Sascha Arango - The Truth and Other Lies

“Honor,” she said softly, “can I ask you a favor?”

Honor took off the headphones. It really was the first time that this person had addressed her respectfully and, above all, directly. She wanted to hear it again.

“Pardon?”

“May I ask you a favor?”

“Anytime. What can I do for you?”

“Next time one of those insurance fellows calls you, please don’t pass on confidential information about Mr. Hayden.”

Eisendraht’s head jerked, like a chicken that has just spotted a grain of corn. “He asked me about Mr. Hayden!”

“Yes. A lot of people do. And we protect the privacy of our authors, do we not?”

This “do we not” left Honor no alternative. “I’ve been working here for many years, Betty ,” she said, “and if there’s anything that’s sacred to me it’s the privacy of our authors. You ought to know that.”

“All I know is that it was you .”

Betty was already out the door, leaving Honor Eisendraht in a state of turbulence.

——

“She did what ?”

Henry leaped up and began to pace in front of the picture window in his studio. The hovawart immediately got up from its place under the coffee table and slunk out of the room with its tail between its legs. It wouldn’t come back until its finely tuned ability to pick up on bad vibes had given it the all clear.

On the table in front of Betty was the envelope with the ultrasound images of the fetus. She followed Henry from the sofa with her eyes. Against the light she could see his silhouette flitting back and forth, a restless shadow.

“The envelope went straight to Moreany,” she went on. “She rang up the practice and asked them to send the pictures to him at the company.”

“Eisendraht?”

“It must be her. It was a woman. She pretended to be me. She knows how old I am, where I live, and that I’m pregnant.”

Henry turned his back on Betty for a moment and looked out at the fields. It wasn’t yet ten in the morning and the sun was already blazing down. Not a cloud was in the sky. There was just a stork circling high, high up. It was going to be a hot day.

“How can she know that?” he asked, without turning around.

“Not from me.” Betty took off a shoe and pulled her leg up onto the sofa. “And no,” she added, “I haven’t told Moreany anything. No one except the doctor knew about it. By the way, the insurance man dropped by yesterday and wanted the car key for the Subaru. I didn’t have a key to give him.”

Although she couldn’t see Henry’s eyes against the light, she thought she could feel his penetrating gaze.

“No key? You don’t have a key at all?”

“No.” Betty leaned forward and took the envelope from the coffee table. “It was your idea to report it stolen. Why are we behaving like criminals, Henry? Why are we doing this to ourselves instead of simply grieving for your wife and being pleased about our baby?”

She shaded her eyes, so she could see Henry.

“Can you come out of the light, please? I can’t see you.”

Henry let down the electric blinds; it was at once cooler and pleasantly dim in the large room. He was visible once again.

“I’m going to the police, Henry. It doesn’t make sense any longer.”

“Ah,” he said quietly — and then, after a long pause—“You know what will happen then?”

Betty took the CD out of the envelope. The light was refracted into the colors of the spectrum. She spun it in her hand. She’s already gone into defensive mother mode, thought Henry all of a sudden. She’s not scared of me anymore. She just wants to keep the baby safe.

“What happens then I quite frankly don’t care,” Betty replied. “I think truth is the best policy for us. I don’t want our baby to be born in prison. Wouldn’t you like to have a look?”

Henry stared at the silver disc in her hand. It had all begun with that image. A little photo of a living piece of tissue, no bigger than a matchbox. At the sight of the fetus, the demon in him had been aroused, his old mate and protector from difficult times. Follow me , it had whispered, and Henry had once again followed. It had driven with him to the cliffs to kill his wife and crept in after him among the rafters of his house where the marten lurked. The demon had told him the correct bend in which to lie in wait for his enemy, and was even now whispering its dark plan in his ear.

“The novel’s finished.”

Betty looked at him in surprise. “Really?”

“Yes. I suddenly saw the end. Then I sat down and wrote. I’ve been working through the night.”

She put the CD back on the table. “I can’t believe it. Can I read it?”

“By all means. Read it, tell me what you think, and then we’ll celebrate.” Henry went over to his desk and took the manuscript. He weighed it in his hand and passed it to her. “I haven’t had time to type it up on the computer yet. That’s the only version. There’s still no copy.” He saw that Betty was about to object, and raised his hand.

“I’d like you to read it before Moreany. And afterward we’ll go to the police together and clear up this whole business. And now”—Henry joined her on the sofa and reached for the CD—“show me our baby.”

The Drina pitched and rolled in the light swell that was blown into the harbor by the west wind. Obradin pushed a can with the top sliced off under the oil drain outlet of the diesel engine and opened the valve. A change of oil might do the engine good — or it might be the extreme unction. He pursed his lips to whistle his usual little tune, but no sound came out — only air. He could chew much better with his nice new incisors, and cold things didn’t hurt anymore, but he could no longer whistle.

Black with powdered metal, the oil flowed into the can, shimmering in the sunlight that fell through the hatch into the engine room. Obradin dipped in an index finger and rubbed the black grease experimentally between finger and thumb. A shadow fell into the engine room. Obradin turned his massive skull. Glancing up he saw Henry standing over him, his arms folded. He’d pulled his hat low over his forehead. If the expression on his face was anything to go by, it must be something serious.

Henry inhaled tobacco smoke and let his gaze wander along the quayside wall.

“I have to get away from here, my friend.”

Obradin saw the smoke stream out of Henry’s nostrils like cold winter breath. It curled and dispersed over the seaweed-green nets. There just couldn’t be a better place for a man-to-man talk than his pitching, rolling, wonderfully hideous Drina .

“I’m in deep shit and don’t know any other way out, so I’m going to make myself scarce. But first”—Henry laid his hand holding the cigarette on Obradin’s oil-stained trousers—“I wanted to see you again. You don’t know what my life’s been like; you’ve never asked. You’ve never wanted to know where I come from, or what I’ve done, or what I get up to during the day.” He pushed the brim of his hat a little higher up his forehead and smiled sadly at Obradin. “You don’t know how much good that does me.”

“Where are you going to go?”

“Away from here. I’ll lie low until everyone’s given up searching for me.”

Henry looked dreamily at the leather tips of his shoes. “I’ve gone underground a few times in my life. Once I did it for years. I lived by myself in a house with bricked-up windows and no one noticed. The house belonged to my parents; they had been dead for many years. I only went to school until sixth grade, just imagine. I can’t even do mental arithmetic. Can you believe it?”

Obradin spat a flake of tobacco into the water. “Just goes to show how little is actually enough.”