An Evil Eye

124

Palewski, too, was thinking about rope.

He had done his best to tense his wrists, but the men only cinched the ropes tighter. At the foot of the cellar steps they had bound his ankles, too.

They had run the rope through the loop of his arms, drawn it tight, and fastened him to a square pillar, leaving him on his knees with his feet drawn up painfully behind him.

He thought about rope as he knelt on the gritty flags.

“A knife, kyrie? But I do not-ah! I understand.”

“Some people, Marta, think that I drink too much wine. I’d very much like to tell them that wine has saved my life.”

He heard the rasp of a bottle against the wood.

“I-just-can’t…”

“Take off your shoe, maybe. Try with your toes.”

“Oh, kyrie!” A thud as she dropped a slipper to the floor. “That’s better-but I can’t reach so far!”

“Very well, take a rest.” He frowned in the dark. “How high did you raise your foot?”

Marta considered. “I think, up to my waist. A little lower.”

“Good.” Palewski bit his lip. Marta had touched the top of a bottle with her slipper, just. He imagined that she could describe an arc with her foot, and that arc might just make contact with a bottle in the rack. Like a circle inside a square: one small point of contact.

“Use your toes. Whatever you do, don’t push the bottle. Maybe next time, if you can, just twist a little to one side. It may help you stretch a little farther.”

Marta responded with a deep intake of breath.

“I’ve been a complete fool,” he muttered, as he listened to Marta kicking her skirts aside. She was reducing the weight on her leg, and he heard her groan as she twisted to one side, dragging on her wrists.

“Aaaah!”

The bottle dragged slowly up the rack, clamped between Marta’s toes.

At the last minute she jerked her foot and the bottle flipped out. Palewski heard her cry and the sound of the glass splintering on the stone floor.

He took a deep breath. He sniffed, momentarily distracted: Petrus, damn it, and almost certainly the ’04. But it was the glass that interested him; the broken glass, and Marta.

“Marta, when we’re out of this-?”

There was total silence in the cellar.

“Kyrie?” Her voice sounded cold.

Palewski swallowed. He’d been about to say something else, but he was warned now. “When we’re out-you won’t forget?”