That Lana reacted so violently to the earring suggests she already secretly suspected the affair. Don’t you think?
She just didn’t want to admit it to herself.
Well, now she had no choice.
13
This brings us neatly back to that night in my flat. The night Lana came over, distraught, having found the earring.
She sat across from me in the armchair; red-eyed, tearstained, vodka soaked. She told me about her suspicions that Jason and Kate were sleeping together. I confirmed her fears, saying I suspected it, too.
I was feeling triumphant. My plan had worked. It was hard to conceal my excitement. It took an effort not to smile. But my elation was short-lived.
When I tactfully suggested that Lana would now be leaving Jason, she looked mystified.
“Leaving him? Who said anything about leaving him?”
Now it was my turn to look mystified. “I don’t see what other option you have.”
“It’s not so simple, Elliot.”
“Why not?”
Lana looked at me, eyes full of baffled tears, as if the answer were blindingly obvious.
“I love him,” she said.
I couldn’t believe it. Staring at her, I realized to my increasing horror that all my efforts had been in vain. Lana wasn’t going to leave him.
I love him.
I had a sick feeling in my stomach, as if I were going to throw up. I had been wasting my time. Lana’s words crushed all my hopes. She wasn’t going to leave him.
I love him.
I clenched my hand into a fist. I’d never felt so angry before. I wanted to hit her. I wanted to punch her. I felt like screaming.
But I didn’t. I sat there, looking sympathetic, and we continued talking. The only outward sign of my distress was the clenched fist by my side. The whole time we talked, my mind was racing.
I understood my mistake now. Unlike her husband, Lana clearly meant her vows. Until death do us part. Lana might well cut Kate out of her life, but she wasn’t about to relinquish Jason. She would forgive him. It would take more than the revelation of an affair to end their marriage.
If I wanted to get rid of Jason, I had to go much further. I had to destroy him.
Finally, Lana drank herself into oblivion and passed out on my couch. I went to the kitchen, to make a cup of tea—and to think. While I waited for the kettle to boil, I daydreamed about sneaking up behind Jason, armed with one of his own guns, pointing it at him—and blowing his brains out. I felt a sudden rush of excitement as I imagined this; a weird, perverse feeling of pride; the way you feel standing up to a bully—which is exactly what Jason was.
Unfortunately, it was just a fantasy. I’d never go through with it. I knew I’d never get away with it. I had to think of something cleverer than that. But what?
Our motivation is to remove pain, Mr. Valentine Levy said.
He was right. I had to take action—otherwise I’d never be free of this pain. I was in such pain: believe me, I felt so close to despair, standing there in the kitchen at 3:00 A.M. I felt thwarted. Vanquished.
But, no—not entirely vanquished.
For thinking about Mr. Levy had sparked an association in my mind. The beginnings of an idea.
If this were a play, I suddenly thought, what would I do?
Yes—what if I were to approach my dilemma in those terms—as if I were staging a theatrical work—a drama?
If this were a play I was writing, and these were my characters, I’d use my knowledge of them to predict their actions—and provoke their reactions. To shape their destiny, without them knowing it.
Could I not, similarly, in real life, contrive a series of events that would—without me lifting a finger—end in Jason’s death? Why not? Yes, it was risky and might well fail—but that element of danger is what live theater is all about, isn’t it?
My only hesitation in this was Lana. I didn’t want to lie to her. But I decided—and judge me harshly for this if you like—that it was for her own good.
After all, what was I doing? Nothing but freeing the woman I loved from a faithless, dishonest criminal—and replacing him with a decent, honest man. She would be so much better off without him. She would be with me.
I sat down at my desk. I switched on the green lamp. I pulled out my notebook from the top drawer. I opened it and turned to a fresh page. I reached for a pencil, sharpened it—and I began to plot it out.
As I wrote, I could sense Heracleitus standing above me, watching over my shoulder, nodding with approval. For even though my plan went so wrong, even though it ended in such disaster, there—in the designing of the plot, in its conception—it was beautiful.