Heaven Has No Favorites: A Novel Read Free Page A

over to him. “The Crocodile doesn’t want to let me out any more,” she said softly. “She says I shouldn’t have gone for a drive and she’ll have to report me to the Dalai Lama if I do it again.…”
    She stopped. “This is my friend Clerfayt, Lillian,” Hollmann said. “I’ve told you about him. He’s paying me a surprise visit.”
    The woman nodded absently. She seemed not to have recognized Clerfayt, and turned to Hollmann again. “She wants me to go to bed,” she said angrily. “Just because I had a little fever a few days ago. But I’m not letting her keep me locked up. Not tonight! Are you staying up?”
    “Yes. We’re eating in Limbo.”
    “I’ll come, too.”
    She nodded to Clerfayt and Hollmann, and left.
    “It must sound like Tibetan to you,” Hollmann said. “Limbo is our name for the room where guests can eat. The Dalai Lama is the doctor, of course, and the Crocodile the head nurse.…”
    “And the woman?”
    “Her name is Lillian Dunkerque. Half Belgian, half Russian. Lost both her parents in the war.”
    “She seems awfully worked up about nothing.”
    Hollmann gave a shrug. Suddenly he looked weary. “I’ve told you that everybody here is a little off his rocker. Especially when there’s been a death in the place.”
    “There’s been a death?”
    “Yes, a friend of hers. Just yesterday. It doesn’t really concern therest of us, but something of ours always dies, too. A bit of hope, probably.”
    “Yes,” Clerfayt said. “But that’s so everywhere.”
    Hollmann nodded. “People start dying here as spring approaches. More than in winter. Odd, isn’t it?”

Chapter Two
    ABOVE THE FIRST FLOOR , the sanatorium no longer looked like a hotel; it was unmistakably a hospital. Lillian Dunkerque stood in front of the room that had been Agnes Somerville’s. She heard voices and noise, and opened the door.
    The coffin was no longer there. The windows were wide open, and two cleaning women were going over the room. The floor was wet; everything smelled of Lysol and soap; the furniture had been pushed into one corner, and the electric light fell with an even glare over every feature of the room.
    For a moment, Lillian thought she had entered the wrong room. Then she noted the small plush bear which had been the dead woman’s mascot. It was lying on top of a wardrobe. “Has she already been taken away?” she asked.
    One of the cleaning women straightened up. “She’s been moved to Number Seven. We have to clean up here. They need it for a new patient tomorrow.”
    “Thank you.”
    Lillian closed the door. She knew Number Seven; it was a small room next to the freight elevator. The dead were put there becausethey could then be conveniently carried down in the elevator at night. Like luggage, Lillian thought. And behind them, their last traces were washed away with soap and Lysol.
    There was no light burning in Number Seven. Nor were there any candles. The coffin had already been closed, the lid pushed down over the thin face and vivid red hair, and screwed tight. Everything was prepared for removal. The flowers had been taken away from the coffin; they lay in a canvas wrapper on a nearby table. It was a special canvas for this purpose, equipped with rings and cords for bagging up flowers. The wreaths lay alongside, piled one on top of the other, like hats in a millinery shop. The curtains had not been drawn, and the windows were open. It was very cold in the room. The moon shone in.
    Lillian had come to see her dead friend once more. It was too late. No one would ever again see the pale face and brilliant hair that had once been Agnes Somerville. Tonight the coffin would be carried down secretly and transported by sled to the crematorium. There, under the assault of the fire, it would begin to burn; the red hair would crackle once and spray sparks; the rigid body would heave up once more in the flames, as though it had come to life—and then everything would collapse into