The kitchen was a small room with a sink, a tiny stove, and a refrigerator, the likes of which Martin hadn’t seen since his childhood. It was a porcelain-surfaced box with a cylindrical coil on top. Werner opened the refrigerator and removed a sandwich and a bottled beer. From a drawer beneath the sink, he got an opener and removed the cap from the beer, putting the opener back where he got it.
Holding up the beer, Werner said, “Would you care for a drink?”
Philips shook his head. The diener came out of the kitchen and Philips backed up. At the dining-room table Werner pushed his briefcase and Polaroid to one side, motioning Martin to sit. The diener took a long draught of beer, then burped loudly as he set the bottle down. The longer he delayed, the less confident Philips felt. He had lost his initial advantage of surprise. To keep his hands from trembling, he put them on his knees. His eyes were glued to Werner, watching every move.
“Nobody can live on a diener’s salary,” said Werner. Philips nodded, waiting. Werner took a bite of his sandwich. “You know I come from the old country,” said Werner with his mouth full, “from Rumania. It’s not a nice story because the Nazis killed my family and took me back to Germany when I was five years old. That was the age I started handling corpses in Dachau …” Werner went on to tell his story in grisly detail, how his parents had been killed, how he’d been treated in the concentration camps, and how he was forced to live with the dead. The gruesome story went on and on and Werner did not spare Martin a single repulsive chapter. Philips tried on several occasions to interrupt the ghastly tale, but Werner persisted and Philips felt his fixity of purpose melt like wax before a hot coal. “Then I came to America,” said Werner, finishing his beer with a loud sucking sound. He scraped back his chair and went into the kitchen for another. Philips, numb from the story, watched him from the table. “I got a job with the medical school in the morgue,” yelled Werner as he opened the drawer beneath the sink. Below the bottle opener were several large autopsy knives Werner had spirited out of the morgue when autopsies were still done on the old marble slab. He grasped one of them, and point first, slid the knife up inside the left sleeve of his jacket. “But I needed more money than the salary.” He opened the beer bottle and replaced the opener. Closing the drawer, he turned and came back toward the table.
“I only want to know about Lisa Marino,” said Martin, limply. Werner’s life story had made Philips conscious of his physical fatigue.
“I’m coming to that,” said Werner. He took a sip from the fresh beer, then put it on the table. “I started making extra money around the morgue when anatomy was more popular than it is now. Lots of little things. Then. I hit on the idea of pictures. I sell them on Forty-second Street. I’ve been doing it for years.” With one of his arms Werner made a gesture of introduction around his apartment.
Philips let his eyes roam the dimly lit room. He’d vaguely been aware the red velvet walls were covered with pictures. Now when he looked, he realized the pictures were lewd, gruesome photos of nude female corpses. Philips slowly turned his attention back to the leering Werner.
“Lisa Marino was one of my best models,” said Werner. He picked up the pile of Polaroid shots on the table and dumped them in Philips’ lap. “Look at them. They’re bringing top dollar, especially on Second Avenue. Take your time. I’ve got to go to the bathroom. It’s the beer; it goes right through me.”
Werner walked around the stunned Philips and disappeared through the bedroom door. Martin reluctantly looked down at the sickeningly sadistic photos of Lisa Marino’s corpse. He was afraid to touch them, as if the mental aberration they represented might rub off on his fingers. Werner had obviously misinterpreted Philips’ interest. Perhaps the diener didn’t know anything about the missing brain, and his suspicious behavior was only owing to his illicit trade in necropbilic photos. Philips felt the stirrings of nausea.