit her hard, hard in the face. Awakened from stupor, she started pushing him away; swatting at the slaps coming her way, which only provoked hysterical and outraged Krisi. After slapping her with the back of his hand three more times on her soft tear-stained cheeks, the very same hand that used to carefully caress her skin, he threw her on the floor, beating her on her back and legs but, suddenly realising what he was doing, turned deathly pale and ran out of the house.

  Margaret was not going to forgive him for this. This time it was the end, definitive and irrevocable. The woman knew that such frequent conflicts and hysterics of her young companion could not influence the positive development of the relationship, which, by that time had turned to absolute filth and violence. But the man, unable to bear separation from the subject of his blind adoration, as much as he was unable to bear the presence of her in his life, turned up on Margaret’s doorstep the following day, extremely remorseful. Once again on his knees and shaking from tears, choking on the sobs escaping from his chest, he would not unclench his hands clasped tightly on her thin white knees and would not leave until he earned her forgiveness. For several hours, with his head lowered miserably, he tried vainly to evoke pity from her, which eventually only engendered a wave of hatred and anger, swallowing the woman.

  Tear-stained and exhausted, dappled with sadness and devastated from her feebleness in front of this man, she pounded him as hard as she could, regretful and angry at the long-broken love. Stoically taking all her punches and insults, he simply repeated to her that he had deserved it, begging the weeping and hysterical woman to beat him as she saw fit.

  Thus new entertainment entered the lovers’ game. Hundreds of times she slapped him, challenging his nerves, and hundreds of times he would lose his temper and return her blows with greater force. Although Krisi declared each time that h
e would not lay a finger on Margaret, his fists treacherously rained down on the gentle curves of her shimmering skin.

  “Do you know how tormented I am when I hurt you? I am so ashamed, Margaret. I feel so bad. And mostly, I am ashamed when you forgive me for all that.”

  Chapter 10

  By and large, the relationship continued this way for nearly a year until the very day when Margaret caught her lover in bed with another; and what is more, in her own home. They say that was the last straw, for everything that connected her with him was her blind love and trust and, I would dare say, confidence in his reciprocal feelings.

  Oftentimes she gave Martin the keys to her rented flat and when she came home, she would find him cooking dinner for two. That day, coming back home an hour earlier, she wanted to surprise him.

  The front door was slightly ajar. Apparently, the passion that engulfed the felons had seized them right at the doorstep.

  At first, Margaret could not or would not believe her eyes. She had long suspected that he was unfaithful to her, but she needed living proof and screaming facts and now she had them.

  The head of fluttering red hair held by the velvety chocolate-coloured hand left a lasting impression in Margaret's sub-consciousness. Bewildered and a little frantic, perhaps in a state of temporary insanity, the woman ran away, covering her face with her hands without disturbing the lovers.

  But she did not do it out of weakness. Oh no, Monsieur Schwartz! And not out of love either, which was still clawing at her passionate heart! She did it because the first thought that came to her mind was the thought of revenge. Perhaps only partly by blood, but in her whole essence she was a true Sicilian! God only knows what happens in the families, which can inure these holy women, tortured by abusive husbands, when they still believe in their devotion and loyalty. Margaret could tolerate a lot, obsessed by the idea that her man truly loved her and would not infringe on their gentle feelings for each other, hidden behind terrible, sophisticated torture of their fiery characters and violent scenes. But she could not tolerate treachery and betrayal.

  Revenge is a dish best served cold but, at that moment, Margaret was too hot-headed to take that into account. Having run to the street, she bent in half, panting and trying to gather her stray thoughts into one. Her whole body was shaking in muffled sobs. Her stomach began to stir treacherously and her eyes grew dim. For a moment, Margaret felt as if she were about to faint. Suddenly straightening up and sharply calming down, the girl turned deadly pale, filling her usually glowing face with dark shades of gloom and coldness.

  We had already seen this condition, Monsieur Schwartz, when eight years later, she would reopen her grandpa’s secret bunker and she would not find the thing she was looking for there.

  Possessing her, some other part of Margaret did the first thing that came to her mind. Sharply raising her chin and turning her eyes directly towards some street, she ran forward with all her might. The road led her to Martin’s best friend, Jonathan, who, as you remember, struggled with overcoming his love for the young girl. Although his feelings for the woman sometimes overshadowed with all their strength his friendship with Krisi, Jonathan remained a loyal friend until the very last and never revealed his feelings to Margaret. She, in turn, as all women, knew that Jonathan cared very much about her.

  Taking advantage of the situation, she dishevelled her thick hair black as ebony, smeared her makeup on her cheeks into black stains, cracked her lips until she bled and, tearing her right sleeve at the shoulder, bared one of the fresh bruises that was left after yet another one of Krisi’s “shakes.” Tumbling on buckling legs into Jonathan’s house, she pitifully fell to the floor, supposedly worn out and panting from sobs and shaking, she vainly tried to utter at least a word. However, Margaret did not really have to pretend during this scene. She truly was crying. Not from what Jonathan was supposed to think, but because it indeed was unbearably painful. Her feminine pride and Sicilian dignity could not tolerate this kind of betrayal!

  Jonathan was a tall and strong man. When comparing his and Martin’s appearance, he clearly won, though Margaret did not think so. People in love are usually blind. He was a healthy, strong country boy, always ready to come to someone’s aid. At the same time, he was a person of kind and noble soul, one of those who preferred truth to gold, which differentiated him from Martin even more, in this respect.

  Through her unintelligible sobs, sprawled on the floor, Margaret rested her hands on the wooden floor and, as if rising with her last effort, arched like a snake, bending her attractive knee so that it would be more visible through the narrow slit of her skirt. Facing Jonathan’s questioning eyes with her eyes reddened from tears as he was kneeling next to her and holding her shoulders with his strong hands, she only feebly said “Martin” and fainted.

  Engulfed, perhaps for the first time in his life with such fierce hatred and rage, Jonathan grabbed his jacket from the chair and ran away. Bewildered, Margaret quickly jumped to her feet, shook her head from side to side desperately looking for her protector and, upon realising that he was gone, rushed after him as fast as she could.

  Having caught up with the young man engulfed with rage, which it seemed, was ready to destroy everything in its path, Margaret suddenly began to halt him, begging him not to harm her loved one. Being petite, Margaret only bounced next to Jonathan, a muscular giant of a man. Like a small Spaniel, she was clinging to his big arms, hanging on them and trying to slow him down. It was another one of the woman’s cunning tricks, whose heart was forever pierced with a pointed spear of revenge. She knew that the more she protected her villain-lover in front of the man who was truly in love with, the more he would rage at Martin.

  That was exactly what happened. Jonathan, who was already hazy from anger and jealousy, took two equally sturdy friends with him. He grabbed Margaret, still begging them to stop, into his arms and confidently walked towards the woman’s house.

  Margaret rented a small flat on the second floor of the old, but comely building, designed in European style. Giving Margaret, who was still resisting, very strict instructions to come in and behave as usual, he asked her not to close the door while he would remain on the street with his friends in order to go in after her in five minutes. As if surrendering, Margaret lowered her eyes, glistening with sparks and entered the flat. She indeed transformed in a moment. There was no shadow left of this gloomy horror and soul torment on her face, which pushed Jonathan with such treacherous accuracy to the definitive decision to break the friendship.

  Having come in, she found Krisi, who supposedly had just entered the flat, at the door. Smiling, as if nothing were amiss, he took her coat and bent down to kiss her, when, suddenly three tall, intimidating men came in behind her back, two of whom had to bend to enter the flat.

  Following Margaret's death, her old diaries from that period were found in the house of her grandfather, some fragments of which were made public soon after the tragedy. Thus, I read in the newspapers about how bizarrely and with what pleasure she described the horror reflected in Martin's eyes. She said that in his glassy stare, a silent “I cannot believe my eyes” froze. His hands felt rubbery and for a few seconds, he just stood motionless, having lost not only the gift of speech but the ability to move. How much Margaret enjoyed all that! The fear that seized Krisi made the adrenaline run through her, through her fevered brain, through her veins boiling with rage, reverberating with the subtle heat of pleasure, a sacred warmth filling every cell in her body. She wrote, “If I had the artistry of Salvador Dali’s paintbrush, then I would effortlessly capture the invigorating fear on white parchment, as if covered with black Venice lace, which stilled his glance.” The woman said that hardly did she close her eyes when she saw their extinguished lustre and maelstrom, a hazy overcast over once carefree boyish playfulness.

  Margaret hit the target. More than anything in the world she wanted to intimidate her lover to such an extent that the only thing that was left in his life was to live it in f
ear and to feel betrayal from the one person he least expected. Partially, she fancied herself to be some kind of a dangerous force whom no one should cross. Partially, she was a woman thrown away on the verge of passion, unwanted and used, the resentment and anger of which, reverberating with hatred, predetermined the fate of the beast who crippled her faith in love.

  Martin did not know Jonathan’s two friends and, upon seeing their serious half-burial faces, froze in place, rooted to the spot.

  The truth was that Jonathan had long suspected his friend's rude treatment of the girl as he saw her crying and running from his dormitory many times. Not once did he tell his friend to be careful and try not to attract attention.

  The two men took Martin by his arms, steering him to the exit and began shouting loudly. Terrified and bent in half, Martin took his head in his hands, protecting it as he was sure that he would be beaten. Nevertheless, none of them was going to hurt a man much weaker than they were and even though none of them individually understood what was supposed to happen next, it was no one’s goal to give Martin a beating.

  Blinded by jealousy and grievance for the girl towards whom he felt unrequited love, Jonathan only wanted to protect her and talk to his friend about his inappropriate attitude toward women. At least, that was how Margaret described it.

  Fear has magnifying eyes, as you know, Monsieur Schwartz. Apparently, upon realising the trap, Martin felt that anyone might find out about his misdeeds and he was probably unable to forgive himself for such behaviour. He knew that generosity towards him would be the strangers’ last priority. Hazy from horror, Krisi started to break from the tenacious hands of his captors and, seizing a favourable moment, slipped out of the sweater that he was wearing, ran to Margaret’s bedroom and, with a running start, jumped out of the window.

  Chapter 11