“If I saw you every day, forever, I’d remember this time.” His dark eyes held her whole.
“How many times have you seen me? That I don’t know about?”
“Only three.”
“But here—”
“Is outside of time, and what I may see taking care of you does not compromise your privacy. That’s kept in its own place with your medical records. I’ll confess it is pleasant to look at you asleep. You’re quite beautiful, Clarice.”
“Looks are an accident, Dr. Lecter.”
“If comeliness were earned, you’d still be beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
“Do not say ‘Thanks.’” A fractional turn of his head was enough to dash his annoyance like a glass thrown into the fireplace.
“I say what I mean,” Starling said. “Would you like it better if I said ‘I’m glad you find me so.’ That would be a little fancier, and equally true.”
She raised her glass beneath her level prairie gaze, taking back nothing.
It occurred to Dr. Lecter in the moment that with all his knowledge and intrusion, he could never entirely predict her, or own her at all. He could feed the caterpillar, he could whisper through the chrysalis; what hatched out followed its own nature and was beyond him. He wondered if she had the .45 on her leg beneath the gown.
Clarice Starling smiled at him then, the cabochons caught the firelight and the monster was lost in self-congratulation at his own exquisite taste and cunning.
“Clarice, dinner appeals to taste and smell, the oldest senses and the closest to the center of the mind. Taste and smell are housed in parts of the mind that precede pity, and pity has no place at my table. At the same time, playing in the dome of the cortex like miracles illumined on the ceiling of a church are the ceremonies and sights and exchanges of dinner. It can be far more engaging than theater.” He brought his face close to hers, taking some reading in her eyes. “I want you to understand what riches you bring to it, Clarice, and what your entitlements are. Clarice, have you studied your reflection lately? I think not. I doubt that you ever do. Come into the hall, stand in front of the pier glass.”
Dr. Lecter brought a candelabrum from the mantel.
The tall mirror was one of the good eighteenth-century antiques, but slightly smoky and crazed. It was out of Château Vaux-le-Vicomte and God knows what it has seen.
“Look, Clarice. That delicious vision is what you are. This evening you will see yourself from a distance for a while. You will see what is just, you will say what is true. You’ve never lacked the courage to say what you think, but you’ve been hampered by constraints. I will tell you again, pity has no place at this table.
“If remarks are passed that are unpleasant in the instant, you will see that context can make them something between droll and riotously funny. If things are said that are painfully true, then it is only passing truth and will change.” He took a sip of his drink. “If you feel pain bloom inside you, it will soon blossom into relief. Do you understand me?”
“No, Dr. Lecter, but I remember what you said. Damn a bunch of self-improvement. I want a pleasant dinner.”
“That I promise you.” He smiled, a sight that frightens some.
Neither looked at her reflection now in the clouded glass; they watched each other through the burning tapers of the candelabrum and the mirror watched them both.
“Look, Clarice.”
She watched the red sparks pinwheel deep in his eyes and felt the excitement of a child approaching a distant fair.
From his jacket pocket Dr. Lecter took a syringe, the needle fine as a hair and, never looking, only feeling, he slipped the needle into her arm. When he withdrew it, the tiny wound did not even bleed.
“What were you playing when I came in?” she asked.
If True Love Reigned. “It’s very old?”
“Henry the Eighth composed it about 1510.” “Would you play for me?” she said. “Would you finish it now?”
CHAPTER
100
THE BREEZE of their entry into the dining room stirred the flames of the candles and the warmers. Starling had only seen the dining room in passage and it was wonderful to see the room transformed. Bright, inviting. Tall crystal repeating the candle flames above the creamy napery at their places and the space reduced to intimate size with a screen of flowers shutting off the rest of the table.