The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(17)

“Marie, it’s me,” he said, opening the door. “Andrew.” Allow me at this point to break off the story in order to warn you that what took place next is hard to relate, because the sensations Andrew experienced were apparently too numerous for a scene lasting only a few seconds. That is why I need you to take into account the elasticity of time, its ability to expand or contract like an accordion regardless of clocks. I am sure this is something you will have experienced frequently in your own lives, depending on which side of the bathroom door you found yourselves. In Andrew’s case, time expanded in his mind, creating an eternity out of a few seconds. I am going to describe the scene from that perspective, and therefore ask you not to blame my inept storytelling for the discrepancies you will no doubt perceive between the events and their correlation in time.

When he first opened the door and stepped into the room, Andrew did not understand what he was seeing, or more precisely, he refused to accept what he was seeing. During that brief but endless moment, Andrew still felt safe, although the certainty was already forming in some still-functioning part of his brain that what he saw before him would kill him, because nobody could be faced with a thing like that and go on living, at least not completely. And what he saw before him, let’s be blunt about it, was Marie Kelly but at the same time it wasn’t, for it was hard to accept that this object lying on the bed in the middle of all the blood splattered over the sheets and pillow was Marie Kelly.

Andrew could not compare what awaited him in that room with anything he had seen before, because like most other men he had never been exposed to a carefully mutilated human body. And once Andrew’s brain had finally accepted that he was indeed looking at a meticulously destroyed corpse, although nothing in his pleasant life of country house gatherings and fancy headwear would seem to offer him any clues, he had no time to feel the appropriate revulsion, for he could not avoid following the terrible line of reasoning that led him to the inevitable conclusion that this human wreckage must be his beloved. The Ripper, for this could be the work of none other, had stripped the flesh off her face, rendering her unrecognizable, and yet, however great the temptation, Andrew could not deny the corpse belonged to Marie Kelly. It seemed an almost simplistic, not to say improbable approach, but given its size and appearance and above all the place where he had found it, the dismembered corpse could only be that of Marie Kelly. After this, of course, Andrew was overcome by a terrible, devastating pain, which despite everything was only a pale expression of what it would later become, because it was still tempered by the shock paralyzing and to some extent protecting him. Once he was convinced he was standing before the corpse of his beloved, he felt compelled by a sort of posthumous loyalty to look tenderly upon that ghastly sight, but he was incapable of contemplating with anything other than revulsion her flayed face, the skull’s macabre, caricatured smile peeping through the strips of flesh. And yet how could that skull on which he had bestowed his last passionate kisses, revolt him now? The same applied to that body he had worshiped for nights on end, and which, ripped open and half skinned, he now found sickening. It was clear to him from his reaction that in some sense, despite being made out of the same material, this had ceased to be Marie Kelly, for the Ripper, in his zeal to discover how she was put together inside, had reduced her to a simple casing of flesh, robbing her of her humanity. After this last reflection, the time came for Andrew to focus, with a mixture of fascination and horror, on specific details, like the darkish brown lump between her feet, possibly her liver, or the breast lying on the bedside table, which, far from its natural habitat, he might have mistaken for a soft bun had it not been topped by a purplish nipple. Everything appeared incredibly neatly arranged, betraying the murderer’s grisly calm. Even the heat he now noticed suffusing the room, suggested the ghoul had taken the time to light himself a nice fire in order to work in more comfort. Andrew closed his eyes: he had seen enough. He did not want to know anything more. Besides showing him how cruel and indifferent man could be towards his fellow human beings, the atrocities he could commit given enough opportunity, imagination, and a sharp knife, the murderer had provided him with a shocking and brutal lesson in anatomy. For the very first time Andrew realized that life, real life, had no connection with the way people spent their days, whose lips they kissed, what medals were pinned on them, or the shoes they mended. Life, real life, went on soundlessly inside our bodies, flowed like an underwater stream, occurred like a silent miracle of which only surgeons and pathologists were aware, and perhaps ruthless killer, too. For they alone knew that ultimately there was no difference between Queen Victoria and the most wretched beggar in London: both were complex machines made up of bone, organs, and tissue, whose fuel was the breath of God.

This is a detailed analysis of what Andrew experienced during those fleeting moments when he stood before Marie Kelly’s dead body, although this description makes it seem as if he were gazing at her for hours, which is what it felt like to him. Eventually a feeling of guilt began to emerge through the haze of pain and disgust overwhelming Andrew, for he immediately held himself responsible for her death. It had been in his power to save her, but he had arrived too late. This was the price of his cowardice.

He let out a cry of rage and impotence as he imagined his beloved being subjected to this vicious butchery. Suddenly, it dawned on him that unless he wanted to be linked to the murder he must get out before someone saw him. It was even possible the murderer was still lurking outside, admiring his macabre handiwork from some dark corner, and would have no compunction about adding another corpse to his collection. He gave Marie Kelly a farewell glance, unable to bring himself to touch her, and with a supreme effort of will forced himself to withdraw from the little room, leaving her there.