now.”
Without a look at Starling, Margot Verger left in a whistle of riding pants.
“Mr. Verger, I’d like to attach this microphone to your—clothing or your pillow if you’re comfortable with that, or I’ll call a nurse to do it if you prefer.”
“By all means,” he said, minus the
b
and the
m
. He waited for power from the next mechanical exhalation. “You can do it yourself, Agent Starling. I’m right over here.”
There were no light switches Starling could find atonce. She thought she might see better with the glare out of her eyes and she went into the darkness, one hand before her, toward the smell of wintergreen and balsam.
She was closer to the bed than she thought when he turned on the light.
Starling’s face did not change. Her hand holding the clip-on microphone jerked backward, perhaps an inch.
Her first thought was separate from the feelings in her chest and stomach; it was the observation that his speech anomalies resulted from his total lack of lips. Her second thought was the recognition that he was not blind. His single blue eye was looking at her through a sort of monocle with a tube attached that kept the eye damp, as it lacked a lid. For the rest, surgeons years ago had done what they could with expanded skin grafts over bone.
Mason Verger, noseless and lipless, with no soft tissue on his face, was all teeth, like a creature of the deep, deep ocean. Inured as we are to masks, the shock in seeing him is delayed. Shock comes with the recognition that this is a human face with a mind behind it. It churns you with its movement, the articulation of the jaw, the turning of the eye to see you. To see your normal face.
Mason Verger’s hair is handsome and, oddly, the hardest thing to look at. Black flecked with gray, it is plaited in a ponytail long enough to reach the floor if it is brought back over his pillow. Today his plaited hair is in a big coil on his chest above the turtle-shell respirator. Human hair beneath the blue-john ruin, the plaits shining like lapping scales.
Under the sheet, Mason Verger’s long-paralyzed body tapered away to nothing on the elevated hospital bed.
Before his face was the control that looked like panpipes or a harmonica in clear plastic. He curled histongue tubelike around a pipe end and puffed with the next stroke of his respirator. His bed responded with a hum, turned him slightly to face Starling and increased the elevation of his head.
“I thank God for what happened,” Verger said. “It was my salvation. Have you accepted Jesus, Miss Starling? Do you have faith?”
“I was raised in a close religious atmosphere, Mr. Verger. I have whatever that leaves you with,” Starling said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m just going to clip this to the pillowcase. It won’t be in the way here, will it?” Her voice sounded too brisk and nursey to suit her.
Her hand beside his head, seeing their two fleshes together, did not aid Starling, nor did his pulse in the vessels grafted over the bones of his face to feed it blood; their regular dilation was like worms swallowing.
Gratefully, she paid out cord and backed to the table and her tape recorder and separate microphone.
“This is Special Agent Clarice M. Starling, FBI number 5143690, deposing Mason R. Verger, Social Security number 475989823, at his home on the date stamped above, sworn and attested. Mr. Verger understands that he has been granted immunity from prosecution by the U.S. Attorney for District Thirty-six, and by local authorities in a combined memorandum attached, sworn and attested.
“Now, Mr. Verger—”
“I want to tell you about camp,” he interrupted with his next exhalation. “It was a wonderful childhood experience that I’ve come back to, in essence.”
“We can get to that, Mr. Verger, but I thought we’d—”
“Oh, we can get to it
now
, Miss Starling. You see, it all comes to bear. It was how I met Jesus, and I’ll never tellyou anything more important than
Without a look at Starling, Margot Verger left in a whistle of riding pants.
“Mr. Verger, I’d like to attach this microphone to your—clothing or your pillow if you’re comfortable with that, or I’ll call a nurse to do it if you prefer.”
“By all means,” he said, minus the
b
and the
m
. He waited for power from the next mechanical exhalation. “You can do it yourself, Agent Starling. I’m right over here.”
There were no light switches Starling could find atonce. She thought she might see better with the glare out of her eyes and she went into the darkness, one hand before her, toward the smell of wintergreen and balsam.
She was closer to the bed than she thought when he turned on the light.
Starling’s face did not change. Her hand holding the clip-on microphone jerked backward, perhaps an inch.
Her first thought was separate from the feelings in her chest and stomach; it was the observation that his speech anomalies resulted from his total lack of lips. Her second thought was the recognition that he was not blind. His single blue eye was looking at her through a sort of monocle with a tube attached that kept the eye damp, as it lacked a lid. For the rest, surgeons years ago had done what they could with expanded skin grafts over bone.
Mason Verger, noseless and lipless, with no soft tissue on his face, was all teeth, like a creature of the deep, deep ocean. Inured as we are to masks, the shock in seeing him is delayed. Shock comes with the recognition that this is a human face with a mind behind it. It churns you with its movement, the articulation of the jaw, the turning of the eye to see you. To see your normal face.
Mason Verger’s hair is handsome and, oddly, the hardest thing to look at. Black flecked with gray, it is plaited in a ponytail long enough to reach the floor if it is brought back over his pillow. Today his plaited hair is in a big coil on his chest above the turtle-shell respirator. Human hair beneath the blue-john ruin, the plaits shining like lapping scales.
Under the sheet, Mason Verger’s long-paralyzed body tapered away to nothing on the elevated hospital bed.
Before his face was the control that looked like panpipes or a harmonica in clear plastic. He curled histongue tubelike around a pipe end and puffed with the next stroke of his respirator. His bed responded with a hum, turned him slightly to face Starling and increased the elevation of his head.
“I thank God for what happened,” Verger said. “It was my salvation. Have you accepted Jesus, Miss Starling? Do you have faith?”
“I was raised in a close religious atmosphere, Mr. Verger. I have whatever that leaves you with,” Starling said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m just going to clip this to the pillowcase. It won’t be in the way here, will it?” Her voice sounded too brisk and nursey to suit her.
Her hand beside his head, seeing their two fleshes together, did not aid Starling, nor did his pulse in the vessels grafted over the bones of his face to feed it blood; their regular dilation was like worms swallowing.
Gratefully, she paid out cord and backed to the table and her tape recorder and separate microphone.
“This is Special Agent Clarice M. Starling, FBI number 5143690, deposing Mason R. Verger, Social Security number 475989823, at his home on the date stamped above, sworn and attested. Mr. Verger understands that he has been granted immunity from prosecution by the U.S. Attorney for District Thirty-six, and by local authorities in a combined memorandum attached, sworn and attested.
“Now, Mr. Verger—”
“I want to tell you about camp,” he interrupted with his next exhalation. “It was a wonderful childhood experience that I’ve come back to, in essence.”
“We can get to that, Mr. Verger, but I thought we’d—”
“Oh, we can get to it
now
, Miss Starling. You see, it all comes to bear. It was how I met Jesus, and I’ll never tellyou anything more important than
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