From the sky, a single snowflake drifted down. He went across the yard to the Land Rover and got in. He put the shotgun on the passenger seat. Then he started the engine and backed out and drove with the headlights off down the pale serpentine road.

XI

Most people think there’s right and wrong and good and bad, or at least some form of it. I said that once before. I don’t know if it’s true. I wish I did. But for him there’s no right and wrong in this world, and that’s the thing I’m getting at. His eyes aren’t like yours. They don’t see what you see. You can’t look in those eyes and understand. I think sometimes I want to understand, but mostly I don’t. I can’t fathom him. It’s a simple fact. And if you tried, I think you’d risk your soul.

I don’t try. I never will.

People will tell you the devil’s a liar. They say he was from the start. The father of lies and all that stuff. But I don’t believe it. No. He tells the truth. You wouldn’t think you could be fooled with the truth. But you can.

Living with the devil.

It is not an easy thing to do.

Ava stands in the dim hallway in her favorite nightgown. She holds a stuffed animal: a little monkey with brown fur. In front of her, the bathroom door is open just a sliver, and behind the sliver a shadow moves dark and softly quick, sliding across the morning light. She watches the shadow. She can hear him in there, can hear water running. She thinks about what to do, and then she decides. She walks to the door. Making her bare feet quiet on the shag carpet. The top of her head just reaches the knob. She peeks through the sliver.

Fresh rays of sunlight fall in slants from the window. Bardem stands in front of the mirror, filling the sink with water. His face is bloody. He holds a washcloth to his head, above his right eye. Blood on the cloth. Blood all over his shirt. He unbuttons the shirt with his free hand and takes it off and folds it lengthwise and drapes the shirt over the shower rod above the bathtub. He turns off the water.

Ava watches. She sees things about him.

His darkness.

How the air hushes all around him.

He removes the washcloth. His face is cut and bleeding bad. The swollen gash curves down his forehead and over his cheek. It looks like a snake. He sponges water into the wound. Blood pinks away and surges up, dark red.

She holds her monkey. He hasn’t seen her.