“Easier? What are you talking about?”
“Slow down. There’s no hurry. We’ve finally got time to chat. You’ll find out soon enough.” Varatorta tapped his nose with a conspiratorial gesture. “I’m hungry. Do you mind if I have a little snack?”
Without awaiting a reply, the lighthouse keeper got up and disappeared from Roberto’s field of vision. A moment later, Roberto heard him clattering around at the other end of the cave. He took the opportunity to try to loosen his restraints. The plastic cables around his wrists were tight, but there was some slack in the rope that tied him to the table. Carefully, he puffed out his chest to make some space, and the pain in his broken ribs brought tears to his eyes. But even if it was just a few fractions of an inch, he could feel that the rope was now looser.
That small triumph revived his spirits. He rocked a little, and the table creaked under his weight, squeaking ominously. Roberto stopped, fearing that the lighthouse keeper had heard him, but the noise of the dishes continued uninterrupted. He repeated the movement, and the rope loosened again. Bit by bit, he was making space.
After a few minutes, he heard his captor approaching, and he stayed still. Varatorta dragged an old school desk over and put it next to the chair. Ceremoniously, he covered it with a cloth, on top of which he placed a plate of scrambled eggs with bacon, and a glass of red wine.
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” he said as he sat down. “That’s what my mother always said. I’m sure yours told you something similar, Roberto.”
“I don’t understand,” Roberto said, sounding slightly dazed.
Varatorta looked at him, his fork halfway to his mouth, a look of mild surprise on his face. “You don’t understand why my mother said that?”
“No.” Roberto nodded toward the glass jars sitting on the shelf. “I meant those.”
Varatorta followed his gaze and contemplated the jars in silence. Then he turned back and gave him one of his strange smiles. Hedelicately rested the silverware next to the plate and took his time before speaking.
“I’ll answer your question, but before I do, I’d like to know what you think about it.”
“I think it’s the work of a madman. A psychopath.”
There was a tiny spark of annoyance in Varatorta’s eyes, but it was replaced almost instantly by an expression of pity.
“You disappoint me, my friend,” he sighed. “That wasn’t the reply I’d expected from you. It’s so ... unimaginative. I’d hoped for much more from a writer of your reputation, to be honest. Please, have another try.”
“What do you want me to say?” Roberto asked, measuring his words carefully. He couldn’t help noticing how sharp the knife resting just a few inches from his head was. “Give me a clue, at least.”
“I was sure you’d recognize the intrinsic beauty of my work.” Varatorta was suddenly very serious. “From one artist to another, one creator to another, an objective valuation of the delicate balance and subtlety of a work of art.”
Jesus, he’s out of his fucking mind.
“I’m not sure we’re the same kind of ... artist,” Roberto replied cautiously.
“Think about it!” The lighthouse keeper waved his hands in the air, enraptured. “We’re like soulmates! We both take the human essence and mold it until we’ve transformed it into something else, something that transcends the vulgarity of daily life.”
“I’m just a writer.”
“You’re far more than that! You’re a dream weaver—you allow people to escape from their boring lives and have exciting adventures. And I ...” Varatorta looked at him with a faraway expression. “I take their tired, fragile, failing bodies and transform them into works of art that exceed the imagination. How can you not see that?”
“I don’t know if Elvira Couto and Ricardo Docampo would agree,” he replied dryly. “Perhaps they were happy with their bodies as they were.”
Mind your tongue. Don’t provoke him.
Varatorta banged the table, and the silverware clattered. “No!” he roared with an anger that didn’t fit his peaceful appearance. “That’s not true!”
Roberto swallowed again. He wasn’t in a position to argue with the man. He decided to try another tack. “Tell me, then. I want to understand. From one artist to another.”
Varatorta gave him a hurt look but with a flash of hope. “Really?”
“Absolutely. I want to know everything about your work.”
“What a delight to meet someone who understands me!” Varatorta clapped. “You don’t know what it’s like to spend years here with nobody to talk to about all this. It’s such a relief.”
Roberto took advantage of the moment to puff his chest out again. The ropes loosened a tiny bit more.
Keep him talking. Say anything, just keep him talking.
