“Where you here in this room Sir, when it happened?”, “Yes I was. Here’s her glass of scotch and here is the last tampon she’d just changed in the bathroom before the tragedy occurred”, I pointed out. “why are you pointing out the tampon, Sir?”, this NYPD actor-like detective asked me inquisitively. “Because the glass as well as the tampon contain strong traces of her DNA”, I said unwillingly and in a daze close to stupidity since (I don’t believe) this had even started yet to become a murder investigation.
“What about your door , Sir? Was it open during your talk with her?”.
At that moment I froze. The door? My door to the hallway was open?
It was only then I realized a horrible thing.
She sat across from me looking right into a rather large mirror which hung on the wall above my other couch and above my head.
“Was it that…? No.”, I don’t want to conclude this thought. Was it that she might have seen him through the mirror while I was in the midst of talking about dates, Beckett’s funeral arrangements and feeling trapped up there in Wengen feeling the impotence of a world without cell phones, smart phones, iPads, emails, twitters, social media and text messages all yet to come?
What had she seen that prompted her to her death in a matter of seconds?
“Could it be that she saw the future, while I described Beckett’s death?”, I thought quietly while the NYPD were pinning me down.
“But we ARE in the future of 1989. This is 2012 and….”. Yes, it was making less and less sense as the minutes ticked by.
”Yes, detective, it was all a matter of seconds and her body (al-al-al-ready in motion) (I was beginning to stutter) defied any possibility of my interference in stop-stop-stopping her from flying out the win-win-window”, I said in a half rage tone, stuttering, always trying to watch the levels (my internal gage, the ever failing one), always aware of my pitch and the way it could be interpreted.
I was completely innocent of her death. Yet, in that situation, I was pretty ready to sign a confession. Why is that? How can it be that I was in such a state, ready to confess to having murdered her when, in fact all I wanted – if only I’d been given the chance – was to have prevented her suicide.
“Simple. It’s just the way you think, Mister”.
“You heard me! Your muse had to die. You….”
“Oh! Shut the fuck up”
“Kill the muse once again. Music in the air, no?”
“Who are you and why are you saying this to me?”
The words by that detective were beginning to carve a river in my head.
New York – London – Rio