“Well, I have to admit it took me a long time to reach this level of virtuosity,” the man boasted, unaware of the bacon fat that was trickling down his beard. “I had to master the technique that enabled me to take the conversion of bodies to these heights.”
“And how did you do that?” Roberto inflated his lungs once again, enduring the pain of his broken ribs.
Just a bit more. Keep going.
“It’s a very long story.” Suddenly, Varatorta seemed embarrassed, almost ashamed. “I don’t know if you’ll want to hear the whole thing.”
“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere. In case you hadn’t realized. Please, continue.”
“Well, my friend, from a young age, I was a solitary and somewhat dreamy child.” Varatorta sipped his wine and settled into his chair. “I didn’t have many friends. I mean, to be honest, I didn’t have any.Nobody understood me, and Mother always said I was too good to mix with people who didn’t appreciate me.”
“A lonely childhood, I imagine.”
“Worse than that.” Varatorta’s expression changed, as if the wine and the memories had a bitter taste. “The other kids always mocked me. Tubby Tony, Freaky Tony, Wacko Tony ... It was like they came up with new nicknames daily.”
“I’m so sorry. Nobody should go through that.” Another breath, another fraction of an inch.
“It doesn’t matter.” He shrugged. “It’s ancient history now. When I turned sixteen, they stopped teasing me.”
“What happened?”
“There was a boy in my class. His name was Guille Juncal. I looked up to him. He was tall, handsome, a good athlete, witty ... The girls were all crazy about him. He was everything I wanted to be.”
“Let me guess. He was the one who made up the nicknames?”
“Not at all. He never said an unkind word to me!”
“And?”
“I wanted to know how he did it. What he did that made everyone like him, how he always managed to be in such a good mood. I needed to know what I had to do to be like him.”
“And what did he think of the idea?”
Varatorta stared into the depths of the cave, far away, as he remembered.
“I went to his house one Sunday in the summer, one of those days when it’s so hot that nobody wants to go outside.” He ran his hands through his hair, a gentle smile on his lips. “His parents were away, and he invited me in. I told you he was very kind. He gave me a glass of water, we talked for a bit, and as soon as I had the opportunity, I did it.”
“I don’t understand . . .”
“I whacked him on the head.” He gave another of his weird smiles. “I killed him in the living room of his own house, and then opened him up to see what he was like inside. To find answers. To discoverwhat made him tick. That was where it all began. That was when I discovered my gift.”
Roberto held his breath, shocked. The man was confessing to murder as if he were talking about the weather. There was no remorse in his voice, no sense of guilt. Nothing. A complete absence of empathy.
“Your ... your gift,” he stuttered.
“That’s right—my gift!” Varatorta’s voice went up an octave. “That day, I realized I could see things beneath the skin that others didn’t see. Things that make us unique and special but are hidden from our comprehension. You need the hand of a true artist, of someone like me, to bring them to light. I’d found my path. After that day, everything changed. I felt stronger. More confident. More ... myself. Guille saved me. He showed me the path.”
“I can’t imagine his parents were too pleased that you’d killed their son.”
“Oh, they never found out.” Varatorta shrugged. “Mother took care of everything after I told her what I’d done. As far as I know, Guille is still buried in the same spot in our vegetable garden.”
“Your own mother . . .”
“She wasn’t at all happy.” He frowned. “She didn’t understand my art, but she loved me too much to let anything happen to me. She made me promise not to do it again. And I was a good boy; I did as she asked.” He shrugged again. “But then, when Mother died, well, I thought I could start again.”
“And nobody’s ever suspected?”
“Never.” Varatorta smiled triumphantly. “I’ve always been very careful.”
