John Verdon - Let the Devil Sleep

Mellani shrugged and flipped the switch. After a series of hesitant flashes, the light stabilized, producing a low buzz. The fluorescent glow emphasized the paleness of his skin and the shadows below his eyes. There was something distinctly cadaverous about him.

As she had done in Stone’s kitchen, she went through the process of arranging the cameras. When she was finished, she and Gurney sat on one side of the mahogany table, Mellani on the other. At that point she gave, almost word for word, the same speech she’d given Stone about the production goals of informality, simplicity, naturalness-keeping the interview as close as possible to the kind of conversation two friends might have in their home, loose and candid.

Mellani didn’t reply.

She told him that he should feel free to say anything he wished.

He said nothing, just sat and stared at her.

She looked around the claustrophobic space, whose inhospitable drabness the ceiling light had only managed to enhance. “So,” she said awkwardly, seeming to realize that she would have to be the motivator of whatever conversation they were going to have, “this is your main office?”

Mellani seemed to consider this. “Only office.”

“And your partners? They… they’re here?”

“No. No partners.”

“I thought… the names… Bickers… and…?”

“That was the name of the firm. Formed as a partnership. I was the senior partner. Then we… we parted ways. The name of the firm was a legal thing… legally independent of who actually worked here. I never had the energy to change it.” He spoke slowly, as though struggling with the unwieldiness of his own words. “Like some divorced women keep their married names. I don’t know why I don’t change it. I should, right?” He didn’t sound as if he wanted an answer.

Kim’s smile became more strained. She shifted in her seat. “Quick question before we go any further. Shall I call you Paul, or would you prefer that I call you Mr. Mellani?”

After several seconds of dead silence, he answered almost inaudibly, “Paul’s okay.”

“Okay, Paul, we’ll get started. As we discussed on the phone, we’re just going to have a simple conversation about your life after the death of your father. Is that all right with you?”

Another pause, and then he said, “Sure.”

“Great. So. How long have you been an accountant?”

“Forever.”

“I mean, specifically, in years?”

“Years? Since college. I’m… forty-five now. Twenty-two when I graduated. So forty-five minus twenty-two equals twenty-three years as an accountant.” He closed his eyes.

“Paul?”

“Yes?”

“Are you all right?”

He opened one eye, then the other. “I agreed to do this, so I’ll do it, but I’d like to get it over with. I’ve been through all this in therapy. I can give you the answers. I just… don’t like listening to the questions.” He sighed. “I read your letter… We talked on the phone… I know what you want. You want before and after, right? Okay. I’ll give you before and after. I’ll give you the gist of the then and the now.” He uttered another small sigh.

Gurney had the momentary impression that they were miners trapped in an underground cave-in, their oxygen supply fading-a scrap of memory from a movie he saw as a child.

Kim frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”

Mellani repeated, the words heavier the second time around, “I’ve been through all this in therapy.”

“Okay… and… therefore… you…?”

“Therefore I can give you the answers without your having to ask the questions. Better for everyone. Right?”

“Sounds great, Paul. Please, go right ahead.”

He pointed at one of her cameras. “Is that running?”

“Yes.”

Mellani shut his eyes again. By the time he began his narrative, whatever Kim was feeling about the situation was breaking out in tics at the corners of her mouth.

“It’s not like I was a happy person before the… event. I was never a happy person. But there was a time when I had hope. I think I had hope. Something like hope. A sense that the future could be brighter. But after the… event… that feeling was gone forever. The color in the picture got switched off, everything was gray. You understand that? No color. I once had the energy to build a professional practice, to grow something.” He articulated the word as though it were a strange concept. “Clients… partners… momentum. More, better, bigger. Until it happened.” He fell silent.

“It?” prompted Kim.

“The event.” He opened his eyes. “It was like being pushed over the edge of something. Not a cliff, just…” He raised his hand, miming the movement of a car reaching the apex of a hill, then tilting slightly downward. “Things started going south. Falling apart. Bit by bit. The engine wasn’t running anymore.”

“What was your family situation?” asked Kim.

“Situation? Apart from the fact that my father was dead and my mother was in an irreversible coma?”

“I’m sorry, I should have been clearer. What I meant was, were you married, did you have any other family?”

“I had a wife. Until she got tired of everything going downhill.”

“Any children?”

“No. That was a good thing. Or maybe not. All my father’s money went to his grandchildren-my sister’s children.” Mellani produced a smile, but there was bitterness in it. “You know why? This is funny. My sister was a very screwed-up person, very anxious. Both her kids are bipolar, ADHD, OCD, you name it. So my father… he decides that I’m fine, I’m the healthy one in the family, but they need all the help they can get.”

“Are you in contact with your sister?”

“My sister is dead.”

“I’m sorry, Paul.”

“Years ago. Five? Six? Cancer. Maybe dead isn’t so bad.”

“What makes you say that?”

Again the bitter smile, drifting into sadness. “See? Questions. Questions.” He stared down at the tabletop as though he were trying to discern the outlines of something in murky water. “The thing is, money meant a lot to my father. It was the most important thing. You understand?”

His sadness was reflected in Kim’s eyes. “Yes.”

“My therapist told me that my father’s obsession with money was the reason I became an accountant. After all, what do accountants count? They count money.”

“And when he left everything to your sister’s family…?”

Mellani raised his hand again. This time he mimed the slow descent of a car into a deep valley. “Therapy gives you all this insight, all this clarity, but that’s not always a good thing, is it.” It wasn’t a question.

• • •

Emerging from Paul Mellani’s dreary office half an hour later into the sunny parking lot gave Gurney the jarring feeling he got coming out of a dark movie theater into daylight-a shift from one world to another.

Kim took a deep breath. “Wow. That was…”

“Dismal? Desolate? Morose?”

“Just sad.” She looked shaken.

“Did you notice the dates on the magazines in the reception area?”

“No, why?”

“They were all from years ago, nothing current. And speaking of dates, you realize what time of year this is?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s the last week of March. Less than three weeks to April fifteenth. These are the weeks every accountant should be crazy busy.”

“Oh, jeez, you’re right. Meaning he has no clients left. Or not very many. So what’s he doing in there?”

“Good question.”

The drive back to Walnut Crossing in their separate cars took nearly two hours. Toward the end the sun was low enough in the sky to produce a hazy glare on Gurney’s dirty windshield-reminding him for the third or fourth time that week that he was out of wiper fluid. What irritated him more than the absence of the fluid was his increasing dependence on notes. If he didn’t write something down…