Can’t get much closer to perfection than that. Such a glorious shot. He unhooks the camera from the tripod to inspect it once again on the LCD monitor, zooms in and out and navigates it in detail. The sun is already thawing into a big dark yellow stain as it prepares to sink into the hues of the waning afternoon. He sits to watch her basking in the lethargy of the impending twilight, her oversized straw hat drooping over the pale face, a few straggly locks that had come free to flutter on the mellow breeze and filter the amber light that cuts across them. Once more, the breeze turns into wind right on cue to add a dot of life to her flaming dress and flap it over the bare leg left suspended over the side of the boat. The very same effect he’d got on camera just before.

 

A mesh of frustration and bewilderment creeps in as he takes to study the lines that criss-cross the rough skin of which the palms of his hands are made. The inquiring eyes find no way of detecting in that web of chance lines, creases and furrows a scintilla of blood, even if only intangible, or metaphorical at least. Nothing. Some blood to be waved gently in the cup of his hands, that he would swerve slowly in a circular swing and then pour at his feet to let it be absorbed by the carpet. It shouldn’t last more than a few seconds before the fabric sucked it away for good. But nothing. And this eerie absence just brings up an off-putting tang of incompleteness. Death’s to be written in blood, ergo the denial of such a central link has to be felt as disconcerting. The pristine, unstained hands infer a downright off-context asymmetry that requires an unease while being taken in.

 

At first he’s struck by an overdose of doubts and looks wholly off-balance. He’d tried to be meticulous. It didn’t really seem overly complicated at the blueprint stage. He paced the house after a mirror to check the breathing. He’d ensured he could not feel her pulse and was certain there was not a hint of heartbeat left. In actual fact, he’d wasted a nonsensical amount of time just trying and convince himself that her heart could beat no more. He pressed his ear to her chest, not a hundred percent sure where best to place it. Not a sound, so he kept experimenting with different areas, though in vain. At some point he even turned her body over to stick his ear to her back. That’s what doctors do with their stethoscopes, after all. He should have thought of a stethoscope. Utter silence came from everywhere. It took its time to dawn on him that it was precisely that absence of sound he was after. The said mirror was found quickly in their room. No harm in being thorough, better safe than sorry. He glued it to her face and forced her to breathe away any residual exhalation still left within. In his keenness, he himself ended up fogging the mirror, which added to his disquiet. Eventually, after a few minutes dragged by, he convinced himself that his theorem had been proved right and had reached QED stage.

 

Time to relax, time to rest on the sofa. The only thing is this ruminating over the nagging absence of blood that can’t be pushed aside. He keeps on staring at his hands as if expecting a sudden gush any second now. It won’t come. Anyway, it’s still very early. He would have to wait for late afternoon to come before he could take her to Costa Paradiso. She’d like that, she practically revered the place.