Auto-Da-Fé

by Elias Canetti

  Thanks to this general mood the police at length managed to restrain the caretaker. Two of them applied the come-along, a third watched his feet, which alternately struck out, or sought to manœuvre the Professor closer to him. The fourth restored order. The mob were still belabouring Kien, but there wasn't much pleasure in it now. He behaved neither like a human being nor like a corpse. The wringing process provoked not a sound from him. He might defend himself, cover his face, twist about or at least jerk; all sorts of things were expected of him but he was just disappointing. A type like this must have had a lot to answer for, but when you didn't know what it was, you couldn't take it out of him proper. Disgusted and glad to be rid of a wearisome task, they yielded him to the police. With great self-control they restrained themselves from turning their free fists on each other. Each looked at the others, and at the sight of his neighbour's suit, became clothed once more, and recognized in his fellow-combatants, colleagues and friends. Thérèse cried: 'There now!' What else could she order them to do. She would have liked to go, and squared head and elbows for the task. The policeman who had taken Kien in charge, was astonished at the placidity of this creature, with a row like this on his conscience. He had suffered most at the hands of the redhead, and consequently loathed his wife. She must come along too. Her two bodyguards joyfully took her in charge. They were shamed at their idleness, since the other four had risked their lives against the redhead. Thérèse came quiet, for they could do nothing to her. She would have come, anyway. She fully intended to do both men down at the police station.

  Another policeman, noted for his excellent memory, counted the prisoners on his fingers, one, two, three. Where is the fourth? he asked the lift-attendant. The latter had watched the whole fight with an injured expression, and had just finished brushing his cap when all his enemies had been arrested. Now he thawed; he knew nothing about a fourth. The policeman with the memory asserted he had himself reported four combatants. The lift-attendant protested vehemently. He had kept order here for twenty-six years. He was the father of three. He supposed he could count as well as anyone. Other voices supported him. No one knew anything about a fourth. The fourth was an invention; the fourth was an invention of the thief's to mix the clues. That cunning dog knew why he was keeping his trap shut. Even the policeman with a memory was satisfied with this explanation. All six policemen had their hands full. The three prisoners were cautiously manoeuvred through what remained of the glass door and the crowd. Kien brushed against the only fragment of glass still remaining and cut his sleeve open. When they reached the police station, blood was trickling from it. The few remaining curious who had followed as far as this, contemplated it in amazement. This blood they found incredible. It was the first sign of life Kien had given.

  Almost all the crowd had dispersed. Some of them had gone back behind their counters, others were offering goods with imploring or defiant countenances. But the officials unbent so far as to exchange, even with these poor devils, a word or two on the event. They accepted the opinions of people towards whom it was their highest duty to turn a deaf ear. As to the object of the crime, no united opinion was reached. Some said it was jewellery, or else what was all the fuss about? Books, said others, for it happened in the book section. More respectable gentlemen referred to the evening papers. Of the conflicting views, the majority leant towards money. The officials pointed out, more gently than usual, that people with so much money rarely came to the public pawnbroking establishment. But perhaps they were coming away after completing a transaction. This too had to be ruled out, for every official was sure he would have recognized them if he had dealt with them. Some still regretted the redheaded hero, most of them had forgotten him already. To prove their finer feelings, they were sorrier for his wife, even though she was no chicken. Not one of them would have married her. It had all been a waste of time, but pleasant while it lasted.

  CHAPTER IX

  PRIVATE PROPERTY

  At the police station the prisoners were subjected to an inquiry. The caretaker bellowed: 'Friends and colleagues, I am innocent!' Thérèse, trying to do him harm, cried: I ask you, he's retired!' Her words dispelled the bad impression which his familiarity had made on his colleagues. The factual explanation that he was retired made it conceivable that he really had been a policeman. He certainly had the brutal manner; but the suspicion that die real prisoner had apparently practised on him a robbery in the grand style somewhat contradicted this. They questioned him. He bellowed: 'I'm no criminal!'

  Thérèse pointed to Kien, whom they had forgotten and said: 'If you please, he robbed us!' The self-possessed bearing of the redhead gave the policeman pause. They were still in ignorance whom they had arrested. Therese's hint was welcome. Three of them hurled themselves on Kien and without more ado searched his pockets. A bundle of crumpled banknotes emerged; the count revealed eighteen notes of a hundred schillings each. 'Is this your money?' they asked Thérèse. "Was my money all crumpled? Six times as much, there ought to be!' She counted on the whole sum the bankbook had contained. They asked Kien for the rest; he said nothing. Propped up against a chair, angular and ravaged, he stood just as they had put him. Anyone looking at him would have been convinced that he must fall down at any moment. But no one looked at him.

  Out of hatred for Thérèse, his guard brought him a glass of water and held it close to his mouth. Neither the glass nor the kindly action received any recognition and one more enemy joined those who now once again went through his pockets. Apart from a little small change in his purse, they drew blank. Some of them shook their heads. "What have you done with the money, you?' asked the Inspector. Thérèse grinned: 'What did I say, a thief! 'My good woman,' said the officer, for whom her clothes were too old-fashioned, 'turn round a moment! We must undress him. No peeping.' He smiled derisively; he didn't care whether the old thing peeped or not. He knew that the sum would be found, and was annoyed because a common woman oossessed so much. Thérèse said: 'What kind of a man is he? He's not a man!' and stayed where she was. The caretaker bellowed: 'I'm innocent!' and gave Kien a look as though he were respectfully requesting his tip. He was emphasizing his innocence, not of the death of nis daughter, but of the painful search to which his Professor was now to submit.

  Three policemen, who had just withdrawn their fingers from the thief's pockets, immediately, as at a word of command, stepped back two paces. Not one had any inclination for the job of undressing this repulsive person. He was so thin. At that moment Kien fell to the ground. Thérèse shouted: 'He's lying!' 'But he never said a word,' a policeman interrupted her. 'Said? Anyone can say,' she retorted. The caretaker threw himself on Kien to lift him up. 'Cowardly brute,' said the Inspector, 'hitting a man when he's down.' They all thought the redhead wanted to assault the prostrate victim. Not that anyone would have minded; the helpless skeleton on the floor was exasperating. They only defended themselves against this usurpation of their own rights: before he could reach Kien, the redhead was seized and dragged back. Then they picked up the prostrate object. They didn't even make the usual jokes about his weight, so repulsive was he to them. One tried to push him on to a chair. 'Let htm stand, malingerer!' said the Inspector. He was proving to the woman, the sharpness of whose perception put him to shame, that he too could see through the play-acting. The policemen hoisted the lanky nothing; the one who had been in favour of sitting him in a chair now pushed the delinquent's feet apart so as to increase the breadth at the base. Higher up, another let go. Kien crumpled up again and remained hanging in the arms of a third. Thérèse said: 'There's a dirty trick for you! He's dying!' She was looking forward to his beautiful punishment. 'Professor,' bellowed the caretaker, 'don't do that!' He was glad no one showed any interest in his daughter, but he was counting on Kien's good word for him.

  The Inspector saw an opportunity at hand to teach this presumptuous woman that here a man was master. Violently he plucked at his minuscule nose, his great grief. (On duty and off duty, at every free moment he woul
d contemplate and sigh over it in his pocket mirror. When he was in difficulties it would swell. Before he set himself to overcome them, he would convince himself quickly of his nose's existence, because it was so delightful, three minutes later, to have forgotten all about it.) Now he decided to have the criminal properly stripped. 'Idiots, all of you,' he began. The next sentence, which referred only to himself, he merely thought. 'Dead men's eyes arc open. Otherwise why do you have to close them? You can't sham dead. Open your eyes, they don't glaze. Close your eyes, you don't look dead, because, just as I say, dead men's eyes are open. A corpse without glazed eyes and without open eyes isn't worth a song. It simply means death has not supervened. I'd like to see anyone take me in. Watch carefully gentlemen! I put it to you, with regard to the prisoner, direct your attention to his eyes!'

  He stood up, pushed the table, behind which he was sitting, to one side —another obstacle surmounted, not evaded — strode over to the arrestee, who was still hanging over the arm of an official, and violently flicked first one then the other eyelid with his fat, white middle finger. The policemen felt relieved. They had been afraid lest the creature had been beaten to death by the mob. They had intervened too late. There might be a stink, one had to think of everything. The mob can perpetrate excesses, the organ of the law must keep a clear head. The eye test was completely convincing. The Inspector was a fine fellow. Thérèse tossed her head; a welcome to the punishment which was still to come. The caretaker felt his fists tingle, as they always did when he was well. With a witness like that on his side, he'd be in clover. Kien's lids quivered under the Inspector's hard finger-nails. He repeated his onslaught, thinking to make the creature alive to various things, to his stupidity, for instance, in shamming dead without glazed eyes. To prove these dead eyes were a sham he must first break them open. But they stayed closed. 'Let him go!' the Inspector ordered die merciful policeman who was not yet tired of his load. At the same moment he grasped the recalcitrant rascal by the collar and shook him. His lightness exasperated him. 'Call yourself a thief!' he said, contemptuously. Thérèse grinned at him. He began to please her. He was a man. Only his nose wasn't right. The caretaker was turning over in his mind (relieved because nobody was asking him any questions, worried because nobody was taking any notice of him) how he could best explain the crime. He had always had a mind of his own: the Professor was not the diicf. He believed what he knew, not what others said. No one ever died of being shaken. As soon as the Professor came alive he'd talk, and then there'd be a row.

  The Inspector was still a little repelled by the object before him, then he began to pull its clothes off himself. He tossed the jacket on to the table. The waistcoat followed. The shirt was old, but of good material. He unbuttoned it and directed a piercing eye between the creature's ribs. There was really nothing there. Disgust rose within him. He had had much experience. His profession brought him into contact with every form of human life. He had never come across anything so thin before. Its place was in a show, not a police station. Did they take him for a Barnum, or what? 'Shoes and trousers I leave to you, he said to the others. Crestfallen he withdrew. His nose occurred to him. He clutched at it. It was too short. If only he could forget it! Sullenly he sat down behind his table. It was in the wrong position again. Someone had pushed it. 'Can't you leave my table straight, for the hundredth time! Idiots!' The policemen busied over the shoes and trousers of the thief grinned to themselves; the others stood to attention. Yes, he thought, creatures like that ought to be put away. They're a public nuisance. They make you ill to look at. The healthiest stomach would be turned. And where would you be without a stomach. There's no patience with them. This was a case for torture. In the middle ages the police had a better time. A creature like that ought to drown itself. It wouldn't affect the suicide rate; it wouldn't weigh enough to count. Instead of making away with itself it shams dead. Shameless, creatures like him. Some people are ashamed of their noses, only because they're a wee bit on the short side. Others live happily on, and steal, what's more. He'll pay for it. It takes all sorts to make a world. Some have industry, common sense, intelligence and subtlety, others haven't a scrap of flesh on their bones. It follows, you've got your work cut out; some people may just have pulled out a pocket mirror, they'd better put it away again.

  And so it happened. Trousers and shoes were placed on the table, both were searched for a false lining. The mirror disappeared into an inside pocket specially designed for it and fitting like a glove. Stripped to his shirt — even his socks had been removed — the creature leant trembling against one of the policemen. All eyes were fixed on his calves. 'They're hollow,' said the policeman with a memory. He stooped and tapped them. They were solid. Mistrust assailed even him. In his own mind he had decided that the man was peculiar. Now he saw that he had to do with a dangerous dissimulator. 'It's no use, gendemen!' bellowed the caretaker. His hint was submerged in the Inspector's astonishment. This latter had taken a quick decision — he was distinguished for his intuition —to abandon the money stolen from the woman, of which there was no trace, and to proceed to a more thorough examination of the note case. All kinds of personal documents were to be found in it. They referred to a certain Dr. Peter Kien, and were obviously stolen. Had there been one with a photograph it would have been forgery. The walls had not ceased to redound with the caretaker's advice, when the Inspector sprang up, clutched at his nose and, in a voice which quite blotted out the smaU-ness of his nose, shouted at the criminal: 'Your papers arc stolen!' Thérèse glided up. She'd swear to that. Who ever talked of stealing was right.

  Kien trembled with cold. He opened his eyes and turned them on Thérèse. She stood close to him, wagging her head and shoulders. She was proud because he recognized her, she was the most important person in the room. 'Your papers are stolen!' declared the Inspector again; his voice sounded calmer than before. The open eyes did not focus him, but he for his part focused them clearly. He had won the first round. As soon as initial resistance is overcome, the rest follows naturally. The eyes of the criminal remained fixed on the woman, bored themselves into her and grew strangely rigid. This fragment of a man was a Peeping Tom just the same. 'You ought to be ashamed of yourself!' shouted the Inspector, 'you're half naked!' The thief's pupils expanded, his teeth chattered. His head remained motionless at the same angle. Was this the genuine death-glaze? the Inspector asked himself and was a little afraid.

  Then Kien lifted an arm and extended it until he touched Therese's skirt. He compressed a fold of it between two fingers, let it go, pressed it again, let it go, and reached for the next fold. He drew a step closer; he seemed not wholly to trust his eyes and fingers, and approached his ear towards the noise which lüs hand drew from the starched folds; his nostrils quivered. 'That's enough, you dirty swine!' screamed the Inspector; the scornful movement of the prisoner's nose had not escaped him. 'Are you guilty or not?' 'What's that!' bellowed the caretaker; no one reprimanded him for the disturbance, they were all on tiptoe for the criminal's reply. Kien opened his mouth, possibly with the intention of tasting the skirt, but when it was open, he said: 'I confess my guilt. Yet part of the blame must redound to her. It is true, I locked her in. But was it necessary for her to devour her own body? She merited her death. One point I would beg you to clarify, for I feel a certain confusion. How do you explain die presence here of the murdered woman? I know her by her skirt.'

  He spoke very low. The spectators drew close round him, they wanted to catch what he said. His face was tense, as that of a dying man confessing his most torturing secret. 'Louder!' shouted the Inspector; he avoided the usual police words of command, he was acting radier as if he were in a theatre. The quiet of the others was reverential and tenacious. Instead of emphasizing his commands, he was now a lamb among lambs. The caretaker stood before him, leaning on the shoulders of two colleagues; both his arms rested, full length, on them. A circle formed about Kien and Thérèse. It closed in, no one would yield his place; one said: 'Bats in the be
lfry!' and tapped his own forehead. But he was ashamed at once and lowered his head; his words clashed with the general curiosity, he got black looks. Thérèse breathed: 'I ask you!' She was mistress here, everything revolved round her, she was consumed with curiosity, but she'd let that man have his lie out, then it would be her turn to speak, and everyone else would have to hold their tongues.