When she emerged, Noemí brushed the hair away from her eyes almost angrily. Hugo Duarte. Who was she kidding? She wasn’t thinking about him these days. That arrow of yearning that had struck her in Francis’s room was worrisome. It felt different from her other excursions into desire. Though a young woman of her social standing was not supposed to know anything about desire, Noemí had had the chance to experience kisses, embraces, and certain caresses. That she did not sleep with any of the men she dated had less to do with a fear of sin than with the concern that they’d tattle about it to their friends, or worse, entrap her. There was always this smidgen of fear in her heart, fear of so many things, but with Francis she forgot to fear.
You’re turning mawkish, she told herself.He’s not even handsome.
She slid a hand up and down her breastbone and contemplated the mold on the ceiling before sighing and turning her head away.
That’s when she saw it. The figure by the doorway. Noemí blinked, thinking for a moment it was an optical illusion. She’d brought the oil lamp into the bathroom and it provided enough light, but it wasn’t the stark illumination of a light bulb.
The figure stepped forward, and she realized that it was Virgil, in a navy pinstripe suit and a tie, looking nonchalant, as if he’d walked into his bathroom instead of her own.
“There you are, you pretty little thing,” he said. “No need to speak, no need to move.”
Shame and surprise and anger shot through her body. What the hell did he think he was doing? She was going to yell at him. She was going to yell at him and cover herself, and not only yell. She’d slap him. She’d slap him once she was in her bathrobe.
But she didn’t move at all. No sound escaped Noemí’s lips.
Virgil stepped forward, a thin smile on his face.
They can make you think things, a voice whispered. She’d heard that voice before, somewhere in this house.They make you do things.
Her left hand was resting on the edge of the tub, and she managed, with considerable effort, to curl it tighter. She was able to open her mouth a little, but not to speak. She wanted to tell him to get out and couldn’t, and it made her tremble with fright.
“You’ll be a good girl, won’t you?” Virgil said.
He had reached the bathtub and knelt down to look at her, smiling. It was a cunning, crooked smile set in a perfectly sculpted face, and he was so close to her that she could see there were flecks of gold in his eyes.
He tugged at the tie around his neck and took it off, then he unbuttoned his shirt.
She was petrified, like the unwary character in an old myth. She was the victim of the gorgon.
“Such a good girl, I know it. Be good to me.”
Open your eyes, the voice said.
But her eyes were wide open, and he had woven his fingers into her hair, making her lift her head up. A rough gesture, devoid of any of the kindness he was asking of her. She wanted to shove him away, but she still couldn’t move, and his hand clenched in her hair and he was leaning down to kiss her.
Noemí tasted sweetness on his lips. The trace of wine, perhaps. It was pleasant and it made her relax her tense body. She let go of the edge of the bathtub, and the voice that had been whispering to her was gone now. There was the steam from the bath and the man’s mouth atop her own, the hands snaking around her body. He kissed down her long neck, pausing to bite at the top of her breast, which drew a gasp from her. His stubble was rough against her skin.
Her neck arched backward. It seemed she could, in fact, move.
She raised her hands to touch his face, to draw him toward her. He wasn’t an intruder. He wasn’t an enemy. There was no reason to yell or to slap him, while there was every reason to keep touching him.
His hand ran down her stomach and disappeared beneath the water, caressing her thighs. She was not trembling with fright anymore. It was desire making her shiver, delicious and thick, spreading across her limbs, his touch heavy, his fingers toying with her as her breathing hitched. His body was hot against her skin. Another flick of his fingers, a deep exhalation, but then—
Open your eyes, hissed the voice, yanking her hard, and she turned her face away from him, staring up again at the ceiling. The ceiling had melted away.
She saw an egg, and from it rose a thin white stalk. A snake. But no, no, she’d seen such an image before. In Francis’s room a couple of hours ago. On the walls. The watercolors of mushrooms with their neat labels beneath, and one of them had said “universal veil.” Yes. That’s what it was. The egg, pierced, the membrane removed, the snake that was the mushroom rising through the ground. Alabaster snake, sliding and knotting itself, devouring its tail.
Then there was darkness. The light from the oil lamp had gone off. She wasn’t in the tub anymore. She had been wrapped in a thick cloth that impeded her movement, but she managed to pull it apart, to slide it away, and it slipped from her shoulders as neatly as the membrane she’d observed.
Wood. She could smell damp earth and wood, and when she raised a hand her knuckles hit a hard surface and a splinter cut her skin.
Coffin. It was a coffin. The cloth was a shroud.
But she wasn’t dead. She wasn’t. And she opened her mouth to yell, to tell them that she wasn’t dead even when she knew she’d never die.
A buzzing, like a million bees had suddenly been unleashed, and Noemí pressed her hands against her ears. A blinding golden light shivered; it touched her, moving from the tip of her toes up to her chest until it reached her face, smothering her.
Open your eyes, Ruth said. Ruth with blood in her hands and blood on her face and her nails caked with blood, and the bees were inside her head, tunneling through Noemí’s ears.
