“Would that be such a bad thing? Why not let them share the place? We could make a pile of them on the lawn and — ”
“No. That room is mine. All of it. Every damn tile.”
The quiet ferocity with which she spoke silenced him. He just stared at her for perhaps a minute, while she lit a cigarette, her fingers trembling. Finally, he summoned up enough courage to say: “You are afraid.”
She stared out of the window, almost as though she hadn’t heard him. When she spoke again her voice was as soft as it had been strident a minute ago.
“I’m not afraid of the dead, Willem. But I am afraid of what will happen to me if I lose the room.” She looked at the palm of her hand, as though she might find her future written there. But it wasn’t the lines of her hand she was admiring, it was its smoothness. “Being in the Devil’s Country has made me feel younger, Willem. It did that to everybody. Younger. Sexier. But as soon as it’s taken away … ”
” … yes. You’ll get sick.”
“I’m never going to get sick.” She allowed herself the time for a smile. “Perhaps I’m never going to die.”
“Don’t be foolish.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I. Don’t be foolish. Whatever you think the room can do, it won’t make you immortal.”
The wisp of a smile remained on her face. “Wouldn’t you like that, Willem?”
“No.”
“Just a little bit?”
“I said no,” he shook his head, his voice dropping. “Not any more.”
“Meaning what?”
“What do you think I mean? This life of ours … isn’t worth living.”
There was a silence between them. It lasted two, three, four minutes. Rain began to hit the window; fat spots of it bursting against the glass.
“I’ll find Sandru for you,” Willem said finally. “Or if not him, somebody who knows how to deal with these things. I’ll find a solution.”
“Do that,” she said. “And if you can’t, don’t bother to come back.”