Investigation

A week later, the apparent peace in Robert’s house is disturbed once again. Two men in long gray coats, their rectangular faces stony, clean-shaven, immaculate and carefully groomed, knock when they discover that the doorbell does not work. Robert hears the relentless pounding—how could he not? His bed stands beside the entrance. Their persistence irritates him beyond measure. He wonders whether any privacy or respect remains in this town.

He wants to be left alone, opening the door to no one for as long as he chooses. He is convinced that this is his right, and cannot understand the people who keep coming to his house to bother him. The visitors know perfectly well that someone is behind the door. At last, more than merely angry, Robert gets out of bed and goes to answer the incessant, unbearable summons. To do so, naturally, he must tear his eyes away from the dark wall that has consumed so much of his attention these past few days.

"Good morning. Robert Allen?" one of the men asks.

He neither smiles nor blinks. Instead, he looks faintly disgusted by the sour odor wafting from inside the house. His partner hides his reaction better, though he feels it no less.

"That’s right. What is it?" Robert asks.

He makes no effort to conceal how unwelcome any visitor is, least of all strangers like these. His displeasure is painfully obvious, but the men plainly do not care what the owner of the house thinks.

"I’m Detective McMan. This is my partner, Detective McBlonde. We need to ask you a few questions. Were you romantically involved with this young woman?"

After showing identification from the capital’s police force, McMan holds up a fairly recent photograph of Noel. Robert assumes Noel’s mother supplied it.

"Yes. Don’t you read the news? She’s dead!"

Robert boils with such fury that everything before his eyes suddenly turns red. Then he looks over his shoulder, and the pressure behind his eyes eases as his gaze sinks into the dark wall. Seconds later, he turns back to face the detectives.

"Yes, we know, and we’re very sorry. We’re investigating the circumstances of her death," McMan says, entirely unmoved by the homeowner’s rage.

McBlonde, for his part, looks impatient as well as grave.

"I’m sure you are. I can see how sorry you feel," Robert says with utter seriousness, the irony unmistakable.

His eyes move from one man to the other. The gleam in them betrays his fury; there is nothing he wants more than to slam the door in their faces. The detectives exchange a glance, asking silent questions and speaking without words. Worse still, Robert knows exactly what is being said in that voiceless conversation. He can almost hear it.

"Mr. Allen, we need your statement as soon as possible. May we come in? We can take it here, if you agree. Otherwise, we’ll have to ask you to accompany us to the station and give it there." Robert’s face twists with rage. "No, you may not come in. I’ll go to the station when I feel like it. Good day." Robert slams the door, filling the entranceway with stale air and the crack of the impact.

He does not wait to see the detectives’ reaction or even check whether they leave; he could not care less. Without further ado, he lies down on the bed from which they forced him to rise and devotes himself once more to thoughts of Noel. His gaze settles on the dark wall. His breathing softens, his eyes blink less and less, and the red veil over his vision gradually fades to gray. Outside the door, the detectives have no choice but to withdraw. For now, there is nothing more they can do—but they will not let the matter rest.

Over the course of that same day, more people with different ties to Noel try to visit and speak with him. Many feel a need to talk to the person who was closest to her. Robert answers the door to no one. He does not even bother to get out of bed to see who is calling, nor does he leave the house to buy supplies or go anywhere at all. Ronald is the only friend concerned enough to return, three days later.

He comes at night after finishing work. He and his coworkers still have not completed the house they are painting four blocks away. Ronald pedals to his best friend’s home hoping to find him in better condition than before. Noel’s smile, and the tears that used to accompany her laughter, cross his mind more than once along the way. When he arrives, he knocks as always until, as on every visit, he tires of waiting for an answer that never comes.

He leaves the bicycle propped against the wall and, as he has so many times, pulls the handle and lets himself in. The sight inside shocks him even more than it did before. The bed no longer stands against a wall; it now occupies the very center of the studio. The dining set that used to be there has been turned upside down and piled in a corner of the small garden. At that very moment, rain begins to fall heavily.

This is the wet, rainy season in Bring Spring, the depths of winter, far removed from the hot summers when the sun beats mercilessly on the skin of locals, immigrants and tourists alike. The wall—once white, then repainted, later faded and now ruined and dark—bears a small black-framed picture hanging at the exact center of its broken surface.

"Robert?" Ronald calls.

As usual, his friend is lying on the cot with his fingers interlaced beneath his neck, staring hypnotically at the dark wall. The stale odor of confinement has grown pungent enough to test even the least sensitive nose.

"Ronald!" the homeowner finally answers, sitting upright as though nothing terrible had happened weeks before. "How are you, my friend?" Ronald says encouragingly.

His friend seems to be in a better mood, and Ronald tries to carry on in the same tone.

"Very well… very well. I feel much better today," Robert confesses, to Ronald’s surprise. "Really? What changed your mood? I mean, I’m very glad to see you doing better," Ronald says sincerely, though not without doubt. "Nothing in particular. I’m not like that, and you know it. I can’t be depressed all my life—not even for several days in a row. No, no, you know me… How about we go out for a few beers tonight?"

For a moment, Ronald sees his old friend again—or at least the man Robert is trying to appear to be.

Still, he cannot tell whether he is witnessing some sort of performance or whether Robert truly feels as he claims. He wants to know whether something has happened that he does not know about.

"I’m glad to see you better. Truly, my friend. Listen, Robert, what happened to this wall? It looks worse every time I come, and…"

Ronald ventures the question again, hoping to take advantage of Robert’s supposed good humor and learn what has been troubling him.

"I told you the other day. I got bored with it. The room feels more peaceful this way, don’t you think?" Robert explains with baffling simplicity.

Ronald smiles despite himself and nods, playing along, though nonsense of this sort is not typical of his friend. Then again, perhaps it should not surprise him.

"Maybe. Heh. I like the picture you hung there. It’s beautiful. Why don’t we paint and repair the wall? I’ll help you. Any color you like," Ronald offers with innocent sincerity and generosity.

He is willing to pay for the paint himself if necessary. As he speaks, he looks Robert in the eye, studying his reactions.

"The color it had before meant nothing to me. Now, though… the picture stands out much more. Don’t you agree?"

He stretches his hands out before him, as if to explain the inexplicable.

"But the wall is broken—destroyed, I’d say. It looks as if a battle took place in here. Mrs. Nemrac will never forgive you. If she finds out, she’ll charge you a fortune," Ronald argues.

He invokes the owner and landlady in another attempt to bring his best and closest friend to reason. On previous occasions, Mrs. Nemrac has charged Robert what might be called fines after discovering that the exterior walls were riddled with damp, flaking paint and neglect. None of that compares to what Ronald sees now. No fine could possibly cover the landlady’s reaction if she discovered this dark wall.

"My dear friend, since Mrs. Nemrac has a tongue, she could put it to good use sucking instead of sticking it into other people’s business." Ronald interrupts him at once. "Robert, be quiet! She lives next door, and these walls aren’t that thick. She could hear you—you know that," he whispers anxiously, his eyes wide.

He glances around as if the woman might be spying on them from some hidden corner.

"And you think I care?" Robert asks without the slightest concern or remorse. "Doesn’t anything matter to you anymore?" his friend asks. "Nothing," he confirms. "Do you think what happened doesn’t hurt me too?" Ronald holds his gaze, waiting for some reaction, but Robert’s expression does not change. "It wasn’t the same with you," Robert shoots back, startling his visitor. "But it was something," Ronald reminds him, planting his hands on his hips. "Leave," the homeowner says. "Didn’t you suggest going out for beers? Come on. It’ll do you good," Ronald says, trying to change the subject. "I’d rather you left—and I want you gone now. Get out," Robert demands in a sudden fury, hurrying to open the door. "You know, my friend, I can’t understand you. This isn’t you. We all lost her. All of us," Ronald tells him before stepping outside. "Maybe tomorrow. Maybe we’ll drink, maybe we’ll go find some crazy girl—but not today." Ronald arches his eyebrows at the remark.

He mounts his bicycle and begins to pedal away from the darkened house beneath the heavy winter rain.

He leaves more worried than ever. His friend is behaving far too strangely. He has known him for ten years. The night brought them together—the same night that has now driven them apart. Robert no longer resembles the cheerful, enthusiastic man Ronald knew at Bring Spring’s central nightclub. He tries to imagine what his friend must feel after Noel’s death, and to a point it is understandable. But this confinement, this isolation, this dark wall—none of it is like him.