Mabel Shot Part 3

"The solitude of Lupercio!" I hear the male voice speak behind me, making me turn towards the Russian. "Do you know him?"
"I think I’ve heard some things about him," I respond and cross my arms under my chest, giving him a half-hearted smile.
Mr. Gregovivk walks towards the table and places his canvas, unwrapping it. I resume my inspection of the room, snooping around.
"Sit down, little bird." He points to a sofa on the right. I had given up asking him to stop calling me that. The big man probably has a hearing problem, limiting him to hearing only what pleases him.
I nod and walk towards the black leather three-seater sofa in the corner. I sit down slowly and place my bag beside me. A bit ahead, a large black armchair is positioned. As I turn my head, I see an open book on an oval table next to the arm of the sofa. I pick it up slowly and hold it open to the page it’s on. I observe the cover, illustrated with the face of a woman being pieced together like a puzzle. I carefully read the title that stands out on the cover. *Among the Dead*, a novel by Boileau-Narcejac, which would later become globally known as *Vertigo: From Among the Dead* when Hitchcock took inspiration from it to make the movie.
I remember this because I had watched the VHS of the movie at the Shot house; it was among their collection of tapes. I think it was the year before last that I bought the book at a second-hand bookstore, and I spent hours lying on the couch reading it. I remember getting caught up in the unfolding story. A policeman retires after a traumatic event, the detective Flavières. He accepts a request from a former college friend to follow his wife, Madeleine, who has been behaving strangely and worryingly. Soon, Flavières falls in love with her, but that doesn’t eliminate any of the mystery surrounding Madeleine. Although Flavières is the protagonist, the plot revolves around Madeleine, but she takes a while to appear, intensifying the mystery around her and increasing the detective’s obsession with her. To be honest, I saw him as an empty man, who became obsessed with this woman even though he knew that what he felt was not only useless but ridiculous. There’s a danger looming over her, and consequently, there’s a danger looming over him, for getting involved with her.
That sense of urgency, that desperation that Flavières feels for Madeleine, was what contaminated me with the same desperation he felt. My eyes flew through the pages, wanting to devour the story as quickly as possible, anxious to see things unfold. Even though I already knew basically what was going to happen, it was one of the books that marked me the most. Perhaps I felt complicit with him at that time because of a useless and ridiculous obsession. I sigh softly and slowly flip through the book, looking at the open pages, mentally reading the final passage of the page.
"Only the eyes remained perfect; only they betrayed Madeleine. Flavières paid and went to her. He felt the urge to open his arms, to embrace her or to strangle her."
"He should have strangled her, Flavières!" I murmur, remembering the poor detective.
I use the bookmark on the previous page to mark the correct one and close the book, placing it back on the table.
"It’s a good book," I praise the literature, looking at him, trying to ease the silence that’s growing and making me nervous.
"Yes!" he responds with just that and turns his eyes back to the canvas he’s unwrapping, ending the conversation before it even really starts, to be honest.
I sigh and straighten myself on the sofa, tapping my fingers on my knees in sync with my feet softly tapping the floor. I look back at him and see his unreadable face as he analyzes the canvas on the table. I return to the initial panic I had when I wanted to die for selling that painting to him. His brown eyes land on me as his neck turns, arching his right eyebrow in an elegant way that is unfairly, blatantly charming.
"Ottoman art," I whisper, embarrassed, giving a sheepish smile. "It’s not exactly a runaway bird, but I think it fits well in this context."
"Man’s domination over nature," he says, making me look at him more attentively, impressed by how quickly he grasped the painter’s intent. "Represented by a fallen angel and a violated woman."
"Yes..." I murmur, unable to suppress the gentle smile on my lips. I had seen other clients, painters, and even Rumeu and Boris, analyzing the painting, heatedly discussing how it was about masculinity and hierarchy that reigned during the time of the old Ottomans. None of them had really looked at the painting with a more careful eye, searching for other elements beyond virility. He averts his eyes from mine and returns to the canvas, staring at it. I lower my head, staring at my fingers on my knees.
"You keep surprising me, little bird." His voice speaks in a low tone, staying near the table.
"Does that mean you liked it?" I ask, hesitant, unsure if this is a good or bad sign.
"Yes, I liked the painting, Mabel!"
The sigh of relief that escapes my mouth is uncontrollable upon hearing his voice. I had been nervous that he wouldn’t like it and would want to return it. Christ! Only God knows what I would have to come up with to explain to Rumeu why the client was returning a painting he had chosen.
Gomorra - Back in the Game
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