Three months later…
All his life Hannibal Lector had possessed within him a deep appreciation for beautiful things, and so though the clock was ticking, though the appointed time for his departure was drawing near and he knew he could not afford to tarry, he lingered, soaking in the most beautiful sight in all the world.
Clarice, and naked, lying on her back beside him, sweat sparkling like diamonds scattered across her softly rounded breasts, her hair black as night and flowing round her head reminding him of nothing so much as the sea in darkness. She smelled of the sea, too, the salty sweet tang of their combined arousal smeared across them both, the air redolent with them. Her eyes were closed, her expression beatific in the aftermath of her recent pleasure, and as he lay stretched out on his side beside her Hannibal could see the gentle swell of her belly, growing slowly as their child grew slowly, nestled within the warmth and wet of her. The curvature was not particularly pronounced as yet, easily hidden beneath a flowing dress or a forgiving blouse, but it was undeniable when he saw her like this, he who knew her body so well. Idly he reached out, pressed his palm to that curve, felt the rushing of her blood beneath her veins. They had discovered the existence of the child at the beginning of December, and now they were celebrating Valentine's Day in their own way; Hannibal's calculations placed her at no more than four months gone. They had time, yet, to watch this little miracle unfolding. They had time, yet, to prepare for what was to come.
The heart, Hannibal knew, would be the first organ to develop, and the lungs would have followed after. Even now their child's heart was beating, buried there inside Clarice's body, another creature wholly separate from her, and yet wholly dependent on her, a fascinating dichotomy of need. He could not feel it, of course, the shape of the child or the beating of her heart, but he knew that she was there, just the same, cradled beneath the palm of his hand.
"You're awfully quiet," Clarice murmured into the stillness between them. Quiet was not unusual, for him or for her, particularly not when they fell together like this, sweaty and energetic and grasping until all their strength was spent, and neither was stillness; he often passed the time simply watching her, delighted by her and all her unexpected little glories. Strange, then, he thought, that she should comment on his silence; perhaps she could hear in the silence all the thoughts he had not yet spoken. He was not the only one to have made a study of his lover.
"I have an appointment," he confessed, his palm still resting against the bare skin of her stomach. "I should leave you now, but I confess I'm finding the prospect less appealing by the second."
He had to leave; his purpose had been laid before him, a course of action chosen, and if he dallied here too long, and missed his opportunity, it would be weeks before the chance would present itself again. Chaos, again; his purpose this night would indelibly change the course of several lives, unless the beauty of his wife compelled him to remain in his bed rather than going out into the world as he intended. A woman's beauty had become a literal matter of life and death, and fate was to be decided not by his own calculating mind but by the beating of his heart and the desire of his flesh, and the warmth of her smile. A precious thing, then, the beauty of a woman.
"I don't want you to leave," she said, pouting, reaching out to run her hand over his hair gently, affectionately.
"No, I don't imagine that you do."
But if I am to prepare a place for Mischa there are things that I must do, and this is first among them.
"I'll bring you back a treat," he told her, kissing the curve of her bare shoulder before at last he tore himself away from her side, rolled to his feet and went to dress himself. A black suit, Italian, neat, with a black tie, and a black pocket square, shiny black shoes and silver cuff links, a silver tie clip to match; he would look, he thought, like a man going to a funeral. How very apt.
"Facturas?" she asked, hopeful. She'd developed a taste for the little pastries, and her husband did take such pleasure in indulging her.
"It's a surprise," he told her, smiling. And it would be, he thought, quite a surprise indeed.
Hannibal was not opposed, as it were, to the display of affection among lovers; he had wooed his wife with gifts, understood well the importance of timing and occasion, and took pleasure in observing the rites of their romance, however unusual it might have been. Her birthday he marked with some pomp and delight, but Valentine's Day itself held no particular significance for him, or for his Clarice; they were not given much to bouts of sentiment. She felt his love of her in the touch of his hand against her skin, in the brush of his lips against her own, in the meals that he prepared for her, in the languid conversations they shared of an evening, and he much preferred reminding her of her revered place within his heart in moments that were unique to them both, and not only on the days when societal pressure dictated that he must. So then it had not wounded Clarice, to watch him leaving her alone on Valentine's Day; she had, in fact, been half asleep by the time he dressed and slipped from their room. Sated, perhaps, he had thought with a smile; he had left her with his love her painted across her pale thighs, and quite enjoyed the image of her lying stretched out on their bed, a goddess violated and ecstatic in her violation. A pleasant vision, to accompany him as he feet carried him away from their manse, and into the city, to a hard wooden pew in the back of a half-empty cathedral.
Though the Roman Catholic Church had removed Saint Valentine's feast from their calendar in the late 1960s his name still echoed round the globe, and it struck Hannibal as amusing, on this particular day, that while the Church had stepped away from him still people chose to celebrate the cause of love, and romance, with such enthusiasm. The Church, it seemed, did not have a monopoly on love. Would the homily this evening center on love? Hannibal asked himself, gazing round the cathedral at the half-formed faces of the congregation, gathered in that place to hear the words of the visiting Archbishop. Would the Archbishop speak of the dutiful wife, the steadfast husband, the unity of souls and the binding nature of the contract between them? It seemed to Hannibal a rather pedestrian choice, if that were the case.
Whatever the topic Hannibal would listen in rapt attention, rising and falling in time to the preordained calls of the service. It was only polite, to know what was expected of him in any given social situation, and the Church was no different; he would comport himself with dignity and draw no attention to himself. It would not do, to flub his lines or miss a step; he must be invisible tonight, and he had taken pains to ensure that he would be, in his plain suit, with his plainest shoes, sitting well back from the flickering lights of the sconces.
Despite the unexpected delay of his wife's allure he had arrived at the venue somewhat ahead of schedule, and so had a few moments simply to sit, and once more walk through the steps of the evening in his mind. Here he would sit, and there he would stand, and when the service was through he would depart through that door, and there he would wait, in silence, until the moment had come to fulfill his purpose.
The purpose that so consumed him this evening was not one of righteousness, nor one of caprice, was neither selfish nor malignant. It was instead practical; his efforts here this evening would be almost janitorial in nature. He had come to cleanse, and so prepare the way for the one who was to come. As John the Baptist in the desert, so come I, to prepare a path for the one who would follow after me. A merry thought.
It was quite simple. Mischa had been taken from him once, by the forces of war and the selfish needs of man, by men who should have protected the weak, and yet preyed upon them. Now that he believed the time had come for her return to the world he thought it prudent to do his part to remove such men from her path. In a world of his own making, where every moment unfolded according to his own desires and his own well-laid plans, Hannibal would remain with Mischa for every moment of her life, from her birth through her formative years, guiding her, protecting her, shaping her, until she was at last strong enough to face the world on her own. Such grace was not guaranteed to him, however. It was not impossible that he might be taken from her; a careless driver, an earthquake, fire, famine, flood, perhaps his own hubris laying him low and seeing him returned to America in chains. He would do whatever he could to protect her, but in the event he was taken from her, the world must be made safe for her.
And so he had sat down one evening while Clarice slept, and stared into the gloom, and asked himself what would be the greatest threats to his child, to Mischa, should he no longer be able to protect her. Drawing on the knowledge he had gleaned during the course of his residency in this particular corner of the world he had compiled a list within his mind. Politicians who championed causes that placed undue burdens on widows and orphans, clergymen whose houses of refuge were places of grief rather than security, saber-rattling generals baying for blood, a policeman or two, Ardelia Mapp, the only person remaining besides Hannibal himself who knew Clarice Starling well. He had studied those names in the vaults of his mind, pondered their habits and localities, and tried to determine the means by which he might eliminate them, and secure a more comfortable future for Mischa. Some would prove more difficult to reach than others, and so he had resigned himself to starting small, as it were.
Starting here, starting now, with an Archbishop who was reputed to be a pedophile. The Archbishop had made the orphans of Buenos Aires his cause du juor, but rumors of his behavior had reached the ears of the Dottore, and vengeance was coming for him. It might have suited the Church to sweep the Archbishop's misdeeds beneath the rug, to purchase the silence of the press and the leniency of the authorities, but they could not hide him from Hannibal.
I shall be as an avenging angel, he thought to himself, smiling. A blasphemous thought to have in a church, no doubt, but no lightning came to strike him for his momentary whimsy. He was no more angel than he was devil, no more divinely appointed than he was possessed by evil. He was simply a man who loved his child; were not all fathers the same?
Somewhere a chorister had begun to sing, and Hannibal turned his attention to the altar. The niceties must be observed; he would hear the word of the Lord, and then unleash his own retribution upon the gravest of sinners.