A Masterpiece of Revenge by J.J. Fiechter Page A

me.
    Having spied upon my son, this monster would not suddenly stop. He would neutralize me by forcing me to soak in my own fear. He would contact me, probably by phone. Perhaps he would come to the front door. Or send a telegram. I needed to stay home and stay alert, eyes looking both outward — watching others, and inward — watching me, to keep myself from going mad.
    There are people who draw strength from the direst of circumstances. I do not count myself among them. I was completely out of my depth. My mind was like a wheel spinning in mud. I was skating. Every image my mind formed sent me skidding. Every effort to think only dragged me further into misery.
    What could I hold on to? The phone. The only thing I could do was call Jean-Louis. It was six in the morning in Berkeley, but too bad. He had told me to call when I got back to Paris to tell him Pd arrived safely.
    By the second ring I knew that he wasn’t going to answer. I knew that from the tone of the phone’s ring. It sounded as if it were ringing in a void. Jean-Louis hadn’t bought an answering machine, so it would keep ringing. Finally, I hung up and dialed again. Maybe I’d dialed the wrong number. No, of course not. I hung up. All I could hear was a rumbling in my ears.
    That is perhaps the worst moment of all — the moment when tragedy and sorrow are upon you, and there is nothing you can do to stop them. You stand and wait, passive, resigned, doomed.
    I stared terrifiedly at the phone, hoping it would ring, hoping it wouldn’t. I unplugged it and sat in silence.
    Something was ringing somewhere. Not the phone. The doorbell? I found I was unable to move. Danger may have been waiting for me on the threshold, but it took more strength than I could summon to face it.
    The bell rang a second time. This time, in a sort of spasm, I ran to the door and placed my ear against it, my heart pounding — then, with a jerk, I pulled it open.
    There I found not unthinkable horror but daily life — in the form of a messenger from my publishing house. He was delivering the proofs of my latest book. I managed to smile at him and scrawl my signature onto a piece of paper.
    I was calmer when I closed the door. The interruption gave me some detachment. A voice somewhere inside was telling me that I was still myself.
    Then, perhaps following from that detachment, I was overwhelmed by outrage and by anger. Someone was trying to push me over the edge. Enough! Fd had enough! It was time to turn things around.
    Someone was setting a trap for me? All right! I would set one right back. Someone was threatening me? Fine. I would go straight at him. Someone wanted me to break down? Surprise! I would break
him
down. Someone was baring his teeth at me? He would get bitten. Someone thought he had me down? Never.
    I had to sketch out a plan. These photographs were precursors to murder — either mine or my son’s or both.
    Feeling resolved, I plugged the phone back in and opened my address book. My first determination was to come up with a list of suspects. Who could wish such evil upon me?
    Two hours later I had come up with a list. On it were three people.
    First was Egon Adalbert, a German colleague I had humiliated on a number of occasions. Six months before, in fact, I had lacerated Adalbert publicly about a Dürer imitation he had insisted, wrongheadedly, was authentic. My language had been a little strong. Actually, when I examined the piece in question, I found it very handsome. It had been done by an ingenious copier named Luca Giordano. Giordano amused himself by concealing his signature in his works the way children’s book illustrators conceal faces in trees. I had had little difficulty in exposing Adalbert’s ridiculous supposition.
    Had someone done the same to me, I too might have felt murderous rage.
    Second on my list was Michel Calmette, my financial planner. Calmette and I had known each other since grade school,