The Collector of Names Read Online Free Page A

bottom step she looked back once more. The morning sun fought its way through the window and its first conquest was the large tablecloth in the corner, covering the boxes, containing mainly souvenirs from her husband's diplomatic life.
    That window and the nosy village boys. Who knows what they had seen and what they would tell in the village. Would they believe them? Would they come in the night and set fire to the house? Would they try to kill her child?
    She added the last bit of protection that was in her limited power: she knelt on the fourth step, bent her head, touched the wood with her forehead, sensed him and then reached deep inside between her legs with her hand, dampened her fingers and used them to write that name on the step. With letters which were immediately absorbed by the wood. Maybe it would help, but only against the weaker ones.
    She looked at the wooden box - one of many - and sighed.
    "I have carried out my duty, now it's not up to me anymore," she told herself. "I just have to make sure it's dark in here but the rest is out of my hands."
    She closed the cellar door carefully and locked it. She checked that it was really locked. She put the key inside her clothes and the coolness of it refreshed her. It seemed so real - and most importantly - unplanned and unanticipated. Everything else had gone exactly according to plan and - was it really possible? - could she really be craving sensations which would slow her down, break her concentration and convince her that she was still alive?
    She picked up the wooden planks and tools prepared in advance and boarded up the outside of the cellar windows so that the sun could not reach the resting place. Should she have done it before the ritual? Was that her mistake, had she relied too much on the remoteness and isolation of the place?
    She returned to the kitchen and put on Greta's apron, deliberately the wrong way round. She did not tie the ribbons, she sewed them together with a shoemakers thread. Then she opened the cupboard containing weights and carefully divided them among the various apron pockets.
    She locked the front door and hung the key on the hook by the door-frame.
    Whoever came, they would not have to break in.
    The sky was completely clear and she turned her face towards the pale sun, which was pretending to be weak when in a few hours it would burn mercilessly. In a few hours, she thought, a few hours after her.
    She took a deep breath and started walking towards the sea with her eyes closed. When she passed the last stones and felt the sand under her feet she looked at the horizon. The last bits of white mist were dissolving above the water. The surface of the sea was completely smooth. She did not disturb it with a heavy step, she melted into it with a slow movement and broke the stillness stretching out to where the sea touched the sky.
Suddenly she heard a voice in her head, more a feeling than a voice.
Darkness, loneliness, fear, Mama!
Without stopping, she sent him a message:
"Be quiet, lie there and wait. They will come and then you will get up."
    The sensation passed. How many more times would he have to nearly wake up in all those years of waiting? All alone? Buried? Melted?
    The water covered the top of her dress, surrounded her neck, drowned her mouth, eyes, head. She did not stop walking.
    She could picture herself all puffed up with decay, floating towards her home, into the warmer seas and their stronger currents and she let go.
    For ever.

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    1
    "You'll die tonight, guys!"
    Max smiled the smile of an experienced sinner who had not only survived Sodom and Gomorra but had long ago surpassed it. As usual, the smile moved via Samo to Alfonz's awkward attempt and even Raf made the effort but so belatedly that he decided to get up, mumbling something about going to the toilet and walking off down the deck with quick steps.
    In the narrow passage between the restaurant and outer rail of the ferry he slowed down, glanced back -