Poisonous Kiss

by Andras Totisz

  And what could I give him in exchange? I thought of the bouncer with his tortured hand, and the name I had no time to learn from him. I thought of Frost's beautiful blonde girlfriend. I spent the morning visiting modeling agencies, trying to find her.

  I thought of Frost. I knew I'd catch him eventually. The only question was: What would I do then?

  In a half hour I was at Celia's office. She opened the door. She stood there silently, smiling at me and looking a little uncertain, a little shy and very bewitching.

  I was silent too. I found it hard to speak. I couldn't even say hello. I felt like words would sound false, forced. I slowly reached my hand toward her. Celia's eyes grew enormous, her lips parted slightly. Her face was like a mysterious, erotic mask. I was almost afraid to touch it, but I did. Her skin was soft, the mask full of life. I couldn't tell if I was caressing her, or if she was rubbing against my hand with her cheek.

  There was the sound of footsteps in the corridor. Celia's eyes were still veiled as she closed the door, smiling.

  "Come inside!" she said. That was the voice! The voice of a lover, the soft, throaty whisper. I shook like a teenage boy. I'd been hearing this voice since yesterday, it had been driving me crazy, making me forget everything else. The voice she used when she told me what to do, ordered me shamelessly, calling everything by its name, making me blush when I thought about it again.

  I followed her to the office. The waiting room was empty. There were butts in the ashtray, magazines tossed onto the table, as if there were patients waiting here just a few minutes ago. Celia must have sent them away.

  We made love on the narrow, hard divan. It was the first time I'd been here since she stopped giving me the shots. I lay there, sighing happily, my eyes closed, while Celia kissed my naked body. Her soft lips traveled slowly down from my neck. An image flashed into my mind: I thought of the other patients she has lying here, and I imagined her doing the same things with them that she does to me. I was wracked with jealousy. I opened my eyes and look down at her. I want to see her face. She felt my stare, and smiled up at me.

  Then we made love in the armchair, where I used to sit and talk about myself. Her marvelous legs straddled the arms of the chair, her head was bent back, her long neck stretched all the way out. And I knelt in front of her, as if she were a goddess I was worshipping. I did worship her.

  She couldn't stop. She wanted everything. She wanted to feel me from every direction she wanted me to have her in every possible way and position. I saw different parts of her from each position—her thighs, her cute butt, her breasts. We made love all over the room. She leaned on her desk, and looked back at me, mischievously. She made me sit on the chair and she sat on my lap. Then I stood up, holding her, while she clung to me with both arms and legs and buried her face in my shoulder.

  The room was filling up with souvenirs. I'll never come back here again without feeling their touch. Maybe she felt the same. Maybe she was so active because she wants to leave memories all over the room.

  I was the one who finally gave up, but I didn't feel guilty. She must've had half a dozen orgasms. The woman was insatiate, but she reached climax easily. When it ended, I was on top of her, my face in the carpet.

  I rose quickly and stretched myself, enjoying the feeling of my back cracking. There was a pain in my shoulder. I fingered a bruise there, trying to figure out what it was. Then I realized it was made by the punch I ducked this morning. I probably wouldn't be at this office if that blow had hit my head.

  Celia smiled at me in a strange, motherly way. Her eyes were still veiled, and she was more beautiful, more feminine than ever. But she pushed me away and showed me where the bathroom was.

  I watched as she began to turn into a psychologist again, a professional. She put some coffee on, made small talk about a book. She wanted to ease the transition between her two personalities, giving my mind time to adjust to the change. I understood why she did it, but I felt cheated.

  Then a smile, a little kiss and a caress of my cheek let me know that I didn't have to worry: The other Celia was the real one. She had me fooled for a second, I felt like a sucker but I didn't care. She could make me believe anything she wanted.

  But she did want to get down to business—the business of helping me. She sat behind her desk slowly drinking her coffee. Her nice eyes became sad.

  "Something happened, didn't it?"

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  "I fell in love with you."

  She reddened. It was hard to keep from jumping up and holding her, kissing her face and saying gentle things.

  But I stood still. I knew, I could feel, that she didn't want me to hug her now. She didn't answer, just looked down, and I saw the fine china trembling in her hand. What did I expect? That she would declare her love, too?

  I started to tell her, feeling a little embarrassed and a little angry:

  "This morning I visited the bouncer from the Rumball …"

  She didn't interrupt, just looked at me with big, innocent eyes. She didn't take notes, she could tell I wouldn't like it. She just listened to me, absent-mindedly turning the pencil with her slim fingers. I let the whole pitiful story pour out of me, including my running away, the injured man I left behind and the girl I had considered picking up. I shook my head as I finish.

  "I really don't know why I trouble you with this."

  She broke her silence at last.

  "You're not troubling me." She leaned toward me across the table, and her voice is serious. "Did you feel sick?"

  "No."

  "Sweaty, shaking …?"

  "Nothing."

  "Fear?"

  I thought a moment. It had flashed into my mind once or twice that this whole episode might have a tragic ending, but these thoughts had disappeared as quickly as they came, without leaving any real impression.

  "No," I answered, feeling certain.

  "Anger?"

  I didn't answer. I stood up, went round the desk and grabbed her shoulders. She stared up at me with a frightened look. She was afraid of me. I hear my voice cracking.

  "What happened to me?" I asked her, or maybe myself. "I was never like this. What about the neighbor who attacked me? He had no way of knowing I'm a cop …I can still remember the sound of his wife crying, and it doesn't bother me. I have no real qualms about any of it. I don't like it, but I'm not really upset either." I realized I was squeezing Celia's shoulders, but I couldn't seem to loosen my grip. I held on to her, I needed her. "What happened to me, Celia? You ought to know. You know something. You're very anxious about me. I can see it. That was the reason you sent your patients away and told me to come at once. Not because you wanted to make love."

  She took my hand gently and I felt my fingers slowly relaxing. She stood up too, and embraced me. But this time all I wanted was an answer. I pushed her away. I paced the room, full of nerves, and—maybe by pure chance—she began to speak just when I stepped on the exact spot where I had reached the peak of pleasure only thirty minutes before. I stopped short and stood with my back to her as I listened.

  "I believe your problem may involve a split personality."

  My stomach was in a knot. It was the kind of feeling a person gets when they're told they're incurable. But I was healthy.

  "It must be a result of the shock," she explained behind my back. "Your partner's death was a terrible trauma. You blamed yourself. You were eaten up by guilt. You naturally have more empathy than most people. You're full of love and compassion toward the world. Then comes a tragedy like this. The more you thought about it the more it hurt. So time couldn't heal your mental wound, it only made it worse. Your mind was caught in a downward spiral that would have destroyed you if you didn't stop it."

  "What stopped it?" I turned back and looked at her, full of doubt.

  "Your mind found a way out. It's a disease but it's also a way out. The instinct of self-preservation awakened your latent anger and aggressiveness. Instead of thinking about how terrible
Carl's death was, the anger makes you feel that it was no big deal, that anybody can die. That life is a violent struggle, in which you must kill or be killed. And you act aggressively, as if to prove that this is true. You threw your energy into a quest for revenge. But finding your partner's murderer was only part of the reason for this investigation. You feel the need to court danger over and over again. You want to prove that what happened to Carl can happen to you, anytime. His death was just bad luck, part of the game, and not your fault."

  I stood silent, letting my head hang.

  "Don't be ashamed. It's natural. Our system does dramatic things to defend itself."

  I couldn't say anything. My mouth was dry, my feet trembled. I staggered, uncertain, toward the coffee maker in the corner. There was a small refrigerator under the cupboard. I took out a can of beer and snapped it open, then took two hard gulps before turning to Celia.

  "So what's the problem?"

  "That your original self protests." Celia took out a club soda and a glass from the cupboard. She sat down again looking at her drink. I had the feeling she wanted to buy some time. I waited in silence. I knew she would have to continue.

  "Your original self is in flat opposition with this new one. That ego you were born with is filled with empathy, understanding, and—no offense—fear. It won't just go away without resistance. Your original self puts up a fight, and your two selves take turns having the upper hand. That causes the feeling of uncertainty. In some cases there is a stalemate, and neither of them can win for a while. If that happens in a dangerous situation, your system can't take it without giving signals, physical reactions."

  She looked up at last like she expected me to say something. I didn't know what to say.

  "That's what causes your bouts of sickness." She raised her head again. Her hair fell over her face, hiding it from view. I wanted to see her eyes, but I had a feeling that she wanted to shut herself off from me. We both remained silent, the silence grew thick between us. I drank the beer and put the can softly on the table. I hesitated only a moment. Something drove me, I had to leave this room full of memories. I didn't say good-bye, just turned and started toward the door. I slowed my steps in the waiting room, certain that she'd call after me. A mistake. Both selves sighed at the same time as I close the door behind me.

  CHAPTER 18

  Arany sips from the tepid water in front of him. He appears weak. His attorney—a short, shabbily dressed balding man—looks at him questioningly. He could ask the judge for a recess. Arany shakes his head no, with a slight, almost invisible move. The lawyer looks concerned. He's heard that Arany's sickness is followed by bouts of aggressive behavior. He's asked his client at least a dozen times to plead insanity, but was rebuffed every time. They'll have to use the insanity defense anyway if Arany is overcome by his illness and attacks someone in the courtroom.

  The lawyer would say something to his defendant but Arany is ignoring him. He's leaning forward, staring at Captain Ericsson. The captain wears a crisp uniform, and his graying hair is freshly cut. He sits rigidly, demonstrating an instinctive respect for the court, but he can't control his eyes as he throws a hostile glance at the prosecutor.

  The government's counsel is ready for a duck shoot. Even though Ericsson is an experienced witness, he's never been forced to defend his own character or the character of any of his men. The captain's honest, straightforward, military-style answers are easy for an experienced cross-examiner to pick apart.

  "Can you tell us, Captain, what is the duty of the police force?"

  It's obviously a set-up question, but Ericsson can't be sure where the prosecutor's going.

  "Maintaining order. I would think that's pretty clear."

  "Good, good." The prosecutor begins nodding before Ericsson has finished his answer, and continues to do so as he starts his next question: "Wouldn't you add, captain, that the police are supposed to maintain order using lawful procedures?"

  "Yes. Using lawful procedures."

  Now Ericsson knows what's coming, and he decides he won't let the prosecutor make him angry. OK, the kid killed a man, murdered his lover's husband, and for that he deserves to be sentenced. But that had nothing to do with Arany's work. He did excellent work. Whether he went by the book or not, the kid did what he had to do. And the prosecutor can screw himself with his "lawful procedures" crap.

  "And would you say an officer is using lawful procedures if they break in on a peaceful, sleeping citizen, and use physical force to obtain information—all without identifying himself as a member of the police force? Would you also call it using lawful procedures if he causes serious injuries to another peaceful citizen during this same incident?"

  "Detective Arany was attacked by that peaceful citizen, sir. Everyone has the right to defend himself."

  Arany looks down, to avoid his lawyer's helpless glance and the sight of Celia taking careful notes. He just listens to the prosecutor as the man takes Ericsson apart. It's an easy task. He knows he's committed every kind of infraction. He broke every rule because he was in a jungle, living by its rules. And now, when he returns to civilization, he is reproached. Anger slowly creeps over him. They didn't care this much when Carl died. Now here he was, being painted as a criminal because he fought back, just tried to defend himself. The man's fist nearly smashed his face in, so he hit back. So what?

  He looks down at his hands, lying clenched in his lap. They've stopped shaking. He unclenches his fingers cautiously. It would only take one move to have a gun in his hand.

  Now the prosecutor has raised his voice, and speaks like a preacher giving a sermon:

  "If I understand you correctly Captain, you believe that it's all right for the police to beat private citizens in order to obtain information. You believe the police have the right to use force whenever they think it will help them—simply because they believe that someone is keeping secrets. If I understand you correctly Captain, you're talking about a police state—the kind of system that I want no part of."

  The lawyer can't resist the temptation to turn toward the press gallery and pause a moment for effect.

  Ericsson remains silent.

  "Well Captain, is this what you believe? Yes or no?"

  "There are situations, when—"

  "Yes or no, captain. Just one word."

  Just one move! Arany can't stop thinking about it. He could reach out for the glass, then smack the guard with his elbow. Then he could grab the gun from the other guard as the man turns toward him. God, it would be so easy. He understands he shouldn't—can't—do it. He knows why he has these thoughts, but it's so hard to resist them.

  Ericsson is silent, his face reddens. He reaches into his pocket for a pill, and swallows it without water. Silence. Arany looks at the prosecutor's face and can see his fist hitting it. Just reach for the glass like he wants a drink …

  "Well captain? What can you tell us?"

  "Well, I can tell you sir, that you are an ass."

  The silence detonates, like a still lake hit by a falling boulder. Laughter, shouts, the judge's gavel. Arany's hand stops reaching toward the glass. Ericsson's face relaxes. He's retired, and seriously ill. He has only a few years to live. As far as he's concerned the prosecutor can go to hell.

  "I can tell you sir, that in this city a police officer's life is always in danger. I can tell you, that this nice, safe courtroom, where you see the criminals, is nothing like the street. Out in the street, we try to follow the book, but the bad guys don't have any rules and the cops have to struggle just to stay alive. I can tell you that, not too long ago, one police officer lost this struggle. Not too long ago an officer was killed. And that officer was Arany's partner."

  The prosecutor is fifty years old, but with his lean body he looks younger. A real pro, very cool. He doesn't speak, just waits, showing no emotion, until the room is silent. It takes a couple minutes, but he waits until everyone is looking at him. He begins to speak in a small voice, that everyone has to strain to hear. He
doesn't defend himself, or sound hurt.

  "I am sorry, Captain. You don't have to believe me, but I really am sorry. You see, I'm on your side. We represent law and order in this country. You lead on the street, and I follow in the courtroom. But if you think it's all right for either one of us—you or me—to ignore the rules in a private quest for revenge, you lose me. I can't follow you that far, Captain."

  Arany's attorney jumps up to object, he says the questions are irrelevant to the case, but he's waved down by the judge.

  The prosecutor raises his voice.

  "I believe my questions are very relevant. I intend to prove that it was not an accident that Detective Arany used his gun that evening, and I would like to prove that he did not act with provocation. No! I would expect better behavior from an honest, law abiding officer. But I don't think that's how you would describe a detective who conducted his own personal investigation off-duty, and who left injuries in his wake— who took justice into his hands."