‘No.’
‘Listen, lady. A drink will—’
She smashed the glass out of his hand. ‘I do not want your damn’ drink.” She turned and pulled at Roberto’s belt. Then she got to her feet in one smooth, lithe movement. She had a knife in her hand and she moved towards Sansevino. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. It was as though we were a group of spectators standing watching a scene from Grand Guignol.
Sansevino retreated towards the window as she advanced slowly and deliberately. She had forgotten her fear of the mountain. She had forgotten everything in her hatred of the man. And he was afraid. I saw it and the knowledge sang through my body like a lovely song. She was going to murder him. It was there in every slow languorous movement of her limbs. She was going to kill him — not with one blow, but with slash after slash of the knife. And she was going to love every minute of it. ‘Remember how you gave me my first cigarette, here in this room?’ Her voice was soft as a caress. ‘Remember? You said it would help me to forget my husband’s beastliness. You said you had been a doctor and that you knew what was good for me. You made me drunk and then you gave me that cigarette. And after that there were more cigarettes. And then injections. You drugged me till I was your slave. Well, I am not your slave any more. I will kill you and then—’ She was literally purring. She was like a tigress.
Sansevino had backed until he was brought up by the wall. He moved along it, his eyes wide with fear. Then he was in the corner and could retreat no farther. ‘Don’t let her do it,’ he screamed. And when nobody moved he started to bargain with her. ‘If you kill me you will get no more of the drugs. Listen, Zina — think what happiness it gives you. Think what it will be like when your nerves are screaming out for—’
‘Animate!’ She darted at him and then away again and I saw the knife was bloodied. His shoulder was ripped and the white of his jacket stained crimson. I was staring fascinated at a macabre ballet played in real life.
It was Maxwell who stopped it. He went behind her and twisted the knife out of her hand. She turned on him, her face distorted with rage and her fingers clawed at him. He flung her off. ‘Get hold of her, Hacket, and make her have that drink. I want to talk with this fellow.’
Hacket caught her by the arm. She struggled for a moment, and then suddenly she went slack. He half-carried her to the sofa. She was sobbing again, dry, racking sobs that seemed to fill the room. Through them I heard Maxwell say, ‘Now then — suppose you tell me first who you really are.’
‘You know who I am.’ Sansevino’s eyes were wide, but I could see he was getting control of himself again.
‘I know who you’re not,’ Maxwell snapped. ‘You’re not Shirer.’