Read Online The Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson - Free Book Online Page B

steeled my courage and corrected her. “Once.”
    A look of confusion crossed her face. “Maybe you’re not you.”
    She moved towards my bed, her eyes never breaking contact with mine, and drew shut the thick plastic curtains around us so that our privacy was assured. She leaned in, within inches of my face, studying me. Nobody had ever looked at me like this, not before the burn and certainly not since. Her eyes, dancing between the blue and the green, had dark bags underneath them, as though she had not slept in weeks. When her lips were almost touching mine, she whispered a word. “Engelthal.”
    No doubt, reader, you have at some point in your life been face-to-face with an insane person. You can sense the madness immediately, usually even before the person says anything at all, but this nonsensical word clinched it for me. Meeting lunatics is not really that notable, as the world abounds with them; what interested me more was my reaction. Usually upon such a meeting, you only want to get away. If you’re walking on the street you avert your eyes and quicken your step, but in the burn ward the only recourse I had was to ring the nurse’s call button. But I did not do this. My only response to this possibly dangerous situation was nonresponse. So who was less rational, the wild-haired woman or me?
    She took a step back. “You don’t remember.”
    “No.” Whatever she thought I should be remembering, clearly I was not.
    “That will make it more interesting,” she said. “Are you aware that they’re trying to poison my hearts?”
    “No,” I answered again, but I was interested in where such a comment might lead. “Are they?”
    “Yes. I can’t let them, because I have my penance to complete.” She looked around, as if she were worried about being overheard. “How were you burned this time?”
    I could form a number of short sentences in a row, as long as I remembered to pause and breathe, so I told her a few quick details about my accident—when, where, how long ago. Then I asked her name.
    “You know my name.” She kept reaching to her chest as if she were expecting to find something there, which was obviously missing. Her movements reminded me of the way I had always stroked my birth-scar.
    “What are you doing?” I asked.
    “They took away my necklace. They said it could be used to harm someone,” she answered. “A young girl died here recently.”
    I thought about Thérèse. “How did you know?”
    “Oh, I know some things about the dead”—she laughed—“but I suppose we’re lucky.”
    “How so?”
    “We’ve outlived a seven-year-old. We’ve outlived her a hundredfold.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “I have a dog named Bougatsa.” Her fingers, now hanging at her sides, were twitching. “He’ll like you.”
    “I don’t like dogs.”
    “You will.”
    “They don’t like me.”
    “Oh. Because you’re so tough and mean, right?”
    Was she really mocking a burn victim?
    “What does the name mean?” I asked. “Bougatsa?”
    “It’s filling in Greek pastry, and my dog’s exactly that color. Maybe I could bring him for a visit.”
    “Dogs aren’t allowed here.” Breath. “Even flowers can kill me.”
    “Ha! Don’t try to sell me for dumb. You know you’ve worse things to fear than a dog.” She placed her hand lightly upon my chest, with gentleness. I shivered, not only at the touch but also at the gleam in her eye. “You’re sorely tempted to kill yourself and I can’t say that I blame you. But there is a time and a place for such things, and this is not it.”
    Why would she say such a thing? I needed to change the subject. “You look good for seven hundred years old.”
    “You don’t,” she said, looking down the length of my body. It was the first time that anyone had made a joke about my burns. “So, what do you think I should do with my hearts?”
    “I think…” I paused momentarily, to make her think I was carefully considering the issue,