I imagine Germaine talking to me about clients she calls “this one,” and especially about the railroad ticket collector, pot-bellied, with a toothbrush-shaped mustache, hair coming out of his ears, this railroad ticket collector who stinks of sweat, this railroad ticket collector who calls her all kinds of names, this railroad ticket collector who makes her bark like an Alsatian or a bulldog, this railroad ticket collector who comes but doesn’t pay, I imagine her telling me that she and her friends jumped on this bastard who fled running, his face marked with scratches, I imagine all this, and then I don’t give a shit…
My hands are swelling and they’re hurting real bad. A few moments ago, blood came out of my nostrils. That was the first time this happened to me. I think it’s because of the anxiety. I brushed my nose lightly with the back of my hand. When I saw blood on my skin, I sort of had a feeling of repulsion, I wanted to throw up. Maybe because it was my own blood. It was a shade of red both heavy and bright. I immediately lay down on the sofa bed for about ten minutes, then got up to wet my face. Inside the shower, I saw myself in the mirror. I’d become old overnight—me, who never really had any age and never wanted anyone to know my age! This is the advantage of ugliness. People say you’re ugly, therefore they always think you’re older than people of your generation, although that’s wrong. Who in this city knew Angoualima’s age? No one. And why? Precisely because no one could speculate about his birth date. One day I would like people to ask the same questions about me. For people to know the date of my death, but ignore that of my birth. Germaine tried every trick in the book to find out my age, she gave up. I don’t have a birth certificate, I tore it up as a child when I found it among documents belonging to the last family the State placed me with. I don’t have any ID, what would it be good for in this city anyway? Nothing, except for registering at city hall in order to vote in the municipal elections. Me, I’ve never voted. Like Angoualima, I shit on society…
Once my face was washed and the blood gone from my nostrils, I looked at myself again for a moment. My rectangular head nearly filled up the entire mirror. I have trouble recognizing myself. I feel foreign. Is this face the same as that of a few days ago? I’m convinced I have changed. A vein bisects my scalp and vanishes somewhere between the ridges of my brow, which is very prominent, given my small eyes. Usually, this vein only appears when I’m overexcited. I cut my hair with a Bic blade. In fact, and this may be a form of provocation, I like my scalp to be bald as an egg. I know this reveals its macrocephalic shape even more. But I don’t give a damn. I could have let my hair grow a little so as to partly mask all this. To what end? Ever since my youth I’ve been used to putting up with a shaved head. I run my hand over it from time to time, and notice these deep sinuosities, as if God had given me this scalp after some hard labor with a hammer…
I kept on staring at my features, without flinching. Angoualima’s face appeared instead of mine. It is for this reason that I refrained from hitting this mirror with my fist to later lick the blood that would be trickling from my veins. I am not going to go after the Great Master, am I? Where are we going? In fact, it is good that my idol is within me, this reassures me, gives me wings and comforts me with the idea that the gesture I am about to perform in a few hours interests him as well…
2.
It’s four p.m.
Germaine should be at the Open Air restaurant for her daytime work. I have just stored her large bag in a corner so I can make it disappear in the fetid waters of the “Seine” after the murder. She always takes the smaller of the two bags with her to the Open Air restaurant so she can later move on to the alleys of He-Who-Drinks-Water-Is-An-Idiot at around six p.m.
Before moving the large bag, I searched it out of curiosity. Germaine only opens it when she’s got an important and lucrative appointment with whites in the center of town. I discovered an entire arsenal for her nocturnal activity. In no particular order, I saw makeup products, a blond wig, another that was red, another that was plain green, I saw red leather thongs, weird panties with well-designed holes up front to allow women’s things to stick out, I saw fluorescent brassieres, bras with holes that left the nipples outside, I saw shoes that instantly made you several inches taller, shoes with pistol-shaped heels, with chair-leg-shaped heels, with isosceles triangle-shaped heels, I saw tights with a pattern showing the man’s thing penetrating the woman’s thing, pink tights, yellow tights, blood-red tights, tights, that’s all there was in her bag, I saw all kinds of perfumes, I opened the bottles, I smelled good ones, bad ones, some that were more or less good, some more or less bad, strong ones, light ones, some that were more or less strong, some more or less light, some that made me sneeze, some that stung my eyes, I smelled all that, I also saw very pointy fake nails that are perhaps used to scratch the backs of clients who ask for it, rainbow-colored nail polishes, transparent ones, glittery ones, I saw a long leather whip with a handle shaped like the two balls of a man’s thing, handcuffs, a muzzle, and me who believed muzzles were for dogs, I saw condoms on which it was written that they tasted like strawberry, like peach, like papaya, like kiwi, like plum, I saw a fur coat, but it was probably fake because I know these coats are expensive, or maybe it’s a real one, some white might well have given it to her, I saw several varieties of dildos that represented blacks’ things and whites’ things, I noticed that dildos of blacks’ things are bigger than dildos of whites’ things even though it’s whites who manufacture them themselves, they could have at least taken this opportunity to show us that some whites’ things are bigger than blacks’, I saw rubber rings to decrease the size of the best endowed man’s thing, I saw Vaseline which helps palliate dryness in a woman’s thing, I saw other work tools, and I told myself that it was real work this business we took lightly, believing that for these streetwalkers, the whole thing boiled down to opening their legs and receiving the secretion of the male in heat, and I also told myself that the fish in the “Seine” were going to be surprised, the fish who’ve been complaining that all they do is wade in shit that Left Bankers send them in little baggies.
It’s eight p.m.
Time has gone by fast. Some time ago I cleaned a big container in my workshop. It’s a type of cauldron that allows me to melt aluminum when my work requires it. I will cook Germaine in it. Scouring that caldron, I caught sight of a hammer hanging from the wall. I thought instantly about notary–real estate agent Fernandes Quiroga’s skull. It’s a portent. If my eyes landed on this hammer, it’s because I must use it tonight. This time around, I will hit the temples, the nape of the neck, the center of the skull, the forehead relentlessly. I will check that Germaine is no longer breathing. And if she’s still breathing, I will hit again until the brain is damaged. Afterwards, I will be able to do my work as a cook, as a butcher, like the European criminal Sadilleck…
It’s nine p.m.
I got the hammer off the wall in order to take it to the house. Once in the shower, I cleaned it. I didn’t look at myself lest I see Angoualima’s features materialize. You never know what he’s thinking. He is so unpredictable that I expect anything and everything from him. I know that by looking at myself, I am going to notice the metamorphosis of my face again. What use would that be?
I hid the hammer under the sofa-bed, at the spot where I usually sit. At the opportune time, all I’ll need to do is slip my hand under to grab the tool by the end I left sticking out. I often settle down right at this spot to watch television. Germaine settles right next to me so she can lean her head against my left shoulder and I can caress her with my right hand. It is this very hand that will grab the hammer…
Oh shit! What am I seeing? Where am I? It’s not possible! I dare not believe it! It’s already half past midnight and I still haven’t heard a car stopping in front of my plot! Usually Germaine arrives around eleven, or half past.
I keep checking my watch and getting anxious every time a car drives down the street. I have already gone out several times to see whether there were gypsy
cabs on the horizon that might come down this street. The street is calm, the neighborhood must be sleeping. I waited in front of the gate for a few minutes. Nothing. It’s a bit cool. The sky is very dark, streaked by lightning from time to time.
It’s going to rain tomorrow. That’s for sure…
I think it would be wiser to take a breath, pace up and down the plot.
I get up and glance over to where I’ve hidden the hammer.
I’m going to go out.
I hear a noise outside.
Germaine is coming.
No, it’s a moped. She’s not going to be escorted back here by one of her clients on a moped, is she?Who does she think I am? It’s an outrage, it is! And what would I look like, huh? An imbecile? A cuckold? Who is he anyway, this moped rider?
I crack the door open, the moped didn’t stop. It drove past my plot.
On the one hand I’m reassured, on the other hand I wish it had stopped in front of my plot of land with Germaine on it. At least I could have moved on to more serious matters…
I must calm down. That’s it, I must. My place is in the house and not in front of the plot. I have to go back inside, for this upcoming scene I myself have to be the setting. The hour is a bit off. Never mind, my determination is the same…
I am now sitting in the sofa bed.
Sometimes I try to grab the end of the hammer. I don’t even see the program that’s showing on television. Everything in the house is tidied up. There are flowers on the table near red candles, which, at this rate, are all going to melt before Germaine arrives.
I move my legs constantly. I check that blood is not coming out of my nostrils. My hands are going to burst. I must calm down. Yes, I must.
So I lie down on the sofa bed and think of something else. My thoughts don’t go very far, they come to rest on my idol’s shadow. No, I want to think of something else, I said!
Impossible.
I feel the Great Master’s hands with their twelve fingers trying to put me to sleep.
No, I must not sleep. I have to stay awake. Is the light in the room going out? What’s happening?
I want light!
Ah really, there is light? But shit, I can’t see it myself! Wait, I can, I can indeed see it, but it’s the stars twinkling, as if my house no longer had a roof!
How marvelous—I can now see the sky from my sofa bed! I must count these stars, one after the other, I must count them, I will get there, one star, two stars, three stars, four stars or five stars, no five stars or four stars, where was I again, the one on the left I counted already, it came back on that side, I won’t count it twice, so we were saying five stars, plus this one, that makes six, plus another that makes seven good stars, seven good stars plus one good star that makes how many good stars, eight good stars, of course, and plus this one nearby, that makes nine good stars, I add another good one and end up with ten good stars, and well fuck! Stars, more stars, they’re everywhere, they’re coming down toward me, I’m going to take another two or three, this one, no that one, no the one that’s a bit farther I’ll take because it is brighter, it must be the North Star, as the people who watch these things by means of their telescopes say, yes it is indeed the North Star, I’m going to take it, then I am going to put it in a cage so that it lights up my whole living room, I will no longer need the light of day, I won’t give a shit about the sun, I will have my own star, well, well, what do I see now, an abyss, an immense, opaque abyss, clouds swirling, swirling again, and me, I feel I am becoming light as a feather, like a minuscule cotton ball, like a fishing line float, I can even fly without wings, too bad for the birds, I feel carried upward by a levitation I can no longer resist, no, I want to come back down, yes I want to come back down, as fast as possible, I’m afraid of falling, I’m afraid to crash on the crest of these mountains I can see below, I must come down, but very slowly, I will get there, what are these distant voices, it’s the echo from the television, what is the television doing in the middle of these swirling clouds, and after all I don’t give a shit, my eyelids are closing, I do not resist sleep, which just got the better of me, well shit…
3.
The truth is it’s the noise from the TV that woke me up just now. Oh shit, I slept on this sofa bed? I didn’t shut the door? Maybe Germaine forgot to shut it when she came back very late at night. But no, that’s not it.
I don’t understand anything anymore. I rub my eyes and look at the time: five in the morning! It’s day already, this is how it is at this time of year in our city. The sun rises very early and rushes to set around five or six in the evening…
I have no precise memory of the moment when I let myself be overcome by sleep on this sofa bed. All I know, more or less, is that it was as if I were being rocked by Angoualima’s twelve-fingered hands. I felt so good among the stars I was counting. I was like a child. I was able to fly, without wings, and travel over unimaginable distances.
Never had I experienced such deep sleep. As if I’d walked for a long time and, exhausted, needed to regain my strength. I also know that I attempted to resist this sleep, but it was in vain…
I get up and head toward the bedroom.
The bed is made neatly, the way Germaine usually makes it, without a wrinkle, and with the pillowcases set next to each other, almost glued.
So Germaine didn’t come back last night. I should have expected it, there are greedy clients, especially in the center of town. But she couldn’t do this to me. Did she tell herself that I might worry?
I come back into the living room.
Germaine’s big bag, which I had stored in a corner, is still there. From this I infer that I haven’t gone and thrown her into the “Seine” as I had planned. If the bag weren’t in its place, I would have told myself that I doubtlessly killed Germaine and didn’t remember it. I’ve heard stories like this. Unbelievable but true. Apparently some criminals kill, then feel alienated from their deed and even ask themselves if they are criminals. For them, all this seems distant and foreign. Apparently, others also kill by proxy, sort of. You think they’ve killed but, in reality, they lent a hand. Stories like this one, I’ve have heard a few.
It so happens that Germaine’s bag hasn’t moved. It so happens that my hammer is still under the sofa bed, I can see one end from here. It so happens all the candles from the day before melted and even nearly burned the tablecloth. It so happens the flowers wilted too. It so happens I’m wearing the same clothes but they’re not soiled with blood. It so happens the house is nicely tidied up.
It so happens that…
Now what are these people saying on TV?
Tell me that I’m dreaming, that I’m not awake. No, I don’t want to believe it. I pinch my cheek, I feel pain, therefore I’m not dreaming.
What are they telling me, these journalists?That a murder did indeed take place around midnight? That the victim is a streetwalker from the country over there? What are they doing now, they’re even showing the victim! It’s horrible!
I step forward, my nose only a few centimeters from the screen. It is Germaine, indeed it is! Her body is lying in one of the streets of the Right Bank district, Three-Martyrs Street, on the other side of town…
Oh shit, now I’m starting to panic. Now I’m telling myself: What proves I did not leave the house to go kill her in this lane? What proves I wasn’t manipulated by a spirit to whom I lent my hand? But it’s not possible, I didn’t do this! I slept all night, I did!
Now journalists are talking about a surge in major crimes. And now they’re embarking on risky parallels, concluding that this surge in crime brings to mind the era of the famous Angoualima. And now they’ve dug up archival images and are showing them!
I do not leave the screen, I sit on the floor, my heart beating very hard. We’re shown black-and-white images, and I once again see my idol’s corpse in the middle of a circle on the wild coast sand like in the picture I hide under my bed. And we’re reminded of the Great Master’s most ignoble crimes.
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And after that, we’re told about Germaine again.
I try to follow the explanations given by an old lady introduced as the prime witness of this midnight murder in Three-Martyrs Street.
Basically, she saw everything, she saw everything with her own eyes.
“So you are the witness to this murder,” the journalist says. “What does one feel after being, as you were, witness to such a barbaric act?”
“It’s horrible!”
“We understand your emotion, madame….”
“I will never forget this night in all my life! It’s horrible, I’m telling you!”
“That’s for sure, madame…”
“I feel like at every instant I’m seeing this man relentlessly go after this poor girl with a knife.”
“Tell us about it, madame…”
“Stabbing, more stabbing, I’m telling you! What’s more, I’m telling you, the girl, who was staggering along, who could barely scream, who was trying to escape. What’s more, I’m telling you, the man was still stabbing, stabbing again, screaming:‘Bitch, I got you in the end, what did you think? That I was not going to kill you one day?’”
“And what were you doing outside, madame? Because after all it was midnight!”
“I had a sort of a dream, I’m telling you!”
“Yes?”
“I’m telling you!”
“And what were you dreaming about?”
“I was dreaming that I had forgotten to take out the garbage. I woke up with a start: and indeed I hadn’t taken out the garbage in front of my plot, I’m telling you!”
“And you told yourself that this had to be done at any cost that night?”
African Psycho Page 12