He stopped her with his upraised hand. The hand was shapely, she noted, and the middle finger perfectly replicated. It is the rarest form of polydactyly.
When he spoke again, his tone was soft and pleasant.
“You’d like to quantify me, Officer Starling. You’re so ambitious, aren’t you? Do you know what you look like to me, with your good bag and your cheap shoes? You look like a rube. You’re a well-scrubbed, hustling rube with a little taste. Your eyes are like cheap birthstones— all surface shine when you stalk some little answer. And you’re bright behind them, aren’t you? Desperate not to be like your mother. Good nutrition has given you some length of bone, but you’re not more than one generation out of the mines, Officer Starling. Is it the West Virginia Starlings or the Okie Starlings, Officer?
It was a toss-up between college and the opportunities in the Women’s Army Corps, wasn’t it? Let me tell you something specific about yourself, Student Starling. Back in your room, you have a string of gold add-abeads and you feel an ugly little thump when you look at how tacky they are now, isn’t that so? All those tedious thank-yous, permitting all that sincere fumbling, getting all sticky once for every bead. Tedious. Tedious. Bo-o-o-o-r-i-ing. Being smart spoils a lot of things, doesn’t it? And, taste isn’t kind. When you think about this conversation, you’ll remember the dumb animal hurt in his face when you got rid of him. “If the add-a-beads got tacky, what else will as you go along? You wonder don’t you, at night?” Dr. Lecter asked in the kindest of tones.
Starling raised her head to face him. “You see a lot, Dr. Lecter. I won’t deny anything you’ve said. But here’s the question you’re answering for me right now, whether you mean to or not: Are you strong enough to point that high-powered perception at yourself? It’s hard to face. I’ve found that out in the last few minutes. How about it? Look at yourself and write down the truth. What more fit or complex subject could you find? Or maybe you’re afraid of yourself.”
“You’re tough, aren’t you, Officer Starling?”
“Reasonably so, yes.”
“And you’d hate to think you were common. Would’nt that sting? My! Well you’re far from common, Officer Starling. All you have is fear of it. What are your add-a-beads, seven millimeter?”
“Seven.”
“Let me make a suggestion. Get some loose, drilled tiger’s eyes and string them alternately with the gold beads. You might want to do two-and-three or one-and-two, however looks best to you. The tiger’s eyes will pick up the color of your own eyes and the highlights in your hair. Has anyone ever sent you a Valentine?”
“Yep.”
“We’re already into Lent. Valentine’s Day is only a week away, hmmmm, are you expecting some?”
“You never know.”
“No, you never do… I’ve been thinking about Valentine’s Day. It reminds me of something funny. Now that I think of it, I could make you very happy on Valentine’s Day, Clarice Starling.”
“How, Doctor Lecter?” “By sending you a wonderful Valentine. I’ll have to think about it. Now please excuse me. Good-bye, Officer Starling.”
“And the study?”
“A census taker tried to quantify me once. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a big Amarone. Go back to school, little Starling.” Hannibal Lecter, polite to the last, did not give her his back.
He stepped backward from the barrier before he turned to his cot again, and lying on it, became as remote from her as a stone crusader lying on a tomb. Starling felt suddenly empty, as though she had given blood.
"Silence of the Lambs" by Thomas Harris. St. Martin's Press, New York, 1989, ©1988