"Well, now that I have divulged my identity to you, would you permit me to ask your name?" The two of them sat across from one another on opposite heads of a large dinner table.
"Katy Opiela."
"Katy Opiela…you are Polish?"
"Yes. My mother and I moved to the United States after my father died."
"In the war?"
Katy
nodded. "My mother became very sick and died when I was six. I was
moved to an orphanage in Maine. I ran away, and when I was fourteen,
I was kidnapped by some men who ran a…business. They gave us food
and shelter in exchange for selling ourselves to strange men.
"A few women and I, we managed to run away a couple of months ago. I lived on the street, stealing food and wallets." Hannibal noticed her eyes had gotten shiny. "I don't even know why I'm telling you all this, I just-" she stopped and looked down at her plate, holding half an omelet and two strips of bacon. A small silence followed, only broken by the soft clink of silverware.
Katy composed herself and continued. "I forgot to thank you for saving me." She paused. "Dr…Lecter, how – what happened to me?"
He looked up from his plate. Dr. Lecter noticed her dress was extremely, perhaps vulgarly low-cut, the preference of the men she mentioned, he guessed.
"I was returning from a pleasant afternoon's shopping, and you were lying unconscious on the side of the road. I brought you here, and learned that you had contracted hypothermia, as well as a sprained ankle.
"I gave you a bath to circulate your blood flow, a shot of antibiotics, and put you to rest. I'm sorry to say I could not warn you about soreness in the morning."
Everything came back. The running, the cold. She was running from the man she stole the wallet from. I swear it's only lukewarm. It was not a fire at all. It was water. And those walls… a tub. Of course. The thing in his hands was a rag, he was rubbing her arms to warm the blood.
A clatter of dishes brought her back to the present. Dr. Lecter was collecting the dirty dishes among the table. She stood and reached for a fork, but his elegant, long-fingered hand brushed hers away. Oddly, she felt a slight shiver at his touch. Dr. Lecter impossibly seemed to notice this, and without turning his head, glanced at her with a ghost of a smile.
"No, no, you are the guest. If you wish to explore my home, you are free to do so. But of course, if you are still fatigued, you may retire to your bedroom. May I ask that you not enter the room adjacent to the upstairs washroom."
"Thank you for…everything." She felt her face warm slightly. Hannibal bowed slightly, courteously from the waist, never breaking eye contact, then retreated to the kitchen.
Katy slowly made her way back to the bedroom. Stopping to observe artwork on the walls, she felt as if she were in a museum. But yet she didn't. The large house had more…substance than a museum. She couldn't quite place it. It wasn't warmth…just a feeling of general good nature and cleanliness. And taste. Oh my, yes. Yet somehow she felt uncomfortable standing in this vast living room alone, so she did not stay long. Stopping again only to touch the frame of the pencil and charcoal drawing with her index finger gently, she climbed the staircase and closed the door behind her as she entered the bedroom.
Hannibal Lecter watched her, standing still in the open kitchen entrance.
In spite of himself, Hannibal cannot help admiring the way how the precise length of the stems of flowers in the vases (that he cut himself) compliments the shape and space of the room. Every surface, color and object seems to blend together in a most intriguing fashion. He is fascinated by different sizes, light and shadow playing together. He enjoys color, and dislikes the homes which are inhabited by lifeless white walls. It reminds him of barracks.
He silently stands in place, hands at his sides, watching as this Katy Opiela climbs his elegant curved staircase, taking in the art on the way up. He ponders her as his eyes linger on the spot where the bottom of her dress flutters around the corner and out of sight.