The guard's cold stare doesn't flicker. Not a single muscle moves on his face. His eyelashes are immobile, he doesn't even blink. How can he do this?
He stands up, and leans forward, resting his hands on the desk. His face seems enormous now. There's complete dead calm in his eyes.
Arany is feels disgust, sympathy and hatred at the same time. The guard plays the tough guy from action movies, the same way Arany played cowboy when he was a child. The difference is, this guy is in his twenties, with a strong grown-up body and gun at his side.
"Do you have a permit to search the house?"
Arany feels like he is in an action movie. The wide muscular face fills the picture. He steps back and notices that the guard's strong fingers are resting on his holster. This is real life, this guy is not Terminator, screams a voice inside Arany's head, this little idiot sits behind this desk eight hours a day for peanuts. He'll be satisfied with the victory of seeing me walk away, he's not going to pull that gun. He's not going to try to chase me out of here.
"All right, all right …just look at this picture." He slowly reaches into his pocket, and smiles hesitantly. The guard's stare is fixed on him. He's not looking at Arany's hand, he keeps an eye on the whole body, while his fingers stroke the holster with something like pleasure.
The woman must have called him, Arany thinks. This thought makes him angry, but he's careful not to show it. He already knows what he's going to do. He takes out Frost's mug shot, and holds it in front of this imitation Terminator. But he doesn't look at the picture, his stare, which he must have practiced for years, is still fixed on Arany.
"I don't know him," he says calmly.
But Arany isn't afraid of this man, this pumped up punk. He's barely even angry.
"OK," he nods, "and have you seen this guy?" He puts Frost's picture back into his pocket and pulls his hand out from underneath his linen jacket with a pistol in it.
"Don't move!" he barks. "Hands on the desk! Faster!"
He swears everything will be decided now. The Terminator won't let anyone catch him like this. His self-created myth would be gone, because he must have thought he would be faster than a little cop. He must have believed that he could hit the gun out of the cop's hand, like he's seen in hundreds of movies, and must have practiced the movement in some miserable gym over and over again.
"I'm arresting you for being an accomplice in a murder," Arany babbles "You have the right to hire a lawyer, you have the right to remain silent—put your hands on the desk!"
"What?" he says and blinking, stupidly.
Arany already knows that he has won.
"Palms down!" he barks. He's sure the guard won't shoot or start a fight anymore. But if he needs movie roles, Arany can play the tough cop.
He waits for the guard's palms to reach the desktop, goes around the desk in the fraction of a second, steps behind him and kicks his legs apart. Terminator is standing with his feet wide apart, leaning onto the desk. Arany snatches the gun from the open holster.
"If you don't have a lawyer, the court will appoint one. I'm telling you your rights, so you can't complain later. You better listen. Are you coming quietly, or do I have to cuff you?"
"But …I haven't done anything!" He wants to turn around, but the edge of Arany's shoe goes deep into the back of his knee.
"Another move like that and there won't be any trial!" Arany whispers. The scene fills him with disgust. He wants to be over with it. "The guy you didn't recognize is a murderer. He killed a police officer. He used to live in this building. But you, although you're sitting here all day and have to watch who's coming and going, you don't recognize him."
"Can you show me the picture again?" he says in a soft, almost polite voice.
Arany's steps aside, keeping the gun pointed at the guard as if he were still afraid of him. He's got to play the role. He tosses the picture in front of him. The guard looks at it and frowns.
"Well, he's been here before."
"When?"
Now it's easy to get the answers, but someone's coming in. Arany puts the pistol down. They don't all have to see what's going on here. The heavily made-up woman is coming back. She sizes them up with a sharp glance: the guard leaning on the desk and the man with an innocent expression on his face standing next to him. As soon as she steps off the faded carpet, her heels start tip tapping annoyingly.
"It's been a month or two," he hesitates. He looks in the direction of the woman and follows her with his eyes as far as he can. "I haven't seen him since."
"Did he live here?"
"Well …he slept here a couple times.
Arany nods.
"Did his friends come here too?"
The guard is silent. His eyes are not expressionless any more, they reflect the sadness of a little boy who was beaten up. Arany is quiet, he doesn't feel like playing the tough cop anymore.
"So, I guess they did."
"There were a couple parties here." Only the first words are hard to utter, the rest is following easily. "The girls, and their friends, and guys …"
"Frost?"
"Yes."
"What did Frost's friend look like? And don't be wishy-washy, little guy, because you'll end up rotting away in prison."
"I don't know, believe me, there were a lot of them, and …"
"What kind of girls?"
You could see a sign of relief on his stupid face.
"Well, Pat and her girlfriends."
"Give me names!"
The checkered notebook fills up. Simone, who lived with Patricia at the time; Cass, a sexy little chick, who used to dance at the Star; Louise, who is also some kind of a model; and then some tease, but he can't recall the name; and so on. Names, nicknames or brief descriptions as he recalls the people. The one with the big tits, and the other one who got so shit-faced that she threw a hysterical fit …
Arany begins to get suspicious. This guard knows a lot for someone who didn't participate in these parties.
"Where does this Simone live?"
"I don't know."
"All right, I'll take you with me." He reaches out towards the guy, but he doesn't want to move. He holds onto the edges of the desk, his immense muscles are tense. Arany feels like he's trying to move a cement block.
"I'm not going!" the guard mumbles. "I didn't do anything! You can't arrest me! I want a lawyer! Stop tugging at me, you asshole!"
Arany suddenly pushes against the struggling body with all of his strength. The guard's chest hits the edge of the desk. His head is only inches away from the desktop. As soon as he tries to straighten up, Arany grabs his hair and pushes his head against the desk. He sticks the gun to the back of the guy's head.
"Where does that woman live?"
"I don't know," he moans desperately. "I really don't know, believe me. I would tell you, I wouldn't care what you do with that slut. I have no idea where she moved. Pat might know, but I'm not sure because they had a fight when Simone moved out. Simone seduced Pat's guy, and Pat didn't appreciate that. I would tell you, but believe me …"
"Which dance club does Pat go to?"
"To the Star, and the Emir and sometimes to the Triple Zero. But mostly to the Star.
Arany loosens his grip. The guy's thorny blond hair is shining with sweat. There is fear now in his previously indifferent eyes.
"You're scared of them, right?" Arany whispers. "You wouldn't give me their names. You act like a tough guy here with your little gun, but you're scared to tell me names, because you're afraid they might cut your throat."
"You don't have to worry." His voice trembles. "They're not going to look for you. They won't even know where to find you. But I'm here everyday."
Arany's hands let go. He steps back, puts his pistol back into the holster, and throws the guard's gun onto desk. He felt that he would only have to keep threatening the guy a little longer and he would get the name he wanted. The kid didn't need much more hassle to become more scared of Arany than of the others. But Arany c
ouldn't go on.
"A split personality …" he mumbles.
"What?" The guard doesn't reach out for his weapon, but he looks at Arany suspiciously.
"Nothing," he shakes his head. He turns away and heads toward the door. He's thinking of Celia. What would the woman say if she saw him now? Would she be satisfied? Would she say his old ego was slowly oppressing the new one?
The guard's voice stops him.
"Hey cop!"
He freezes with a jerk. I left the gun loaded, he thinks sadly. I didn't make the right judgment. He'll shoot, and I'll die here in a doorway, but at least on a faded carpet. My old ego…
He turns around. The guard stands by the desk, playing with his gun. The weapon seems small in his shovel-like hands.
Arany just stands there, staring. He expects the guard to attack. He feels like he'll be helpless to fight back. Not now.
"Be careful with these guys," the man says in a soft voice. "They're tough, very tough!"
"Thanks." There's a vague smile on his face. He turns toward the entrance door again and bends his head down as he's leaving. He thinks of the dizzy spells, the fits of violence when he's capable of anything. He thinks of how he hates himself for the aggressiveness. But he also hates himself now for the helplessness, for the fear that paralyzed him.
"Are they tough?" he mumbles, "Or are they also the victims of these feelings? Are they sick? Are they sick like I am?"
As he walks out the door, he looks up. Someone is coming in. Arany only sees the person's shadow first, and steps aside instinctively. And then he sees the girl. She's still beautiful, perhaps even more so than in that office room, or perhaps she's just more odious. She's taken aback when she sees Arany, her thick lips twitch, and she stops for a second, as if she wants to flee back to the street, into her agent's office, or to a dance club where she would feel at home. And then a scornful smile sweeps across her face and she hurries inside.
CHAPTER 23
It was my fifth try at starting to read that damn book. Something always stopped me during previous attempts. Baruch's difficult presentation, for one—that exhaustingly condescending scientific style that he used to express himself. "The genius …" I'd mumbled last night when I tossed the book down a second time before turning off the bedside lamp. I never liked geniuses like him, the kind who don't even bother to learn to express themselves clearly for my sake. Every time I read theories supported by hordes of quotes from people I've never heard of I experience envy mingled with suspicion. It makes me feel small and uneducated. But it also makes me wonder whether the author is really so brilliant, or is just jazzing up his weak ideas with some library note cards.
But for some reason I picked up the book again and again. I thought of Celia, whom I love. I wanted to read her husband's words, to understand those genius thoughts of his. And there was another motive: My dizzy spells, and the waves of violent anger. I had changed, and all my detective instincts prompted me to look for the answers in this book.
So I went at for it for the fifth time. It was night, the city's volume was turned down. There were only a couple of lights on here and there—in the rooms of other night owls like myself. Next to me, on the bedside table, right on the edge of the circle of light, there was a beer, and some snacks and chocolate waiting for me. Just like in my old student days.
I tried hard not to remember that Celia's husband wrote this. I tried to get Celia's face out of my head. When we last met she said I had a split personality. I was afraid of her. I didn't want to meet her; I was scared to look into her eyes. I didn't want to see that strange, thoughtful look. I didn't want to see myself in that mirror. Why did she make love with me? She loved her husband, this damn genius, she's told me so many times. Was she the type of woman who fights old age by having passing affairs? I couldn't believe that, couldn't imagine it. What was I to her? A younger lover? But I had to meet her! I had to see her! Maybe she was right. She could have been right about everything. Maybe I was sick. Opposing desires tore me in two. I felt like I'd go crazy. Why, why? Did she make love with me because she felt sorry for me?
I read the book the way I used to in my old student days—when I was studying for exams. I took notes, I summed up passages. I put a mark on the margin with a soft pencil when I found something that struck me as important. I put a mark next to the facts and the paragraphs where Baruch was really saying something. I put signs there when I agreed with something and a different sign when I doubted his conclusions. I also marked the passages where he seemed to contradict what he said earlier. And when I'd gone through the whole book, I'd start again, following my signs. I copied abbreviated passages into my notebook, only a couple words sometimes, practically just names and figures mixed with lots of my own arrows, exclamation points and question marks. And when something seemed important, the pencil marks appeared on the margin of my notes too. In the end, I'd have a summary of a summary. This would enable me to recall the original pile of gobbledygook.
I only used two symbols at first. One mark indicated Baruch's references to other materials that I should read. The other mark indicated Baruch's own passages that I want to re-read thoroughly.
The first bottle of beer was empty now, and I was constantly snacking. Distractedly stuffing pieces of chocolate and salty crackers into my mouth. As if I was afraid that as soon as I stopped eating, the machinery in my brain would stop too.
On first reading, it didn't seem worth the effort. Baruch was a disappointment. But I was patient. I'd begun dissecting the book. There would be an answer.
I jumped when the phone rang. It was just three feet away from me, on the desk. It sounded loud, frightening, like an alarm bell. I could see myself throwing some clothes on, rushing out into the night to find a dead body in a clotting pool of blood, a crying family, curious neighbors or the darkness of a park, a bar. The spot changes, the violence remains the same.
Even though I hadn't gone on a call like this for over a year, the thought made my heart beat faster. I glanced at my watch. Past midnight. Who the hell could it be?
Celia. I instantly recognized her voice. She was sad, frightened.
"Did I wake you up? Were you asleep?"
"No. I'm still reading."
She didn't ask me what I'm reading. She just told me how many times she had called. She spent half the night trying to reach me last night, and also today, both at home and at the police station. I could see her in front of me. The pain and disappointment in her beautiful eyes would make my heart sink. I would hold her tight, stroke her, comfort her and promise that this would never happen again.
"I was busy," was all I said.
Her voice was soft earlier, but it became even softer, I could hardly hear what she was saying.
"Something …again …?"
"No, don't worry! I'm all right."
I felt my voice was offensive. I don't know why. Maybe I was annoyed. I didn't want to have to give excuses, to tell her that I visited my brother. Most of all I didn't want to tell her why I went. I didn't owe her explanations. She at least has her genius with her.
"You're sick, John. I'm worried about you."
"Thanks. That's kind of you."
My voice became clearly hostile. I don't know why I wanted to hurt her, but it gave me a kind of perverse satisfaction.
I could hear her crying. My hands shook, I felt like throwing the phone to the floor. Instead a took another verbal jab, hoping to force her to say what I wanted to hear.
"You thought that the only thing you could do to stop me from going insane was to go to bed with me. Thanks. It was nice medicine."
But she still didn't say it. She didn't say she loved me. She didn't say she'd leave her genius husband, or that I should go pick her up even now—in the middle of the night. She didn't even tell me I was wrong.
"John, we need to talk," was all she said. I could picture her face, imagine it in the circle of light made by the lamp next to my bedside. I knew that her eyes would look at me with p
ity, as if I were sick. I suddenly hated her for this.
"Tomorrow morning?" Her voice was hopeful.
"That's no good," I answered maliciously, "I'm busy."
I thought of Lewis, of the hospital entrance next to the parking lot where he'd be waiting at exactly ten, glancing at his gold watch—and looking at me with displeasure if I dared to arrive thirty seconds late after the 100 mile drive.
There was a short period of silence. Painful, hurt silence.
"In the afternoon?" Celia asked.
"Where are you calling from?" I automatically reached for more chocolate.
Celia hesitated. What? She didn't know where she was calling from?
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