Post for 10/29

This scene is a re-write of Charlotte's finding of Humbert's writings.

Mystery, that's all those Europeans are, is mystery. He won't let me in. I will let myself in. I want to see what's in that big European head of his. Hum called them locked up love letters. I know better. I know better. He starts sweating when he lies. He's not a very good liar. He always ends his lies with the twinge of a smile. It's as though he thinks he got away with it. He must have some self-doubt. He must believe on some fundamental level that he's a good liar. Well, if not on a fundamental level, then at least on some level. He's a horrible liar. You'd think a European, you'd think he'd be more intelligent, more cultured. Maybe he is. Maybe he's writing about his cultured things. Maybe he's writing in French. Ah! There's the key. Okay, and now to open the table. Papers. Okay. Oh my god. "The Haze woman. The fat old Haze woman." I'm furious. I can't imagine. Why on earth would he write this? Jesus. He's in love with Lo. No, this isn't love. This is something else. Oh, my. He comes in, with his wheezing breath. I turn to him, and I yell.

"The Haze woman, the big bitch, the old cat, the obnoxious mamma, the--the old stupid Haze is no longer your dupe. She has--she has had enough. I've had enough of you, I've had enough of your lies! I've had enough of Dolores, that insufferable little girl you say you're in love with. I know it's not love. It can't be love. I know things are different in Europe, but this is America. We don't let our fathers touch their daughters! I won’t let you near her again, you big brute!"

"My dear," he says, “come here, and we’ll talk about it.”

“You’re a monster. You’re a detestable, abominable, criminal fraud. If you come near—I’ll scream out the window. Get back!” He tries to come near me. As if one of his disgusting sloppy kisses would change things.

“You’re the monster,” he mutters. I pretend not to hear.

“I am leaving tonight. This is all yours. Only you’ll never never see that miserable brat again.” He left, and I place a call to Leslie Tomson.

“Leslie, could you please call my home and tell my husband that I’m dead?”

“Who is this?”

“Charlotte Haze.”

“Oh. Yes. I suppose I can.”

“Thank you, goodbye.” I hang up, and open the sideboard. There is a replica of me. If Humbert can make up his Quilty, then I can have a wax replica. I run into the street, stand her up, and run, with my bag. Someone will hit her soon enough.