Borkmann's point

42

“I take it you know where you are?” he said, and his voice sounded weary in the extreme.

“I think so,” she said into the darkness.

He coughed.

“You realize that you have no chance of getting out of here without assistance?”

“Yes.”

“You’re in my hands. Can we agree on that?”

She didn’t answer. She suddenly wondered how such res olute determination could be combined with the deep sorrow that was obvious in his voice. Wondered and yet understood at the same time that this was the key to the whole business.

Sorrow and determination.

“Can we agree on that?”

“Yes.”

He paused and adjusted his chair. Probably crossed his legs, but she was only guessing. The darkness was extremely dense.

“I…” she began.

“No,” he said flatly. “I don’t want you to speak unless it’s necessary. If I want you to say something, I’ll tell you. This is not going to be a conversation; my intention is simply to tell you a story. All I ask is that you listen.

“A story,” he repeated.

He lit a cigarette, and for a moment his face was illumi nated by a faint red glow.

“I’m going to tell you a story,” he said for the third time.

“Not because I’m asking for understanding or forgiveness I’m way past such things-but simply because I want to remind myself of it one more time, before it’s all over.”

“What are you going to do with me?” she asked.

“Don’t interrupt me,” he said. “I beg you not to spoil this.

Perhaps I haven’t yet made up my mind…”

She could hear his breathing through the dense silence and darkness. Nine or ten feet away from her, no more. She closed her eyes, but that didn’t make any difference.

The darkness was there. The smells-stale soil, fresh tobacco smoke. And the murderer.