A Killer's Game

by Luca Tahtieazym

  Sometimes when I stumble across a female customer who stirs something within me, I have to curb my instincts. I imagine her unblemished skin yielding to me. I picture Patroclus mutilating her flesh, but I think you understand by now how cautious I am. I never choose a woman I know to be my canvas, even if there’s only the slightest association. It would be too dangerous. Nothing must link me to the victims.

  This is how I always work: I cross a woman’s path; I follow her; I get to know her. I try to happen upon her in a state of undress – not naked, you understand, simply undressing – to ensure that the texture and tone of her skin are right for my forthcoming work of art.

  And how does my art come into being? It’s simple enough. I travel throughout France. I know Germany, Belgium and the Netherlands well, but only ever operate on home turf. As soon as I see a particular landscape or monument that I’d like to recreate, I store it in my inner filing cabinet, alongside the archives of my previous works. Then, wherever I happen to be, I set about finding the material with which to work – calling to mind the lines chiselled out by Antoine upon some of his more haunting pieces. The rules are set in stone: whatever monument the city is in, the canvas will inhabit that same city. That’s how it is and never any other way.

  Strasbourg. Maybe I unconsciously came here to find the one who will bear the strokes of my blade. Eight months ago, Françoise from Lille was on the receiving end of my etching of the Place du Concert, complete with its statue of Maire André. I’m still quite calm – I can wait a while longer before the tension gets too high – but I’m thinking about what comes next. For all I know, I’ve set up my professional meetings in this region with that exact objective in mind. There are some sublime landscapes in Strasbourg and the surrounding cities. I imagine Patroclus reproducing them and I smile. I have time. There’s absolutely no need to rush, but I’m a hunter and I know this is where I’ll catch my prey.

  I swallow my coffee in a couple of gulps and indicate to my host with a wave that a second one wouldn’t go amiss. He abandons whatever he’s doing and comes over. In front of me I have another fragrant Arabica, a freshly baked croissant, the regional newspaper and one of the best-selling national morning dailies. I’m at peace and my breathing is deep and rhythmic.

  The second coffee burns my throat. I push my chair back a few centimetres to make myself more comfortable then quickly flick through the regional pages. I don’t care in the slightest that the school in the next village will host an exhibition of the most beautiful drawings done by local children.

  The national pages on the other hand call out to me. Chirac will be received by King Juan Carlos in Spain; trade unionists are all set to protest in Paris against the upcoming visit to France of the President of South Africa; and here in Strasbourg, just yesterday, twenty-one European ministers met to put in place a plan to combat terrorism.

  Nothing overly exciting, but what do you expect? I keep up to date even if I know for a fact that none of this is exactly life-changing. The business section, a little further on, is of more interest to me, but I read the words with indifference. I’m just passing the time. I have only one real passion: art. Nothing in the newspapers even comes close to my . . . rather singular . . . area of particular interest.

  Today, the plan is simply to stroll around the centre of the capital of Alsace. The Christmas market hasn’t been set up yet but soon will be, and the boulevards of Strasbourg already smell of celebration. The side streets in the historic centre will be decorated with the most striking lights and garlands. It’s all done for the tourists. Those who come here do so to escape. I’ll come back to Ottrott mid-afternoon to read. I’m not particularly tired, but a few hours of doing nothing or even a short nap will put everything in order for the days to come.

  I skip a few pages and an article catches my eye concerning yesterday’s spectacular crash on the Paris Stock Exchange: 1.6 per cent of its value lost in a single day. Analysts attribute this event to Reagan’s defeat in the US election a few days ago. This information could affect me professionally but I’m not really that bothered.

  I go back to the main news stories, and this time, despite the lethargy that has me firmly in its grip, my eyes suddenly widen to such an extent that I imagine for a moment they’ll pop out of their sockets and roll across the top of the table, before banging against my cup of coffee like the balls in a pinball machine.

  Now, that’s piqued my interest. Actually, it’s much more than that. I sit up in my chair as an overwhelming panic takes hold of me. It’s desperately hard to stifle a scream, but then again, I’m on my own in the small dining area where breakfast is served. It’s almost ten in the morning and the other guests have already left. So I release my cry, give it substance, allow it to come to life and resonate, and it feels incredible. Breaking the silence like this enables me to grasp that it’s all very real.

  ‘NO!’

  It’s only a word but it changes everything. I’m no longer the idle, listless guest rocking his chair back and forth out of sheer boredom, slowly sipping his coffee, mouthful by mouthful. I’ve come to life.

  The hotelier hears me and heads over. ‘Is everything all right, Monsieur Clazay?’

  I don’t answer him and because he’s still wondering if something is wrong, he hovers. He looks down and spots the headline I’ve just come across.

  ‘Ah yes! You’ve seen it then? The bastard’s gone and killed another one! I hope they get him,’ he says.

  Honestly, I’m rendered speechless, and yet I want nothing more than to scream out the words that scratch at my vocal cords as if dusting them with pepper. I could invent a thousand barbarisms, knowing they would be unintelligible, to describe what I’m feeling. What’s happening makes no sense.

  Yes, that’s right . . . So if it makes no sense, then it can’t be real. I came back late last night. Perhaps I had a little too much to drink, which means I must still be asleep? Some nightmarish fantasy is pounding at the fringes of my consciousness and I can’t break free from its grip. Wake up, Achilles! Wake up before it consumes you. Note that I’m not only talking to myself here, but to you, dear reader.

  ‘He’s killing people all over the place, he must be a nutcase, and he’s not been around these parts yet, so the locals are on edge.’

  The words of the hotelier tear me away from the theories I’m attempting to weave despite the fear churning in my gut.

  ‘No, that’s impossible.’

  ‘What’s impossible?’

  Right. I’m going to have to face facts: I’m not having a nightmare. I’m not sleeping. I’m not dreaming. I’m actually here and all this is real. My voice is real. The man standing over me is real. My disbelief is real. My panic is real. Get a grip, Achilles. You’re not the nervous type, remember? Keep your head, for Christ’s sake!

  Realising that I’m paying him scant attention, the hotelier walks away. I read:

  Le Monde – Thursday, 6 November 1986

  MURDER IN MONTPELLIER. THE ARTIST STRIKES AGAIN.

  By Pierre Charbonneau

  A killer, who has yet to be identified, has been taking the lives of women the length and breadth of France over the past five years. He struck again for the fifth time yesterday in Montpellier.

  The mother of the latest victim, whose name has not been revealed, discovered the lifeless body of her twenty-eight-year-old daughter at her home in central Montpellier.

  She visited her youngest daughter twice a week in the flat she had occupied for the last four years. Early yesterday evening, after knocking several times and receiving no response, she used her key to enter the scene of this tragic crime. As she came face to face with the girl’s bloodless corpse she collapsed.

  Upon regaining consciousness, she contacted the police who immediately took action and cordoned off the area.

  According to a source close to the investigation, the murderer is believed to have committed his crime in the early afternoon. Initial findings suggest that the person responsible
may well be the killer known as ‘The Artist’, wanted for four murders scattered across the country. His last act of violence took place in Lille only eight months ago.

  The Artist has yet to be identified and clues collected by the investigating team are thin on the ground. With obvious ingenuity, this man leaves barely a trace of evidence in his wake. He seems capable of waiting patiently for several months between attacks, before killing again, with no apparent motive but the utmost brutality.

  The mysterious assailant’s nickname derives from the fact that after killing and bleeding his victims, he draws inspiration from his current location to etch picture-postcard landscapes onto their bodies with a blade.

  The first reported crime – although it remains possible that several deaths with little media coverage are still to be attributed to him – was committed in Bayonne on 11 May 1981. The Artist next struck in Les Sables-d’Olonne in 1983, in Lyon in 1984 and then on 4 March of this year in Lille.

  A dedicated unit has been created within the Central Directorate of the Judicial Police in Paris, with four detectives assigned exclusively to the case. To date, there have been no significant leads, and the police are no nearer to bringing an end to this monster’s bloodthirsty activities [. . .]

  Did I kill someone yesterday?

  5.

  I didn’t kill anyone yesterday. I was here. My thirst for art has been working away at me for over forty years and I’m well aware of all the unfortunate outcomes that could arise along my murderous journey. The worst is also the most likely: arrest.

  I could also be killed. Anything could happen: a poorly prepared plan, something happening by pure chance, a stroke of fate. I could find myself up against the boyfriend or husband of one of my canvasses and he could get the better of me.

  I’ve considered everything. My nights are haunted by such scenarios and the reason I don’t sleep deeply is because fearing the worst allows me to anticipate it. People like me are always on the lookout – those who remain free at least, because those who make mistakes along the way sleep behind bars.

  But I have to admit that I’ve never ever imagined that I might kill a woman without actually being present. Do I have the gift of ubiquity? If only. Every time I let myself get carried away by my thirst for art, I take the time to build a solid alibi that attests to my presence hundreds of kilometres from where I do the work. I’m a master of rigour. I’m a highly cautious man.

  But this. This. I . . .

  Montpellier? Really?

  ‘What time did I leave yesterday?’ I ask the hotelier. ‘Do you remember?’

  ‘Yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, my watch isn’t working . . .’

  ‘In the middle of the morning, I think.’

  ‘And when did I get back?’

  ‘Gosh! I have no idea . . . Late, I believe. I was already in bed. Why do you ask? Is there something wrong, Monsieur Clazay?’

  ‘No, nothing . . .’

  Nothing, nothing . . . I was here, wasn’t I? I didn’t dream it. My chocolate manufacturers were with me all day. I visited their factory, had lunch with them, spent part of the afternoon discussing commission, and then I had dinner with those other customers – didn’t I? And then I went to a bar for a few beers. I came back a little drunk, but certainly not out-of-my-mind plastered. I don’t recall every detail, but if I somehow found the time to travel the eight hundred kilometres between here and Montpellier in a mere matter of hours, find a canvas, do my work, then travel eight hundred kilometres in the opposite direction to wake up in my bed here in Ottrott, I’d certainly remember that.

  So, first things first. Have I lost my mind? Have I lost my memory? Can I now kill faster than my own shadow?

  Well, I’m not schizophrenic. Believe me, this Montpellier hit was not of my doing. I admit to my dark side fairly easily, don’t I? You, the reader of this, are an objective witness to the fact.

  Another possibility is that it’s an error. A simple mistake. Some lunatic accidentally killed a woman and had a bit of fun with his knife. The investigators have simply confused the modus operandi and assigned me a new victim. If I’m right about this, then it’ll only take a few days for the forensic team working on the young woman’s body to quickly confirm that the slapdash killing in Montpellier has nothing at all to do with the magnificent achievements of which I am the author. Even a detective without much in the way of talent would notice a misunderstanding of this magnitude. In theory. Give it a little time and everything will be just fine.

  There’s one other possible explanation. The police – those crafty officers, whose artful cunning causes me to tremble every day at the thought of being found out – have set a trap for me. There is no victim in Montpellier and the sorry sods are trying to smoke me out by arousing my curiosity, but their traps are worthy of the Danaids’ leaky vessels: the more they place along my path, the more they waste their time.

  The bloodhounds are only doing their job, of course, but I almost wish I had an opponent that was properly worthy of me. I’m the most prudent man on earth, but although I strive to control everything to the extreme, it’s more out of principle than out of a genuine fear that I’ll be found out.

  Nevertheless, although I despise them I mustn’t underestimate them. There are hundreds of thousands of police officers in France, and I’m the most wanted killer in the country. I guess the ones they’ve put on my case didn’t come bottom of the class exactly, did they? I do hope the minister or senior official who fixed on the strategy to curtail The Artist’s career has appointed a team of sharp detectives. Anything less would show an utter lack of respect towards me.

  So what if all this is just some vain and futile kind of bait designed to push me to take ill-considered risks?

  I’m dying to pack my bags and head off to Montpellier right this minute. I want to see what’s going on, but patience is a virtue. No need to torture myself. No need to rush. Est cupiditati et ipsa tarda celeritas – ‘At the mercy of impatience, speed itself is slow’. Yes, I know, I tend to Latinise a little when the usual dull sense of anguish kicks in. It’s annoying for other people, whereas I find it most relaxing.

  So I’ll wait. This afternoon I’ll go for a long walk, and tomorrow I’ll stick to my scheduled appointments. I’ll pretend it hasn’t happened. I’ll ignore the guillotine floating over my head. No doubt I’ll learn more from the press in the coming days.

  Claire called me earlier. I was just getting out of the shower and readying myself to head into Strasbourg for dinner. She told me that an old friend of mine has come to Nice and was hoping to see me. He came to our apartment, but Claire has forgotten both his first and last names.

  I immediately think of Antoine. For no apparent reason, my thoughts have been strangely oriented towards him lately, and there’s no such thing as coincidence. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if my Pygmalion were to burst into my life again at this point. I’ll find out who this ‘friend’ is when I’m back in Nice.

  I spent the afternoon visiting a few villages around Obernai. I also took a nap and prepared for my appointments tomorrow. I’m doing what I can, but I can’t stop thinking about this whole dangerous business. I need to take my mind off it and I’m determined to have a nice evening. I have sauerkraut, a bottle of Gewürztraminer and a delicious soft Münster cheese waiting for me.

  A good evening is an evening with blue eyes, so I look for blue eyes and find them. Her name is Sandrine. She’s employed as an assistant at a wholesaler with whom I’ve been working for a couple of years. I remember spotting her last year. I contacted her earlier and she accepted my dinner invitation with enthusiasm.

  I won’t sleep with her – I have no desire for such trivialities – and no, I can see what you’re thinking, she won’t be a canvas either. She’s far too cheap and vulgar for that. A human canvas has to be frail, pale, small, but not thin. I need a body that inspires me. Ordinary skin is not good enough to have the honour of knowing Patroclus’s blade.

 
; This woman, this Sandrine, will brighten my evening with her laughter and meaningless chatter. That’s exactly what I need: some blah, blah, blah.

  I smoke a cigarette as I get dressed. I lift my chin and the smoke I exhale rushes towards the ceiling. I put on a dark blue suit but don’t bother with the stiff tie I wear during the day.

  I leave the guest house and climb into my rented Peugeot. The road to Strasbourg is short but winding.

  I meet Sandrine near the Palais Rohan and arm in arm we head down the alleyways that are home to the best restaurants in the city. I make no secret of the fact that I always dine out in this type of neighbourhood when I’m on my travels. We choose a small bistro that doesn’t look like much, but according to Sandrine offers the most authentic cuisine in the city. I’m hoping for an explosion of flavours, in fact I’m already salivating.

  Sandrine is chattering on and on. I was convinced that the frivolity of this vacuous woman who only chirps to hide her inner emptiness would stop me thinking about what’s happened. It’s not to be. My ears are under constant attack, yet my thoughts invariably turn back to Montpellier.

  ‘It’s horrible, isn’t it?’

  I haven’t been paying the slightest bit of attention to what she’s been saying, but I nod my head and barely repress a sigh.

  ‘Can you believe it?’ continues Sandrine. ‘He’s evil! He has to be found! He could be anywhere.’

  ‘Who’s evil?’

  Sandrine giggles. ‘Achilles, have you been asleep or what? I was telling you about The Artist. Did you see that he’s killed some poor woman in Montpellier now? It’s in all the papers. It’s all anyone’s talking about. I was just saying that I hope the police find him soon . . . He’s a sick man.’