‘But I tell you—’
‘Take it easy now.’
‘You don’t believe me,’ I said. ‘You think I’m making it up.’ I thrust my artificial leg out from beneath the bedclothes. ‘Do you see that? A Dr. Sansevino did that. It was during the war. They wanted to make me talk. To-night I met him again, here in Milan. Don’t you see — he was here in this room. He was going to kill me.’ I remembered how Zina had changed the drinks over. Of course. It all fitted in. ‘He thought he’d drugged me. I tell you, he came here to kill me. If I hadn’t woken up—’
I stopped then. He had picked up a packet of cigarettes and was holding one out. I took it automatically and he lit it for me. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’
‘Just draw on that and relax,’ he said.
I knew he didn’t believe me. He was so solid and practical. But somehow I’d got to make him believe me. It was suddenly very important. ‘Have you any idea what it’s like to have three operations on your leg and be conscious all the time?’ I stared at him, trying to will him to believe what I was telling him. ‘The man was a sadist. He enjoyed doing it. He’d caress my leg with his fingers before he operated. He liked the feel of the flesh he was going to cut away.’ I could feel the sweat breaking out on my forehead. I was working myself up into a lather again in my effort to convince him. ‘I know the touch of those fingers as I knew the feel of my own. They touched me to-night. I was dreaming about him, and then I woke and his fingers were moving over my body. It was dark, but I knew they were his hands. That’s when I screamed. You’ve got to believe me. It was Sansevino. He was here in this room.’
He pulled up a chair and sat down, lighting one of my cigarettes. ‘Now, listen to me, young fellow. There was no one in this room. I came in here as soon as you started screaming. The door was locked. The room was quite empty. You’ve had—’
‘But I tell you Sansevino was here,’ I shouted at him. ‘He was here, in this room. He was bending over me. I could hear his breathing. He went out by the windows. I know it was him. I know it, I tell you. I know it.’ I suddenly stopped with my hand in mid-air. I had been beating at the bedclothes in my agitation.
‘All right. He was here. But in your imagination. Not in reality. Listen. I was skipper of a LST at Iwo Jima. I know what war neurosis is like. And afterwards — you get relapses. You had a tough time. You lost a leg. All right, but don’t let it prey on your mind. What’s your name?’
‘Farrell.’ I lay back against the pillows, feeling utterly drained of energy. It was no good trying to explain to him. He just wouldn’t believe me. Probably no one would believe me. I wasn’t sure I believed myself. It all seemed so vague now as though it were part of that nightmare. There had been a mouse and an operating table and that lift descending slowly as Sansevino peered down at me. Perhaps I’d dreamed it all.