Zig Zag (31 page)

"New
experiences, new friends," Nadja quipped, winking.

Elisa
wasn't surprised. She'd seen them talking together several times
already in Silberg's lab, him gazing at her with those watery,
reptilian eyes and her staring back with the same sour expression she
always wore, as if the world owed her an immense favor that could
never be entirely paid back.
Poor
Rosalyn Reiter.
She
didn't like seeing Valente taking control of that quiet, homely woman
so easily. She felt like giving the German historian a few pointers
about her new Latin lover.

"Some
of us seem to be searching for energy levels in all sorts of new
ways," she joked. "Yes, and very energetically!"

Valente
and Reiter were working with Silberg to open time strings from sixty
thousand million seconds ago, capturing images from Jerusalem. If all
went well, the Jerusalem time strand could prove more groundbreaking
than the Jurassic time strand. Much more important for them, and for
the rest of humanity.

They'd
see Jerusalem during Christ's lifetime. Specifically, the last years
of his life.

They
might catch a glimpse of some historical or biblical event.

Maybe
a very unique event.

Although
their chances were about the same as having one shot to hit a
millimeter-wide bull's-eye set from a thousand miles away ... maybe
they'd see
him.

A
tyrannosaurus, Napoleon and Caesar, would be child's play in
comparison.
Anything
would
be child's play in comparison.

Elisa
had told Maldonado the truth when she said (and now his questions
about her beliefs made perfect sense) that she was an atheist. But
still, not even an atheist could remain passive at the idea of
seeing
him,
even
for an instant.

Let
she who remains indifferent cast the first stone.

And
one of the people in charge of trying to make that miracle come true
was currently sticking his red-shorted butt high in the air, no doubt
thrusting his tongue into the mouth of a mature, frustrated historian
who appeared to be at his beck and call.

Nadja
seemed to be having a blast, watching the show. She glanced over at
Elisa, one cheek on her towel, her face red.

"They
spent the night together the other night."

"Seriously?"
Elisa wasn't sure how she felt about that. Images of her visit to
Valente's house in Madrid flashed before her, along with the warnings
he'd given her regarding their bet. She imagined him humiliating
Rosalyn Reiter.

"Don't
say anything about it," Nadja laughed. "I shouldn't tell
you, it doesn't really concern me."

"Me
neither," Elisa said quickly, hoping her friend wouldn't change
her mind.

"It
was Sunday night. I heard some strange noises and got up. I looked
through Ric's peephole and... his bed was empty! Then I looked
through Rosalyn's, and I saw both of them in there." Nadja
laughed quietly, showing her white teeth, which had spaces between
them. "Are all the men in Spain like that?"

"What
do you think?" Elisa snorted, and her friend burst out laughing,
maybe on seeing how serious she'd grown. "I saw something last
night, too. I was going to tell you. There was someone wandering
around the hall. It turned out to be a soldier, but he scared me to
death, the asshole."

"Are
you serious? She sleeps with soldiers, too?" The young
paleontologist's face, just inches from hers, was so red Elisa
thought she was going to explode. She threw some sand on her
shoulder.

"Shut
up, you Russian pervert! I'm going to take a dip and cool off. Their
show is getting me all hot and bothered."

She
walked to the shore without glancing over at the couple stretched out
on the sand a hundred feet away.

THAT
night
she heard noises. Footsteps in the hallway.

She
jumped out of bed and looked out the peephole. No one.

The
footsteps stopped.

Grabbing
her watch from the nightstand, she pushed the button that illuminated
the clock's face. It was 1:12 a.m., still early, but not for the
customs and traditions of the scientific community of New Nelson.
They ate dinner at seven, and by nine thirty everyone was in their
rooms. Lights-out was at ten. Elisa still had insomnia. She thought
about the soldiers who glided around silently, about shadow-soldiers
with no faces slipping down the darkened hallways, passing by her
room ... And about Valente and Reiter, though she wasn't sure why.

Footsteps.
Yes, now she could distinguish them clearly. In the hallway.

She
half opened her door and peeked out, turning her head left and right.

No
one. The hall was empty, and the door to the next wing was closed.
The steps had stopped again, but she thought of a possibility.
They're
coming from his room. Or hers.

Unable
to resist a sudden impulse ("you're such a child," her
mother would say), she dashed out into the hall without even getting
dressed. First, she stopped next door at Nadja's room and peeked in
through the peephole. Nadja was in bed.

In
the light streaming in from outside, her white hair was as bright as
a neon sign. Her position, and the sheets tangled up around her legs,
indicated that she'd been asleep for some time. She looked like a
fetus tucked inside a uterus. Elisa smiled. She recalled a
conversation they'd had at the beach that weekend.

"I'd
like to be a mother," Nadja had declared in a burst of
sincerity.

"What
on earth are you talking about?"

"Just
something that happens to female paleontologists from time to time.
After being inseminated by a male, they breed and then carry embryos
in their wombs."

"Well,
I've decided to be a drone, myself," Elisa replied, dozing on
her towel.

"You
really don't want kids, Elisa?"

Elisa
couldn't believe the question. But she also couldn't believe that she
couldn't believe the question.

"I
haven't really given it much thought," she said, and Nadja
assumed she was joking.

"It's
not a math problem, you know. You either want to or you don't."

Elisa
bit her lip, the way she did when she
was
working
on a math problem.

"No.
I don't want kids," she said after a long silence, and Nadja
shook her head slowly, that angel hair of hers swishing back and
forth as she did.

"Do
me a favor," she'd said. "Before you die, leave your brain
to the University of Montpellier. Jacqueline and I would love to
study it, I can assure you. There are very few female examples of
Fisicus
extravagantissimus."

She
came out of her daze. She was in the hallway, in the middle of the
night, spying on her colleagues in her underwear.
What
if they get up and catch the
Fisicus
extravagantissimus
in
her underwear peeking through their peepholes?
She
couldn't hear the footsteps anymore. Still smiling, she tiptoed up to
Ric Valente's door. The metallic floor was cool on her feet, a nice
contrast to the heat she felt everywhere else. She looked through his
peephole.

Her
theory was disproved. Under the light filtering in through the
window, she could clearly make out the skinny contours of Valente
Sharpe stretched out in bed, his bony back, his white underwear.

She
watched him for a moment, and then went on to the last room. That
ball curled up under the sheets had to be Rosalyn Reiter; Elisa even
thought she could make out her highlighted hair.

Shaking
her head, she returned to her room, wondering what she'd been
expecting.
Nosy.
She
realized that all the work she'd been putting into her first project
on the island was starting to take a toll. In a normal situation, she
knew how to deal with that kind of stress. She'd take a walk,
exercise, or even explore her erotic fantasies. But on New Nelson,
with such a lack of privacy, she felt like she'd lost her bearings.

She
got back into bed, faceup, and sighed deeply. No more footsteps. No
noise at all. If she strained, she could make out the sounds of the
ocean; but she didn't feel like straining. After debating it for a
second, she slipped under the sheets, even though it was very hot.
She wasn't trying to get warm, though. She sighed again, closed her
eyes, and let her fantasies take her wherever they wanted to go.

She
was afraid she knew where that might be.

Valente
was still Valente Sharpe: a stupid, vacuous boy with a brilliant mind
and the body of a sickly child. A daddy's boy. But somehow, almost
against her will, her fantasy (which was probably also sickly, she
guessed) inevitably drove her to him. This was the first time it had
happened, and she was taken aback.

Fisicus
hornissimus.

She
imagined him walking in just then. She could see him clearly, now
that she'd closed her eyes. She slipped her hand under the sheet and
pulled down her underwear. But he didn't think that was submissive
enough, so she tugged them all the way off, balled them up, and threw
them on the floor. She imagined that even that wouldn't be enough for
Valente Sharpe.
Well,
fuck you, then, because I'm not pulling the sheet down.
She
slid her hand down to the exact burning spot and began to stroke
herself, squirming and panting. She could imagine exactly what he'd
do: stare at her scornfully. And she'd say...

Just
then, she heard footsteps right beside her bed.

A
feeling of budding pleasure exploded in her brain, like fragile china
being trampled by an elephant.

She
opened her eyes, moaning quietly.

No
one.

That
fear, abruptly interrupting the climax of her sexual excitation, had
been so intense that she was almost glad just to be alive. It was
like yellow fever or malaria, something that left you stiff and
shivering. Somewhere she'd even read that fear like that could
actually kill you, give you a heart attack no matter how young you
were or how clear your arteries.

She
sat up, holding her breath. Her door was still closed. She hadn't
heard it open at any point. But the footsteps, she was sure, had been
inside
her
room. And yet there was no one there.