Douglas Preston - The Obsidian Chamber

Even as this thought went through her mind, she wondered: why would he even think he could succeed at such a charade again? Besides, Diogenes was incapable of love.

… I not only admire you, but I’m afraid of you.

… We’re alike in so very many ways. In others you are my superior. Is it any wonder, then, that my reverence for you has only grown?

“If what you say is true,” she said coldly, “then have the courage of that sentiment. Show yourself.”

This was greeted by a moment of stillness. Then Constance heard the scritch of a match from behind. She whirled around. And there he was: standing in the tapestried entrance to the music collection, leaning, arms crossed, beside a newly lighted wall sconce holding a burning taper. He looked almost the same — the thin features, so like his brother and yet so different; the modeled chin, the well-formed pale lips, closely trimmed russet beard; and the strange, bicolored eyes, one green, the other cloudy whitish blue. The only difference was an ugly scar that now marred the otherwise chiseled perfection of his left cheek, traveling from hairline to jaw. An orchid boutonnière was tucked casually into a lapel of his jacket: she recognized it as Cattleya constanciana , the white-and-pink flower that had been named after her.

Constance stared, struck dumb by the abrupt appearance of this spectral figure out of her past. And then, quite suddenly, she leapt at him, swift as a bat, stiletto in one raised hand, aiming for his eyes.

But Diogenes had been expecting this. With a deft move, he ducked away from the blow; as her blade arm flashed past he grasped it in a grip of steel; then spun her toward him, pinning her other arm to her side, holding her in a tight embrace. The stiletto clattered to the floor.

She had forgotten how quick and strong he was.

She turned her face away from his, struggling furiously, fruitlessly.

“I’ll release you,” he said in a calm, steady voice, “if you’ll hear me out. That’s all I ask — that you hear me out. And then, if you still wish to kill me, so be it.”

There was a moment of stasis. At last — mastering her anger — she nodded.

Letting go of one hand, Diogenes knelt to retrieve the stiletto. Constance thought briefly of kicking him in the face, but realized it would be hopeless: physically, she was overmastered.

She might as well let him speak.

Diogenes rose again. He released her other arm and stepped back.

She waited, flushed and breathing hard. He stood still now, in the light of the sconce, as if awaiting her reaction.

“You say you love me,” she said after a moment. “How absurd for you to think I could possibly believe that.”

“It’s true,” he said. “And I think you already know it — even if you can’t admit it to yourself.”

“And do you really think, after what you’ve done, that I’d reciprocate?”

Diogenes spread his hands. “Those in love are full of irrational hope.”

“You mention the feelings I had for your brother. Why, then, should I have any interest in his inferior sibling — especially after the way you abused my innocence?”

This was said scornfully, sarcastically, with intent to wound. But Diogenes answered the question in the same mild, reasonable tones he had employed all along.

“I have no excuse. As I’ve said, my treatment of you was unforgivable.”

“Then why seek forgiveness?”

“I don’t seek your forgiveness. I seek your love. I was a different person then. And I paid for my sins — at your hands.” He motioned, briefly, toward the scar on his cheek. “As for my being inferior to Aloysius, I can say only this: you and he would never have been happy together. Don’t you realize that? He’d never love anyone after Helen.”

“While you, on the other hand, would be an ideal partner.”

“For you— yes .”

“Thank you, but I have no interest in a union with a psychotic, misanthropic, imperfectly socialized killer.”

At this, the faintest of smiles crossed his face. “We’re both killers, Constance. As for being a misanthrope — is there not a similarity there, as well? And are not both of us imperfectly socialized ? Perhaps it would be best if I simply described the future I envision for us. Then you can make your own judgment.”

Constance started to make another cutting remark, but stifled it, feeling her responses were beginning to sound shrill.

“You’re a creature of another era,” Diogenes said.

“A freak , as you once called me.”

Diogenes smiled wistfully, waved a hand as if to concede the point. “The simple fact is: you don’t belong in the here and now. Oh, you’ve made valiant efforts to integrate yourself into the twenty-first century, into today’s quotidian, vapid society — I know, because I’ve observed some of those efforts at a distance. But it hasn’t been easy, has it? And at some level, you must have begun to wonder if such an effort is even worth it.” He paused. “I don’t belong in this time, either: for a very different reason. You couldn’t help what happened to you — Enoch Leng intervened in your life, murdered your sister, took you under his… care . Just as you said, I, too, am imperfectly socialized. We are two peas in a pod.”

At this trite observation, Constance frowned.

As he’d been speaking, Diogenes had been toying with the stiletto. Now he placed it on the harpsichord, took a step forward. “I own an island, Constance — a private island in the Florida Keys. It’s west of No Name Key and northeast of Key West. It’s not a big island, but it’s a jewel. It is called Halcyon. I have a house there; a breezy mansion furnished with books and instruments and paintings; it offers both sunrise and sunset views; and it has been stocked with all the rare wines, champagnes, and delicacies you could ever wish for. I’ve been preparing this idyll over the years with painstaking, excessive care. It was to be a bastion; my last and final retreat from the world. But — as I was recovering in that hut in Ginostra — I realized that such a place, no matter how ideal, would be unbearably lonely without another person — the one, the perfect person — with whom to share it.” He paused. “Need I name that person?”

Constance tried to formulate a reply, but found the words wouldn’t come. She could smell his faint cologne. The unique and mysterious scent brought back a memory of that single night…

He took another step forward. “Halcyon would be our escape from a world that has no need for or interest in us. We could live out the forty or fifty years allotted to us, together, in mutual discovery, pleasure… and intellectual pursuits. There are certain problems of theoretical mathematics I should like to tackle, problems that have defied solution for centuries — such as the Riemann Hypothesis and the distribution of prime numbers. And I’ve always wanted to decipher the Phaistos Disc or work out a full translation of all the Etruscan inscriptions. These are of course massively difficult puzzles that would take decades to solve — if they can be solved at all. For me, Constance, it’s the journey, not the destination. It’s a journey we will make together. That we are meant to make together.”

He fell silent. Constance said nothing. This was all too much, too quickly: the protestation of love; the vision of an intellectual utopia; the allure of a sanctuary from the world… despite herself, some of what he had said struck deep.

“And you, Constance, will have all the time in the world to undertake your own odyssey of the mind. Think of the projects you could complete. You might take up writing or painting. Or study a new instrument. I have a lovely Guarneri violin that would be yours to play. Think about it, Constance: we could live in absolute freedom from this dull and corrupt world, indulging our dearest pursuits and desires.”