If I wanted to get rid of Jason, I had to go much further. I had to destroy him.
Finally, Lana drank herself into oblivion and passed out on my couch. I went to the kitchen, to make a cup of tea—and to think. While I waited for the kettle to boil, I daydreamed about sneaking up behind Jason, armed with one of his own guns, pointing it at him—and blowing his brains out. I felt a sudden rush of excitement as I imagined this; a weird, perverse feeling of pride; the way you feel standing up to a bully—which is exactly what Jason was.
Unfortunately, it was just a fantasy. I’d never go through with it. I knew I’d never get away with it. I had to think of something cleverer than that. But what?
Our motivation is to remove pain, Mr. Valentine Levy said.
He was right. I had to take action—otherwise I’d never be free of this pain. I was in such pain: believe me, I felt so close to despair, standing there in the kitchen at 3:00 A.M. I felt thwarted. Vanquished.
But, no—not entirely vanquished.
For thinking about Mr. Levy had sparked an association in my mind. The beginnings of an idea.
If this were a play, I suddenly thought, what would I do?
Yes—what if I were to approach my dilemma in those terms—as if I were staging a theatrical work—a drama?
If this were a play I was writing, and these were my characters, I’d use my knowledge of them to predict their actions—and provoke their reactions. To shape their destiny, without them knowing it.
Could I not, similarly, in real life, contrive a series of events that would—without me lifting a finger—end in Jason’s death? Why not? Yes, it was risky and might well fail—but that element of danger is what live theater is all about, isn’t it?
My only hesitation in this was Lana. I didn’t want to lie to her. But I decided—and judge me harshly for this if you like—that it was for her own good.
After all, what was I doing? Nothing but freeing the woman I loved from a faithless, dishonest criminal—and replacing him with a decent, honest man. She would be so much better off without him. She would be with me.
I sat down at my desk. I switched on the green lamp. I pulled out my notebook from the top drawer. I opened it and turned to a fresh page. I reached for a pencil, sharpened it—and I began to plot it out.
As I wrote, I could sense Heracleitus standing above me, watching over my shoulder, nodding with approval. For even though my plan went so wrong, even though it ended in such disaster, there—in the designing of the plot, in its conception—it was beautiful.
That’s my story, in a nutshell. A tale of beautiful, well-intentioned failure—ending in death. Which is a pretty good metaphor for life, isn’t it?
Well—my life, anyway.
There we have it. I’m aware this has been a lengthy aside. It is, however, integral to my narrative.
But that’s not up to me, is it? It’s what you think that counts.
And you don’t say anything, do you? You just sit there, listening, silently judging. I’m so conscious of your judgment. I don’t want to bore you, or lose your interest. Not when you’ve given me so much of your time already.
Which reminds me of something Tennessee Williams used to say. His writing advice to aspiring dramatists:
Don’t be boring, baby, he’d say. Do whatever it takes to keep the thing going. Blow up a bomb onstage, if you have to. But don’t be boring.
Okay, baby—so here comes that bomb.
14
Let us return to the island—and the night of the murder.
Just after midnight, there were three gunshots in the ruin.
A few minutes afterward, we all arrived at the clearing. A chaotic scene followed, as I tried to take Lana’s pulse, and to disentangle her from Leo’s arms. Jason gave Agathi his phone—to call an ambulance, and the police.
Jason went back to the house to get a gun. He was followed by Kate, then Leo. Agathi and I were alone.
This much you know.
What you don’t know is what happened next.
Agathi was in shock. She had gone completely pale, like she might faint. Remembering the phone in her hand, she lifted it up, to call the police.
“No.” I stopped her. “Not yet.”
“What?” Agathi looked at me blankly.
“Wait.”
Agathi looked confused—then she looked at Lana’s body.
For a split second, did Agathi think of her grandmother—and wish she were here now? And that the old witch would shut her eyes and sway and mutter an incantation; an ancient magical spell to resurrect Lana, to make her live again—and return from death?
Lana, please, Agathi prayed silently, please be alive—please live—live— Then, as in a dream or a nightmare—or on hallucinatory drugs—reality began to distort itself at Agathi’s command …
And Lana’s body began to move.
15
One of Lana’s limbs twitched, ever so slightly, of its own accord.
The blue eyes opened.
And her body began to sit up.
Agathi went to scream. I grabbed hold of her.
“Shh,” I whispered. “Shh. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Agathi squirmed and threw me off. She seemed about to lose her balance. But she managed to stay upright, unsteadily, breathing hard.
“Agathi,” I said. “Listen. It’s okay. It’s a game. That’s all. A play. We’re acting. See?”
Agathi, slowly, fearfully, moved her eyes past me. She looked over my shoulder, at Lana’s body. The dead woman was now on her feet, holding out her arms for an embrace.
“Agathi,” said the voice she thought she’d never again hear. “Darling, come here.”
Lana wasn’t dead. Judging by the sparkle in her eyes, she’d never felt more alive. Agathi was overcome with emotion. She wanted to fall into Lana’s arms, sob with joy and relief, hold Lana tight. But she didn’t.
Instead, she found herself staring at Lana with increasing anger.
“A game—?”
“Agathi, listen—”
“What kind of game?”
“I can explain,” said Lana.
“Not now,” I said. “There isn’t time. We’ll explain later. Right now, we need you to play along.”
Agathi’s eyes welled up with tears. She shook her head, unable to bear it any longer. She turned and marched off, disappearing in the trees.
“Wait,” Lana called after her. “Agathi—”
“Shh, keep quiet,” I said. “I’ll deal with it. I’ll talk to her.”
Lana looked doubtful. I could tell her resolve was wavering. I tried again, more forcefully: “Lana, please don’t. You’ll ruin everything. Lana—”
Lana ignored me. She ran after Agathi into the olive grove.
I watched her go, aghast.
I don’t know if I’m saying this with the benefit of hindsight—or if I had some inkling of it at the time—but at this precise moment my perfect plan began to unravel.
And everything went to hell.
ACT IV
Truth or illusion, George: you don’t know the difference.
—EDWARD ALBEE, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
1
A good rule of thumb, you know, when telling a story, is to delay all exposition until absolutely necessary.
Nothing is more suspect, to my mind, than unsolicited explanation. It’s best to keep quiet, to refrain from any elucidation until you have to.
Now, it seems, we have reached that crucial point in the narrative.
I owe you an explanation—I can see that.
Remember that night in my flat, what I said about Jason and Kate?
Whatever they have—or think they have—it will crack under the slightest bit of pressure. It will fall apart.
What better way to test them, I said to Lana, than a little murder?
“Like one of the plays you used to stage at the ruin,” I said, “in the old days—remember? A little more gory, that’s all.”
Lana looked confused. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about a play. For an audience of two—for Kate and Jason. A murder, in five acts.”
Lana listened as I began to explain my idea. I said that, by faking Lana’s murder, and casting suspicion on Jason, we’d watch his relationship with Kate disintegrate.