Labyrinth of the Burning Heart

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As always the usual disclaimers apply here, yadda yadda Tom is God yadda yadda. . . oh, and one note: To all Latin scholars out there, yes, the translation is valid although I do apologize from the bottom of my heart, for ransacking the language in a way that puts Attila the Hun to shame. ;-)


Chapter 11

Sailing Through the Mist

Saturday, September 1, 2001

Hannibal Lecter entered Green Mount Cemetery through a small service gate in the back, opening the lock with a paper clip. He walked past the castle-like main gate calmly; the attendant didn't even turn his head. Green Mount was Baltimore's first "rural cemetery," built in 1839 on someone's private estate far away from the overcrowded church graveyards. One could hear the birds without interstate traffic in the background. A green sward covered with bouquets struggled its way up a small hill before giving way to manicured lawns divided by a small path and dotted with tombs varying in size and price. The resting places of the rich and famous, the honest and cruel, John Wilkes Booth mouldering several yards away from Johns Hopkins. There was a service taking place on the side of the cemetery; one could barely see the coffin for the ostentatious bouquet spilling over the sides and dwarfing the mourners, bright lurid colors jarring the muted gray of the neighboring tombstones. Dr. Lecter walked as far from them as possible.

In the top left hand corner of the cemetery, just down the hill from the chapel/crematorium, was a tomb in the shape of a pedestal. A massive stone angel was perched atop, its wings arching over its head and pointed heavenward as if to skewer God in the eyes. The word "greatness" could be seen carved into the left wing.

Dr. Lecter stopped about six feet away from the elegant structure, his hands sunk deep into his pockets. He looked at his reflection looming, wraithlike, in the black marble. The thin tune from a bugle could be heard from the funeral service down the hill.

One hundred yards away, from behind a rhododendron bush and beside a birch tree, a pair of binoculars peered through a gap in the thick foliage. The binoculars went down and Ariadne rested her chin on her knees as she rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet, looking very much like a toddler. He had injected collagen into his face, distorting his features, however…she raised the binoculars to her eyes again, he was not wearing contacts over his eyes, preferring instead to pull a fedora low over his forehead. The salt and pepper beard he wore really didn't fit his face at all. Ariadne thought this with a smile even as she continued rocking and something seized her insides and shook it like a rat-killing dog.

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The piece of paper that Margie had given her had wrinkled in her pocket and the ink smeared so badly that she called three wrong numbers before finally reaching Dr. Lecter's secretary. The woman sounded professional enough, politely confirming her appointment on Monday afternoon. If she noticed the nervous tremor in Rachel's voice, she chose not to comment. But she probably dealt with a lot of callers with way more problems than her.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter's office was located in a small business park a few miles away from the Maryland-Misericordia Hospital. Rachel passed the hospital on her right as she drove toward the office. She found it interesting that the hospital chose to include "merciful" in its name. The business park was surrounded by trees and small gardens leading from the back doors of the brick buildings. There was a placard posted in the yard in front of each building, listing the five or six doctors, lawyers, dentists, etc. that shared the building. Dr. Lecter's office was located in the smallest structure deep inside the park, but he shared the building with no one.

Rachel parked the car, noting the presence of another Jaguar several spaces away. She walked up the path and stopped before the door. She frowned. It was far too quiet.

The waiting room was painted a soft white with strips of wood dividing the walls into sections. There were two or three patients sitting on couches poring over magazines. Every few minutes someone would moan or fumble with a bottle of pills. The place had the antiseptic smell of Michael's office.

Rachel stood in the corner of the room, giving the waiting patients a wide berth. The door in the back opened and the odor of leather and ashes permeated the room. She looked up, slightly surprised at what she saw. The man that stepped from the doorway was not tall, but his posture made him seem so. Authority radiated from his form and Rachel shrank away slightly. The smile on his face did not move past his lips to his eyes.

Dr. Lecter was just showing the previous patient out, smiling good-naturedly and confirming an upcoming appointment. He saw his next patient out of the corner of his eye and kept her there for the next minute, just enough to see her clearly from the waist up. The stuttering man standing before him thanked him again and again for his invaluable help, his eyes pulsating with an insane tic. Dr. Lecter listened patiently. The woman's grandiose posture was forced; she twisted her hands nervously without realization even as she stood straight and tall and examined herself in the mirror. She wiped a speck of dust from her eyelid, catching sight of her bracelets as she did so. The woman started, seemingly aware for the first time of her cumbersome jewelry. She began stripping off the bracelets and placing them carefully in her purse, all the while her eyes darting around, trembling slightly as they observed her surroundings.

He greeted her warmly, pretending not to notice the way her hand shook in his grasp. "Mrs. Bermuda, it's a pleasure. Why don't you step inside my office a moment? There's no need to put your bag down; we won't be staying there long." His voice was soft and undemanding.

Too weary and too nervous to ask questions, Rachel stepped inside Dr. Lecter's office. It was a modest-sized room seemingly constructed entirely of dark wood and leather. The room was crammed full of books, all of which had been read extensively; she could see the creases in the spines. She did not look anymore, for Dr. Lecter had walked in and closed the door behind him. There was a sudden hitch in Rachel's breathing and for a moment she felt as if she were suffocating. The feeling passed and her heart hammered away as Dr. Lecter walked to his desk, carrying a thin manila folder.

"Your sister sent us your records, and there's not that much there. Would you join me in the garden out back? I'm sure I could look this over on the way there."

Rachel followed Dr. Lecter with her eyes as he walked over to the door opening to the garden and moved aside to let her pass. As she walked by him, her eyes focused on the file that he turned over in his hands so that the cover was turned up. She couldn't quite turn her eyes away from those hands: they looked strong and elegant, long-fingered, like the hands of a piano player. But the fingers conjured a different image: they moved restlessly over the file, almost predatorily. They made her think of spiders. . . and suddenly she felt as though she were descending into dark water, into damp nets of sticky, silken threads, waiting to be reeled into hungry jaws.

She swallowed once and forced her attention on the garden instead, lying just ahead past the backgate of the building. It was much more secluded than the others, and easily twice as big. Despite this observation, however, Rachel felt more trapped with every passing minute. But Dr. Lecter's smile was warm and friendly and she knew she had to give him at least half a chance to earn her confidence. Not every man is like your husband...

If Dr. Lecter noticed her discomfort, he did not reveal it. Instead, he opened the folder, his index finger tracing her name as he began reading from the file. Hearing her full name, not just her husband's surname, fall from the psychiatrist's lips sent a shiver down Rachel's spine, though whether it originated in fear or... something else, something perhaps akin to foreboding... would remain unclear to her for the rest of her days.

"Mrs. Rachel Ariadne Cahlin Bermuda. Native of West Virginia, currently living by Chesapeake Bay with your husband. No children." Rachel could detect nothing from his tone, and it bothered her all the more. Again, Dr. Lecter gave no indication of noticing her uneasiness, as his careful examination of the file did not change. His eyes move over the first page once more, blinking once, before he shut the file and set it down on a nearby bench. Then he opened the backgate and they walked into the garden. He shut the gate behind them and then turned to lean against it.

"First, before we discuss anything else, you have quite a selection of names to choose from, and I would like to know which one you would prefer me to use when I address you."

She shrugged, her eyes nervously looking back towards the gate they had come through. "It…doesn't matter. I'll answer to any of them."

Dr. Lecter raised his eyebrows in a frown. "The first thing the guards at Auschwitz did with their captives was to take away their names. They were so much easier to control when they were reduced to a set of numbers." His expression did not change, although Rachel thought that his eyes might have smiled for the briefest moment.

Rachel stared, flabbergasted, and saw that he was serious. "Um, Ariadne then, I guess that sounds the nicest." She noted that Dr. Lecter had said the German word "Auschwitz" with a particularly harsh tone but did not dwell on that matter for long.

Dr. Lecter paused for a moment and Rachel was afraid that he knew. The feeling passed. "Very well then." Then he seemed to pull away and his eyes darkened several shades. "Ariadne, the bride of Dionysus…something tells me that you will be a most interesting patient."

Ariadne wasn't in the right mood to think up a suitable retort. And besides…he wasn't so bad. Yet. They walked in silence. Dr. Lecter's garden was beyond description, and she began to feel dizzy from the number of times she turned to look again at a flowerbed they had just passed. The garden was obviously well-tended, yet none of the arrangements were forced or misplaced. The blossoms were allowed to spill over onto the path and seemed only to be restrained by the flowers' will to allow observers passage through their maze of color and thorns. The sheer abundance of colors reflected in Ariadne's eyes like so many gemstones. Azure blue, flaming red, pearl white, poisonous yellow, and rust-tainted, rich maroon. She reached out to touch a bed of peach-colored carnations with their edges stained blood red.

The doctor's question jarred the thick silence. "So tell me, Ariadne, why do you dislike psychiatrists?"

She shot him a look, and a shield seemed to go down over her eyes. She looked over her shoulder unwittingly once again, making sure that nobody was following them. "I don't know…I guess I don't like the concept of being reduced to a set of influences."

"Do you think perhaps some people take comfort in having their troubles quantified? For example, that man I saw before you; he has schizophrenia. His most recurring visions are those of a mother, a father, and a lover. He makes it rather simple to deduce his desires in life. But the problems of the majority of the population including you and me are difficult if not impossible to quantify."

Ariadne stopped walking and turned to face him. "So what do you do?"

"I don't. Life is too slippery for books, Ariadne. What I do is accept the complexity of my patients and let them agree on their own solution. I am a guide, not a magic pill. Will that work for you?"

Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. Her piercing gaze traversed over Dr. Lecter's face, found no deception to feed on and softened. "Yes, I suppose so."

"Good. I would not want you paying for something that you didn't enjoy, at least somewhat."

Did he know? Ariadne wondered, frustrated at this man's maddening calm and perception. "You're different from most psychiatrists."

"Have you known very many?"

"One. Very briefly."

"How so?"

"After my father died. The doctors assigned me a psychiatrist. The man wore the thickest pair of glasses I had ever seen; he looked like he was drowning all the time. I only lasted half a session with him." Anticipating Dr. Lecter's next question, Ariadne paused only a moment before continuing, "During our first meeting, he leaned right up against me, shoving a stethoscope down my shirt and mumbling something about how the eyes were the windows to the soul; I thought he was going to eat me or something. They carried me out kicking and screaming. The doctor suffered a bruised rib and had to replace his stethoscope. At least that's what my mother said I did." A flash of pain at the mention of her mother flickered across her eyes briefly before her shield went down again.

They walked for a long time under the glaring eye of the sun, but Rachel revealed little, her defenses remaining firmly in place after her temporary slip. The mask would shiver on her face several times throughout the meeting, however. Dr. Lecter succeeded in drawing a few unconstrained smiles from her, even. Rachel wondered if she would have to pay for that with wrinkles the next morning.

But she didn't worry nearly so much about that as she did about what she might have unconsciously revealed to Dr. Lecter with just that anecdote about her 'former shrink'. He seemed so perceptive, as though he looked straight through her skin. She really hadn't told him much, and yet his eyes still seemed to dissect her, layer by layer. She wished she could see into his head.

As time ran out and the meeting came to an end, Rachel noticed to her surprise she was sorry to leave. Dr. Lecter turned to face her again, several blood-red roses in his hands. "Will I see you next week?"

"Yes. Do I have to lie on the couch?"

"I would prefer that you do so for our first few sessions. Then, if you're not comfortable with it, we'll see what we can do. Take one home with you, please." During his last sentence, he gestured toward the flowerbeds. "Take one, and tonight, think about what you'd like to discuss next week. Remember, it is your time." He noticed where she was looking and gestured to the roses in his hand. "They are for a lady I'm currently seeing, a Ms. Duberry." Rachel stared at the roses, and said nothing. Her thoughts lingered for a moment on Margie's rosebeds, and the times Michael had returned home holding a bouquet of flowers to his chest. He had always bought his at the flower shop down the street. Rachel wordlessly picked five of the peach and blood carnations and wrapped their stems in a piece of Kleenex from her purse.

Their next meeting took place the following week, as scheduled. Once again, Rachel arrived before Dr. Lecter had finished with his patient of the hour previous, and once again, Dr. Lecter's first view of her was of her placing the bracelets back in her purse. This time as they shook hands, Rachel's grip was firm. Her hands were still.

Dr. Lecter held the door open for her and made a grandiose sweep with his arm. Rachel walked into the office for the second time, seeing it truly for the first time. She could make out several antiques in the display case on the wall now. There were quite a few carved specimens of petrified wood as well as replicas of famous paintings, that, by peering closely, Rachel suspected Dr. Lecter had painted himself. In front of the paintings were placed other antiques that were indistinguishable to her from this distance. Dr. Lecter was still standing by the door, and Ariadne came around the side of the couch and sat down on the edge. Dr. Lecter closed the door.

"You have some impressive paintings, Doctor."

Dr. Lecter smiled as he walked over the carpet to sit in the chair across from the couch. "Thank you. There are more at my house. Perhaps you could see them sometime." Without elaborating, he opened her file and stared at the first sheet without really seeing anything. "Tell me things, Ariadne."

"Quid pro quo, Doctor."

Dr. Lecter raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"Something for something else."

"I was quite aware of the meaning." He looked at her and she met his gaze steadily. "Hmmm…so be it then. But I must ask you to speak first."

Nervousness drained out of her face to be replaced with relief and another emotion that she had not felt for five years, intellectual playfulness. Here was a worthy and willing adversary. "Go Doctor."

"What is your worst memory of childhood?"

She nearly laughed. So much for starting with the easy questions. "The death of my father." She did not wait for him to speak again but continued. "I don't remember it much, but it certainly affected the rest of my childhood a lot. My mother wasn't the most coherent form of company, and I fear I spent too much of my childhood pretending I was somewhere and someone else. I'm still trying to decide whether I regret that or not."

"You're very frank, Ariadne."

"Quid pro quo. Tell me about this Ms. Duberry…"

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She thought she had been ready to see him again. Her fingers dug into the damp soil under the birch tree and unearthed a small yellow flower. It was just a weed; she didn't know its name. She looked up; Dr. Lecter had not moved from where he stood. A hot wave of anger rushed through her and she nearly stood up. How dare he? How could he stand there and feel nothing? She slumped back into her sitting position. No, she mustn't do this. She mustn't start regretting now. What she had done had given her freedom such as she had never felt before, yet it had not come without a price. She looked toward him again, not using the binoculars this time but looking at him and trying to match it with what she once knew. She wondered what he was thinking now. She wondered if he remembered as much as her, or regretted as much.

They had continued this arrangement for months, exchanging information, useless mainly. She told him about her childhood, leaving out names and places whenever possible. She had learned a lot about her namesake, Rachel DuBerry. Dr. Lecter told her about his tastes in art, music, and food. She knew quite a lot about those particular topics, and Dr. Lecter had been impressed, she thought, as they had debated the merits of Da Vinci versus Raphael. They both agreed that Emily Dickinson was overrated. Rachel did not like the way Dickinson simplified life and death into a scant amount of phrases broken by dashes. She suggested the gift that Dr. Lecter eventually bought for Ms. Duberry's birthday: a bottle of wine from the year of her birth. Michael had been puzzled by Rachel's newfound sullen attitude and prescribed various drugs produced by his pharmaceutical company.

Rachel thought she'd found a good friend. Hah. She crumbled on the earthy and leaf-strewn forest floor. Friends accepted your faults; they didn't tear them down and wave them in front of your face. Her body shook with something close to a sob. Dr. Lecter still had not moved.

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"Don't you think that it's time we stopped this, Ariadne?"

A chill seized her insides. "Stopped what?"

Dr. Lecter sighed. "Please, Ariadne. I have never insulted your intelligence, please do not insult mine. For the past few months we have been talking in circles and while that is all very interesting, you could get the same experience from a well-trained parrot. I need you to tell me what is really bothering you."

"I thought I wasn't supposed to be reduced to influences and traumas. I thought you were supposed to—."

"I am supposed to help you, Ariadne, and I cannot do that if you insist on being pigheaded and stubborn. If you don't trust me enough to tell me what's wrong, I can understand that, but then you are on your own."

The face trembled, righted itself, tried its best to keep from crumbling. Something was happening in her eyes. An odd light danced in her pupils from the war once again taking place in her ravaged mind. Letting loose a sound equally comprised of moan, gasp, and growl, she cradled her head in her hands. She wondered whether she could hold her life together if she kept pretending that she didn't understand.

I'll shove you over and break you on the rocks, that's what I'd do…

She raised her head to meet his gaze and saw in those maroon depths neither anger, ridicule, nor sympathy. Nothing but stillness and calm receptiveness. At that instant, he reminded her of the yawning mouth of a great cave. Rays of light barely penetrated the blackness before they were swallowed by the darkness. She could not know what he would do if she placed her life in his hands. She could not help but fear him then and balk at the uncertainty.

And yet…he was also human. Even with her limited perception, she could sense a self-imposed limitation to his piercing gaze. He was holding himself back from exposing every single aspect of her life. And then, she knew that he knew what was bothering her, but he would force her to tell him for her own sake.

But she could not know what he would do with her confession. Not unless she took the chance. Would he swallow it like a cave obliterating so many rays of light? Or would he present her image back for her observation, an imperfect image, like the looming reflection in the mirror of a black iron skillet? She would not know what to do with such a gift-curse if he presented such to her.

Ariadne told him. She told him everything as best as she could: Ergo, her mother, Margie, the roses, desperation, greed, and Michael, Michael, Michael…She tried her best to explain what she did not understand. Love…God, what was love; it occupied a place so close to hate in her heart that the two emotions mingled into a sort of mindless insanity. She was talking so fast that her sentences began running together, desperate to be divulged as quickly as possible.

Dr. Lecter stopped her then with a raised hand. She held her breath for what he would say, the anxiety weighing on her soul like a clammy fog. He said nothing she could have expected. "Ariadne, do you know what the opposite of love is?"

She was empty. The confession had taken so much out of her that the current function of her brain was little better than a child's. "I…" Something twisted inside her and she looked down at her empty hands.

Dr. Lecter spoke very slowly and calmly. "The opposite of love is not hate. The two are actually more closely related than you may think. Your feelings for the person are of the same intensity; he holds the same power over you. The opposite of love is indifference. So, know this, Ariadne. Both of you are responsible for this parasitic relationship that currently exists. But I can help you escape it, or if you prefer, I can even help you dominate it."

There appeared a dark luster in Ariadne's golden eyes. Anxiety rushed out of her body to be replaced with relief and…some other emotion, she could not yet define, but she relished its murky, rich taste and felt she could hardly breathe. She swallowed and slowly nodded.

That night, Dr. Lecter sat before his fireplace and watched Rachel Cahlin's file burn. The flickering flames were reflected as dancing stars in his darkened eyes. The papers curled in the flames and turned black. The next day, they resembled a snake's sloughed skin deposited among the ashes.

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Ariadne resumed digging her fingers into the earth. They had had their lighter times of course, but they had never been without sadness lurking just underneath. The gods must have had a sense of humor quite similar to Hannibal's own. No victory without death. No warrior without a weak heel. No hope without all the evils of the world. She questioned herself then, one time of countless instances where she ripped away her facades and carefully constructed masks and wondered if her life was worth what it was now. Ariadne smiled grimly as she drew her tongue over dry and wind-parched lips. She and Starling were more alike than the woman would ever admit. The only true difference was that Starling refused to face her fears and desires…even if doing so resulted in her death.

Standing beside the tomb, Dr. Lecter reached inside his trench coat and removed a package that crinkled when he touched it.

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"You are originally from West Virginia, yet you have no trace of an accent. How did you manage that?"

"It's hard to become familiar enough with any one language to develop its accent when you're speaking so many."

"Is that so? Do enlighten me."

A small grin appeared on her lips. "With anything?"

"Yes."

With another wicked grin, Ariadne cleared her throat and began to sing. "Oh…Volo essem weiner Oscaris Meiris. Ille est qui esse amarem. Quod si weiner Oscaris Meiris essem, omnes sint in amore mecum."

Dr. Lecter's face twisted into the most awful grimace and Ariadne disintegrated into helpless laughter. "Ariadne," he said when he had regained his power of speech, "that is nothing short of sacrilege."

Tears were streaming from her eyes as she laughed, hopelessly attempting to stop herself. "What is? Do enlighten me."

Dr. Lecter felt as if every word was being ripped from his lips. "Singing that heinous…Oscar Meyer wiener jingle in Latin…the language of scholars and—."

"Really, doctor, I'm surprised you even know the tune," she teased and grinned, "You should see the look on your face."

A wry smile. "I'm sure it's a sight to be seen."

A wistful expression, so brief it could have been imagined, flickered across Ariadne's visage before she dissolved in laughter again. She mentally berated herself for her loss of composure. After all, it was just a song. But the sheer authenticity of her joy would not let her restrain this emotion no matter how much she tried and she tried but could not quite feel regret for it.

Dr. Lecter watched her laugh, the first time she had ever done so in his presence, and, although he could not know, the first time in over seven years. Something buried in a dark, twisted hall of his memory palace fought its way into his eyes. The whirlpools of maroon agitated and shattered several masks that he had made for himself. For one moment, Hannibal Lecter sat defenseless, a ghost from the past branded upon his features. He was grateful that Ariadne did not see.

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The roses that Dr. Lecter held in his hand were the deep rich color of heart's blood. As she watched, the maroon of his eyes was sucked into the velvety petals, leaving him pale and empty. She nearly turned away; she did not wish to see him like this.

Forcing himself to walk towards the tomb, Dr. Lecter stepped forward and laid the flowers at the base of the black marble, just below the neat chiseled words:

MICHAEL BERMUDA (1945-1980)

RACHEL BERMUDA (1955-1980)

THEIR HAPPINESS STOLEN BY CRUEL FATE

RESPECTED, LOVED, AND HONORED BY ALL WHO KNEW THEM

There was something indescribable in his face, Ariadne could see it, and it frightened her like nothing ever had. He turned as quickly as he had moved, sinking his hands back into his pockets as he made his way down the hill and out of sight. A harsh gust of wind tore through the trees, thrashing the branches and tearing dead leaves as they leapt from the trampled ground. The wind drowned out the bugle still playing taps as well as the thin scream rising from the trees to be lost in the roaring air and scudding clouds.

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