Stages of Love

Chapter Three: Denial


She was being followed.
Clarice knew that Pearcell at least suspected that she might try to go after Lecter again. She had taken great pains to make this look like a personal trip, telling Ardelia that she was going away to her family in Montana. She had made certain to travel light and leave her credit cards, which were certain identifiers, behind.
She changed planes in Tampa, and again in Seattle, yet again and under another name in Cincinnati. By the time she was back in Washington she had lost them. In the afternoon of the next day she was in Florence.
She took a hotel near the Capponi library. Wiped out from the trip, all she saw of Florence that first day was the shower and the bed.
The next day, she went to his house. The Florentine police had closed the flat. She posed in the guise of an American author writing a book about famous serial killers. Money exchanged hands and the landlord showed her up.
"Una hora, signora," he said, and turned to go.
"Wait." He turned back. "Is this how the house was before?"
He answered in broken English and from what she was able to understand, the police had ripped the place up and the landlord himself had put it all back together.
"For the new curator, when he comes,” he said.
She smiled, nodded, and he was gone, closing the door behind him.
She was alone in Hannibal Lecter's apartment.
She walked through the foyer to the library beyond, not knowing what she was hoping to find here. The police had stripped the place of anything that might be of value in finding him. She remembered how pissed off Pearcell had been that the Questura had trampled all over the scene before he could send a team up. They weren’t exactly forthcoming with what they found either. They saw the death of Police Chief Pazzi as a personal vendetta.
Not that there was much they could do about it.
There was a piano in the library and she could imagine Lecter sitting at it, long fingers supplely stroking the keys. She wondered if he could play the piano. Of course he could. It seemed that there was little he could not do. Clarice leaned over the instrument, glancing at the sheet music. Chopin, mostly, a few compositions by Bach and even a piece by Rachmaninoff.
She walked slowly through the music room to the door on the other side. It was a modest bathroom. Most of the personal articles were gone but there was a bottle of something next to the sink. Curious, she uncorked it and the evocative scent of lavender and fleece filled the air. It was the hand cream he'd had made for her. She dipped a little out, rubbing it onto her hands, and capped the bottle again. She sat it back on the counter top and then thought better of it, and put it into her purse instead.
The only other room was the bedroom. She paused on the threshold, feeling like an intruder. Taking a deep breath she straightened her shoulders and entered.
The closet was empty, as were most of the dresser drawers.
"Must have been someone in the Questura about his size,” she said aloud, knowing Lecter could not have brought his whole wardrobe along with him to Washington.
She turned her attention to the bedside table. It, like everything else in the house, was made of richly carved and gleaming wood. There was a cut-glass lamp on it and a book. She picked it up. It was a handsome leather-bound edition of Marcus Aurelius' Meditations in the original Latin, and she was vaguely surprised that it was still here. She remembered when they had spoken in Memphis, when she had been desperate to catch Buffalo Bill he had told her,
“Read Marcus Aurelius. “Of each particular thing ask, what is it, in itself? What is it's nature?””
"You forgot the rest of that, Doctor,” he answered aloud. "That nothing in nature should be feared because there is nothing in nature that is truly evil."
She had begun to think of him like that: a force of nature, inexorable and unchanging as the sea. Even strapped to a gurney behind Plexiglas he was dangerous. Violence clung to him, as it did to a wild animal, even after it was captured.
Given the chance you would deny me my life.
No, Doctor," she answered the question again. "...Not your life. I never wanted to hurt you." The emptiness of his room felt hollow, belying her words.
No, just my freedom.-As thought that would not kill him. He had been willing to dismember himself rather than go back. She had no doubt that he would never allow himself to be taken alive again.
Her eyes finally fell to the bed, done up in black and navy silk. She trailed a hand across the smooth divan, trying to imagine him sleeping here. She leaned closer, catching the alien scent of him on the pillows. She buried her face in them, remembering him standing so close to her that she had been completely enveloped in that scent.
Tell me Clarice, would you ever say to me, stop? If you loved me, you'd stop?
Not in a thousand years. She had answered immediately, sickened by the manipulation implicit in such a demand. She could never use his love for her in a game of politics or control. Such behavior was anathema to her.
He had pursed his lips, repeating her words softly.
Not in a thousand years?
Suddenly, he’d lunged at her, mouth open, teeth exposed. She watched, beyond fear. He stopped mere centimeters from her face, gazing into her eyes, pleased and satisfied by her lack of fear. She could feel his breath warm on her face as he whispered, That’s my girl.
And his mouth came down on hers.
"Signora?"
Clarice started up guiltily from the bed.
"Coming," she called, giving the room one last look. She was missing something, some essential clue, but she couldn't figure it out. Her eyes fell on the book again and, on impulse, she stuffed it into her purse before walking out of the room.
The landlord had called her a cab and she directed the driver to take her to the Duomo.
Memory, Agent Starling, is what I have instead of a view.
To her surprise they stopped after only few blocks.
"Duomo." The cabbie gestured at the magnificent building and Starling nodded, paying him.
She went inside, climbing the stairs to the tower. Surprisingly, she could see the Capponi library and Lecter's apartment from here. It actually faced towards her; he could have probably looked out his windows and seen the ancient church. Of course.
She spent the afternoon there, taking in the paintings and the frescoes, listening to the droning voices of tour guides in both English and Italian. Finally evening rolled around and with regret she left the crenellated arches and walking back to her hotel in the rosy twilight, soaking Florence into her soul.
She was surprised that, until this day, she had never noticed how bereft of beauty her life had become. The city opened her senses, made her wish for more than a cubicle and a case. She could understand now how Lecter could spend ten quiet years here and sent out a silent thank you to him for sharing it with her.
She grabbed dinner in the hotel's resturante- though she wasn't sure if you could call a four course meal grabbed-before returning to her room. She opened the windows, enjoying the coolness of the night air against her bare arms. She took the hand cream out and spread it on her hands again, taking pleasure in the light scent. She was glad Lecter had chosen something subtle instead of the usual overpowering florals; she detested anything smelling of roses or freesia. But of course, he somehow knew that, just as he knew so much about her.
Well, if you know so much, what am I doing here? she asked him in her mind but he was not forthcoming on that score.
She put the hand cream away and pulled out the book. She could not read Latin of course, but she could still admire the workmanship and detail of the book. There were no illustrations but the first letter on every page was bigger than the rest and colored to form an animal or a flower. It was really beautiful. She flipped through the book, noticing that some of the corners were turned down. She frowned. It was not like Lecter to disrespect his books.
Fascinated, Clarice grabbed a piece of paper and began noting the first letter on every dog-eared page. Soon she had what looked like words. She struggled to unscramble them. A few minutes later she sat back, mystery solved.
It said, Urbs aeterna. The Eternal City.
Rome.