Let's just say that I only believe in myself, and in what I can touch.”
He leaned back on the wheelchair, tapping on the armrests with his fingertips. Yet I didn’t, for a second, have the impression that he was vulnerable or fragile. His expression was that of a person who had escaped flames, and is not afraid of jumping back into them, if he considered it necessary. Or simply, if he felt like it. I pulled my gaze away from his face. It was bright, almost translucent, a glossy bright white, unlike the faces I was used to seeing. It was demanding to look at him, and even listening to his hypnotic voice. He seemed a snake charmer, and any woman would be delighted to suffer his enchantment, and the secret spell stemming from him, from that perfect face and from his mocking glance.
“So you’re my new secretary, Miss Bruno.”
“If you confirm my job, Mr Mc Laine,” I said, looking up.
He smiled ambiguously. “Why shouldn’t I hire you? Because you don’t go to church on Sundays? You must think I’m very shallow if you believe that I’ll send you away or... keep you here on the basis of our short chat.”
“Likewise I don’t know you enough to make such an unflattering judgment on you,” I agreed smiling. “I’m aware, however, that a profitable employment relationship also arises from an immediate liking and from a favourable first impression.”
His laughter was so unexpected that I jumped. With the same suddenness with which it was born, it died. He stared at me coldly.
“Do you really think it’s easy to find employees willing to move to this village forgotten by God and the world, distant from any fun, mall or disco? You were the only one who answered the ad, Miss Bruno.”
The amusement was lurking behind the frost in his eyes. A sheet of black ice, broken by a thin crack of good humour that warmed my soul.
“Then I won’t have to worry about the competition,” I said, folding my hands nervously in my lap.
He studied me again, with the same irritating curiosity with which he would gaze at a rare animal.
I swallowed my saliva, displaying a fictitious and dangerously precarious ease. For a moment, just enough to formulate a thought, I told myself that I had to escape from that house, from that room overflowing with books and from that disturbing and gorgeous man. I felt like a helpless kitten, a few inches away from a lion’s mouth. A cruel predator and a helpless prey. Then the sensation vanished, and I was ashamed of my foolishness. Before me there was a man with an unrestrained personality, arrogant and overbearing, who for a long time had been condemned to a wheel chair. I was the prey of the moment, a shy girl, fearful and afraid of changes. Why not let him have his way? If he enjoyed making fun of me, why did I have to preclude him the only fun and entertainment he could have? It was almost noble on my part, in a way.
“What do you think of me, Miss Bruno?”
Once again, I forced him to repeat the question, and once again I surprised him.
“I didn’t think you’d be so young.”
He stiffened instantly, and I fell silent, fearful of having upset him somehow. He pulled himself back together, and captured me with another of his heart stopping smiles. “Is that so?”
I moved restlessly on the chair, undecided about how to continue. At that point, summoning all my nerve and encouraged by his gaze, locked on mine, in a silent and exciting dance, I started talking again.
“Well... you wrote your first book when you were twenty-five years old, fifteen years ago, I think. Yet you look as though you’re slightly older than me,” I spoke my thoughts out loud.
“How old are you, Miss Bruno?”
“I’m twenty-two, sir,” I said, again lost in the depths of his eyes.
“I'm really too old for you, Miss Bruno,” he said with a chuckle. Then he lowered his gaze, and again the cold winter night came over him, as cruel as a snake. Every trace of warmth disappeared. “Anyhow, don’t worry. You won’t have to worry about sexual harassment while you sleep in your bed. As you see, I’m condemned to immobility.”
I fell silent because I didn’t know what to answer. His tone was bitter and forlorn, his face sculpted in stone.
His eyes pierced mine, looking for something that he didn’t seem to find. He gave me a small smile. “At least you don’t pity me. I’m glad. I don’t want it, I don’t need it. I'm happier than many others, Miss Bruno because I’m free, in a complete and most absolute way.” He frowned. “What are you still doing here? You may leave.”
The sudden dismissal disturbed me. I stood up hesitantly, and he vented his anger on me.
“Are you still here? What do you want? Your salary already? Or do you want to talk about your day off?” He accused me irritably.
“No, Mr Mc Laine.” I awkwardly went to the door. I already had my hand on the handle when he stopped me.
“I’ll see you at nine in the morning, Miss Bruno. I'm writing a new book, the title is: The unburied dead. Do you find it creepy?” His smile widened.
Sudden mood swings had to be a dominant trait of his personality.
I had to remember that in the future, or I’d risk a hysterical break down at least twenty times a day. “It sounds interesting, sir,” I replied cautiously.
He rolled his head back and laughed heartily. “Interesting! I bet you haven’t ever read one of my books, Miss Bruno. You seem to have a delicate stomach... You wouldn’t sleep all night, haunted by nightmares...” He laughed again, suddenly speaking to her with familiarity, proving again that he was subject to mood swings.
“I'm not as sensitive as I seem, sir,” I replied, sparking another wave of laughter.
He maneuvered the wheelchair with his hands as smooth as a feline and with an admirable ability, born from years and years of practice, and he came to my side surprisingly fast. He was so close I couldn’t muster a rational thought. Instinctively, I took a step back. He pretended not to notice my movement, and pointed to the bookcase on my right.
“Get the fourth book from the left, third shelf.”
Obedient, I grabbed the book he was pointing to. The title was familiar to me because I had carried out a search on him on the Internet before I left, but indeed I had never read any of his work. Horror stories were not my kind, definitely they were more suitable for strong palates, and unfit for me, for I preferred a more delicate and romantic literature.
“Zombie on the way,” I read loudly.
“It's the best one for starts. It's the least... how can I say it? Least frightening?” He laughed whole-heartedly, obviously at me, and at the uncomfortable awkwardness that transpired from every pore of my body.
“Why don’t you start reading it tonight? Just to prepare for your new job,” he suggested, his eyes laughing.
“Okay, I'll do it,” I said with little enthusiasm.
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Miss Bruno,” he dismissed me, again with a serious expression. “Lock the door to your room; I wouldn’t want the spirits
