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Authors: Guillaume Musso
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the pale-pink dress was stained dark red with blood. Then I spotted the bread knife in her hands and realised that she had cut herself. I got up to try to help her, but this time she was the one who locked the door, jamming the outside handle with the table.
Why ? I looked at her questioningly.
I saw that there was still a defiant flicker in her eyes and her only response was to slam the bloody palm of her left hand against the window. Through the glass, I made out the three numbers she had slashed into her hand:
144
9
The shoulder tattoo
The bloody numbers danced in front of my eyes:
144
Normally, my immediate reaction would have been to call 911 for an ambulance, but something held me back. There was blood pouring from the wound, but it didn’t look deep. What was she trying to tell me with this dramatic gesture? What had possessed her to do such a thing?
She’s crazy .
True, but what else was behind it?
I didn’t believe what she told me, that’s why she did it .
What did the number 144 have to do with what she had told me?
Once again she slammed her palm violently against the window pane. This time I saw that her right index finger was pointing at the book on the table next to me.
My novel, the story, the characters, fiction – what?
Then suddenly it was obvious.
Page 144 .
I grabbed the copy and leafed through it hurriedly until I came to the crucial page. It was the opening lines of a chapter, which started like this:
The day after the first time she made love with Jack, Billie visited a tattoo parlour.
The needle moved across her shoulder, pushing the ink under her skin, gradually carving out a slanting inscription. It was a symbol that a Native American tribe used to define what it was to be truly in love: a part of you has entered me for good, and its poison has bewitched me. A permanent epigraph that she would now carry with her always, protection against life’s inevitable suffering.
I looked up at my ‘visitor’. She was hugging her knees to her chest on the terrace. She looked sadly back at me, her chin resting on her knees. Was I the one in the wrong? Was there in fact something more to the situation I found myself in? No longer sure what to think, I moved closer to the window. Suddenly the eyes that were watching me through the glass lit up. She lifted her hand to pull down the strap of her dress, to reveal her shoulder.
Just next to her shoulder blade I saw the tribal symbol that I knew so well. There was the Native American symbol used by the Yanomamis to distil the essence of love: a part of you has entered me for good, and its poison has bewitched me .
10
The paper girl
Novelists, minds are inhabited, indeed possessed, by their characters, just as the mind of a peasant is possessed by Jesus, Mary and Joseph, or that of a madman by the devil
Nancy Huston
The house was calm after the storm. Having agreed to come back inside, the young woman had disappeared into the bathroom while I made some tea and laid out what was left of my medicine cabinet on the breakfast bar.
Malibu Colony
9 a.m.
She joined me at the kitchen table. She had showered, put on my bathrobe and stopped the bleeding by bandaging her wounds with a hand towel.
‘I have a first-aid kit,’ I said, ‘but it’s not very well stocked.’
Nevertheless, she was able to find some antiseptic wipes in it and used them to carefully clean her wounds.
‘Why did you do it?’
‘Because you wouldn’t believe me, for crying out loud!’
I watched her open the cuts gently to see how deep the knife had gone in.
‘I’ll drive you to the hospital. It looks like you need stitches.’
‘I’ll do them myself. I am a nurse, don’t forget. All I need is some surgical thread and a sterile needle.’
‘Damn! That’s just what I forgot to put on my grocery list!’
‘Don’t you even have any sticking plasters?’
‘What do you think? This is a beach house, not a health centre.’
‘Or just some ordinary silk
Why ? I looked at her questioningly.
I saw that there was still a defiant flicker in her eyes and her only response was to slam the bloody palm of her left hand against the window. Through the glass, I made out the three numbers she had slashed into her hand:
144
9
The shoulder tattoo
The bloody numbers danced in front of my eyes:
144
Normally, my immediate reaction would have been to call 911 for an ambulance, but something held me back. There was blood pouring from the wound, but it didn’t look deep. What was she trying to tell me with this dramatic gesture? What had possessed her to do such a thing?
She’s crazy .
True, but what else was behind it?
I didn’t believe what she told me, that’s why she did it .
What did the number 144 have to do with what she had told me?
Once again she slammed her palm violently against the window pane. This time I saw that her right index finger was pointing at the book on the table next to me.
My novel, the story, the characters, fiction – what?
Then suddenly it was obvious.
Page 144 .
I grabbed the copy and leafed through it hurriedly until I came to the crucial page. It was the opening lines of a chapter, which started like this:
The day after the first time she made love with Jack, Billie visited a tattoo parlour.
The needle moved across her shoulder, pushing the ink under her skin, gradually carving out a slanting inscription. It was a symbol that a Native American tribe used to define what it was to be truly in love: a part of you has entered me for good, and its poison has bewitched me. A permanent epigraph that she would now carry with her always, protection against life’s inevitable suffering.
I looked up at my ‘visitor’. She was hugging her knees to her chest on the terrace. She looked sadly back at me, her chin resting on her knees. Was I the one in the wrong? Was there in fact something more to the situation I found myself in? No longer sure what to think, I moved closer to the window. Suddenly the eyes that were watching me through the glass lit up. She lifted her hand to pull down the strap of her dress, to reveal her shoulder.
Just next to her shoulder blade I saw the tribal symbol that I knew so well. There was the Native American symbol used by the Yanomamis to distil the essence of love: a part of you has entered me for good, and its poison has bewitched me .
10
The paper girl
Novelists, minds are inhabited, indeed possessed, by their characters, just as the mind of a peasant is possessed by Jesus, Mary and Joseph, or that of a madman by the devil
Nancy Huston
The house was calm after the storm. Having agreed to come back inside, the young woman had disappeared into the bathroom while I made some tea and laid out what was left of my medicine cabinet on the breakfast bar.
Malibu Colony
9 a.m.
She joined me at the kitchen table. She had showered, put on my bathrobe and stopped the bleeding by bandaging her wounds with a hand towel.
‘I have a first-aid kit,’ I said, ‘but it’s not very well stocked.’
Nevertheless, she was able to find some antiseptic wipes in it and used them to carefully clean her wounds.
‘Why did you do it?’
‘Because you wouldn’t believe me, for crying out loud!’
I watched her open the cuts gently to see how deep the knife had gone in.
‘I’ll drive you to the hospital. It looks like you need stitches.’
‘I’ll do them myself. I am a nurse, don’t forget. All I need is some surgical thread and a sterile needle.’
‘Damn! That’s just what I forgot to put on my grocery list!’
‘Don’t you even have any sticking plasters?’
‘What do you think? This is a beach house, not a health centre.’
‘Or just some ordinary silk
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