Auto-Da-Fé

by Elias Canetti

  "What's that?' bellowed the caretaker. They were getting at him, at his daughter; they all thought they could say what they liked about her; couldn't leave the poor kid in peace in her grave. Kien was too deeply stricken even to move his lips. The difficulties of the trial were increasing. Murder is always murder. Did not these monsters burn Giordano Bruno? He was fighting in vain against hallucination — who would give him the power to convince an uneducated jury of his importance?

  "Who are you then, sir?' shouted the Inspector. 'Speak up if you please!' With two fingers he pulled at Kien s shirt-sleeve. He would ave liked to squash him between two finger-nails. What kind of an education is this, which can only produce a couple of sentences and then not a word in answer to a reasonable question? True education reveals itself in a man's bearing, in his immaculate appearance and in the art of interrogation. Gravely, and ever more confident of his superiority, the Inspector retired behind his table. The wooden seat of the chair on which he usually sat was covered by a soft cushion, the only one in the sub-station, on which, in letters of scarlet embroidery, was clearly to be read: PRIVATE PROPERTY. These words were intended to remind his inferiors that — even in his absence — they had no right to it. The fellows had a reprehensible tendency to slide the cushion under their own bodies. With a few deft movements he set it to rights; before he seated himself, the words PRIVATE PROPERTY must be precisely parallel with his eyes, which overlooked no opportunity of drawing strength from the phrase. He turned his back on the chair. It was hard to tear himself from contemplation of the cushion, even harder so to seat himself that the cushion should not be disturbed. Slowly he lowered himself; for a few seconds he restrained his backside. Only when this part of his person had PRIVATE PROPERTY in its proper place he allowed himself to put pressure on it. As soon as he was sitting, no thief in the world — even if he had passed Matric and more — could have imposed on him. Swiftly he took a last peep at his little mirror. His tie, like himself, sat firmly but with elegance. His hair, brushed back, was disciplined with grease, not a hair out of place. His nose was too short. It gave him the spur he needed; he flung himself into the inquiry.

  His people supported him. He had said 'clown'; they found the word apt. Since the prisoner had grown boring, they were thinking of their own dignity. The man with a memory burnt with zeal. He had agreed with himself on fourteen points. Scarcely had the Inspector's contemptuous finger-nails let go of Kien, than he was conducted, in his shirt, to the table. There they let him go. He stood up by himself. It was just as well. If he had fallen now, no one would have helped him. They knew he had strength of his own. They took him for an obstinate play-actor. Even his thinness was no longer convincing. He was certainly not under-nourished. The proud father grew anxious at his son's good German composition. This was what book-learning led to.

  'Do you recognize these clothes?' asked the Inspector, and pointed to the jacket, waistcoat, trousers, socks and shoes which were strewed over the table. As he spoke he looked him sharply in the eye to notice the effect of his words. His determination was rocklike, to proceed systematically and so to entrap the criminal. Kien nodded. He was holding tightly on to the table edge with both hands. The mirage, he knew, was behind him. He overcame the desire to turn round and see whether it was still there. He thought it wiser to answer. So as not to annoy the magistrate — for this must be the magistrate — he would answer his questions. He would have preferred to give a description of the murder in a connected speech. He disliked dialogues; he was accustomed to develop his views in lengthy dissertations. But he recognized that every craftsman has his own methods and submitted himself. Secretly he hoped that in die absorbing interplay of question and answer he would re-live Theresc's death with such vigour that the mirage would dissolve itself. As long as he could he would spin out the matter with this magistrate, and prove to him that Therese's death was essential. When the report was drawn up in all its detail, and every doubt of his complicity had vanished, when with the help of unmistakable proofs he had been persuaded of her end, then, and on no account before, he would permit himself to turn round, and far behind where she had stood laugh into the empty air. Surely she must already be far behind me, he said to himself, for he felt her to be very close. The more violently he drove his fingers into the table, the further would she vanish from his sight. But she might at any moment touch him from behind. He counted on a photograph of the skeleton, as it had been found. The caretaker's description alone seemed insufficient. Human beings are fallible. Dogs, unfortunately, cannot talk. The most reliable witness would have been the bloodhound, which had bitten her dress into tiny fragments and eaten it up.

  But a man in the Inspector's position was not to be satisfied with a mere nod. 'Answer Yes or No!' he commanded. 'I shall repeat the question.'

  Kien said: 'Yes.'

  'Wait until I repeat the question! Do you recognize these clothes?'

  'Yes.' He assumed they were talking of the murdered woman's clothes and did not even look.

  'You admit that these clothes belong to you?'

  'No, to her.'

  The Inspector saw through him; it was child's play. So as to dissociate himself from the money and the stolen papers found in his clothes, the shameless scoundrel actually dared to make the assertion that the clothes belonged to the woman over there, whom he had robbed. The Inspector remained calm, although he had undressed him with his own hands, and in all his long years of experience had never before encountered a comparable insolence. With a fleeting smile he reached for the trousers, and held them up: 'Even these trousers !'

  Kien observed them. 'Those are men's trousers,' he said, unpleasantly disturbed, because this object had nothing to do with Thérèse.

  'You admit then, men's trousers.'

  'Naturally. '

  "Whose trousers do you suppose these to be?'

  'I can hardly know that. Were they found with the dead woman?'

  The Inspector made a point of ignoring his sentence. He intended to nip the murder story and any other red-herrings in the bud as soon as they made their appearance.

  'Indeed; you can hardly know that.'

  Quick as lightning he pulled out his pocket mirror and held it out towards Kien, not so near but that he could see himself almost full-length.

  'Do you know who that is?' he asked. Every muscle of his face was taut to breaking.

  'It is... I, myself,' stammered Kien, and clutched at his shirt. 'Where ... where are my trousers?' He was utterly astounded to see himself in this guise; even his shoes and socks were missing.

  'Aha!' the Inspector jubilated. 'Now put on your trousers again!'

  He handed them to him, on the alert for a new trick. Kien received them and hastily pulled them on. Before the Inspector put his mirror away, he took a hasty peep into it, an impulse which in the interests of surprise he had previously suppressed. He knew how to control himself. His bearing was faultless. He felt a particular delight in the ease with which this examination was developing. The criminal meanwhile spontaneously put on all the rest of the clothes. It would have been superfluous to prove his ownership of each separate article. The Inspector understood what kind of criminal he had to reckon with, and husbanded his resources. The opening phase had not lasted three minutes. He would like to see anyone else try to do as well. He was so happy that he would gladly have stopped there. To be able to proceed, he took one more peep in his mirror, was exasperated by his nose and asked with renewed energy —just as the thief slipped on his jacket:

  'And now what's your name?'

  'Dr. Peter Kien.'

  'Why not indeed! Your profession?'

  'Scholar and librarian.'

  The Inspector had the impression that he had heard both these claims before. In spite of his memory, which was as short as his nose, he grabbed at one of the stolen papers and read aloud: 'Dr. Peter Kien. Scholar and librarian.' This new trick on the part of the criminal threw him a little out of his plan. He had recognized the clothes as hi
s own and now he was pretending that the papers were genuine. His situation must indeed seem desperate for him to clutch at so crazy a straw. In cases like this a single surprise question often leads at one stroke to the goal.

  'And how much money had you when you left home this morning, Dr. Kien?'

  'I am in no position to say. I am not in the habit of counting my money.'

  'As long as you haven't got it, no doubt!'

  He watched for the effect of this stroke. Even during preliminary examinations, he let it be seen that he knew everything, though he still behaved courteously. The criminal's face fell. His disappointment spoke whole documents. The Inspector decided on an immediate second attack, at a no less vulnerable part of the guilty man, the question of domicile. Unobtrusively, hesitatively and almost dreaming, his left hand slid over the papers — until he had found a certain entry and had covered it over completely. It was the address. High-class criminals can read upside down. So the Inspector took up his last position. Then he held out his right arm, invitingly and imploringly and said, quite by the way:

  "Where did you sleep last night?'

  'At an hotel — I am uncertain of the name,' replied Kien.

  The Inspector lifted his left hand and read: '24 Ehrlich Strasse.'

  'That was where they found the body,' explained Kien, and breathed a sigh of relief. At last they were getting to the murder.

  'Found, you say? Do you know what we call it here?'

  'You are, admittedly, right. If we are to take the matter literally, there was nothing of her left.'

  'Take? Let us say straight out, steal!'

  Kien started. What was stolen? Not the skirt? On the skirt, and its subsequent destruction by the bloodhound, rested the whole of his defence against the mirage. 'The skirt was found at the scene of the crime!' he asserted in a firm voice.

  'The scene of the crime? You recognize what you are admitting?' A confirmatory nod passed through the surrounding police. 'I take you for an educated man. You admit, presumably, that a scene of* a crime presupposes a crime? You are at liberty to withdraw your statement. But it is my duty to call your attention to the unfortunate impression it would make. I am advising you for your own good. You will do better to admit everything. Let's admit everything, my good man! Confess. We know all! Denying will do you no good. You've let the scene of the crime slip out. Admit everything and I'll put in a good word for you! Admit everything in order! We have made our own investigations. How can you hope to escape? You walked into the trap yourself! The scene of the crime presupposes a crime. I take it I am right, gentlemen?'

  When he said 'gentlemen' the gentlemen knew that he had victory in the palm of his hand, and overwhelmed him with admiring glances. Each hastened to do better than the other. The man with a memory saw that there was going to be nothing for him, and abandoned Ins old plan. He darted forward, seized the lucky hand of the Inspector and shouted: 'Inspector, permit me to congratulate you!'

  The Inspector knew well what an incomparable feat he had just achieved. A modest man, he avoided honours as much as possible. But to-day it was too much for him. Pale and excited he rose to his feet, bowed to left and right, sought for words and at length expressed his deep emotion in a simple phrase: 'Thank you, gentlemen.'

  'Moved almost to tears,' thought the happy father; he had a taste for affecting scenes.

  Kien was about to speak. He had been challenged to tell the whole story in order. What oetter fortune could he have hoped for? Repeatedly he tried to begin. But the applause interrupted him. He cursed the bowing and scraping of the police, which he thought was directed to him. These people put him off before he could even begin. Their strange behaviour seemed an attempt to influence him. Although he suspected movements behind his back, he would not look round. The whole truth was before him. The mirage may have vanished already. He might describe the whole of his married life with the incontrovertibly dead Thérèse. His position at the trial would be very much ameliorated by this, but he cares little for such amelioration. Rather would he describe the details of her death, with which he had himself been concerned in the most decisive fashion. It was essential to understand the art of interesting even the police; they will listen gladly to anything in their own routine. Murders are the common routine of mankind. Is there anyone who takes no pleasure in murder?

  At long last the Inspector sat down again; he forgot what he was sitting on and did not once look round to see how Private Property was arranged. Since he had outwitted the criminal, he hated him less. He thought it best to let him say his fill. His success had altered his whole life. His nose was a normal size. Deep in its pocket lay the mirror, utterly forgotten; it served no purpose. Why do people worry soi Life is elegant. New designs for ties appear daily. You must know how to wear them. Most people look like monkeys in them. He needs no looking-glass. He ties by touch. His success justifies his action. He is unassuming. Often he bows to people. His men respect him. His good reputation makes hard work a pleasure to him. He does not stop at regulations. Regulations are for criminals. He makes them confess spontaneously, for his technique is faultless.

  'Hardly had the door closed behind her,' Kien began, 'when I was aware of my good fortune.' He began with a wide sweep, but it was within himself, in the depths of his determined soul. He knew exactly what things in fact led up to the event. Who should know the motives for his crime better than the perpetrator? He saw from alpha to omega, every link of the coil in which he had bound Thérèse. With a certain irony, he set forth the facts for this audience of man — and sensation — hunters. He could have spoken of more interesting things. It was a pity; but they were none of them men of learning. He treated them like men of normal education. Very probably they had not even that. He avoided quotations from the Chinese. They might interrupt him to ask who Mong Tse might be. Fundamentally, it gave him pleasure to speak of simple facts simply, and in a way to be understood by all. In his story were combined the acuteness and the sobriety which he owed to the writers of classical China. While Thérèse died again, his thoughts went back to the library, whence had flowed forth such great services to learning. Soon the flow would be resumed. His acquittal was a foregone conclusion. All the same, he planned a very different appearance before his judges. There he would unfold the ample splendour of his learning. The whole world would listen when probably the greatest sinologist of his time spoke his Defence of Learning. In this place, he spoke more modestly. He falsified nothing, he made no concessions, but he simplified.

  'For weeks I left her alone. Convinced that she must die of hunger, I passed night after night at hotels. Bitterly did I miss my library, believe me; I had to content myself with a small substitute library, which, for essential needs, I kept always at hand. The locks on my door are strong — I was not tormented by the fear that burglars might release her. Imagine for yourselves her condition: all provisions are consumed. Enfeebled and full of hatred she lies on the floor, in front of that very desk in which she had so often looked for money. Her only thoughts were of money. In nothing did she resemble a flower. Of the thoughts which came into my head when I sat at that writing desk, at the time when I still shared my dwelling with her, I will not tell you to-day. For weeks I had to live, for fear that she should steal my manuscripts, petrified into a guardian-statue. This was the period or my deepest humiliation. When my head glowed for work, I had to say to myself: you are made of stone, and to remain motionless, I believed it myself. Those of you who have ever had to watch over a treasure, will readily be able to put yourselves in my place. I do not believe in fate; but she hastened towards hers. Instead of me — for by many a secret assault she brought me near to death — she now lay there, devoured by her own mad hunger. She did not know how to help herself. She had not sufficient self-control. She devoured herself. Piece by piece of her body fell a prey to her greed. Day by day she grew thinner. She was too weak to stand, but lay there in her own faith. Perhaps I seem thin to you. Compared to me she was the shadow of a being,
pitiful and despicable; had she stood up a breath of wind could have snapped her in two, I verily believe even a child. I cannot particularize further. The blue skirt, which she always wore, covered her skeleton. It was starched, and thanks to this peculiarity held the repulsive remains of her body together. One day she breathed her last. Even this expression appears to me corrupt, for very probably she had no lungs left. No one was with her in her last hour; who could have remained week in, week out, with that skeleton? She was deep in filth. The flesh which she had torn off in strips from her body stank to heaven. Corruption set in before she was dead. All this happened in my library, in the presence of the books. I shall have the place cleaned. She shortened this process by no suicide. There was nothing sacred about her; she was very cruel. She pretended a hypocritical love of books as long as she thought I would make a will in her favour. Day and night she spoke ofthat will. She nursed me to sickness and left me alive only because she was uncertain of the will. I am telling you the plain truth. I have very grave doubts as to whether she could read and write fluently. Believe me, learning has made truth a duty with me. Her origins were obscure. She locked up the flat, she permitted me the use of one room, and even that she took from me. And she came to a bad end. The caretaker broke into the flat. A retired policeman, he was able to achieve what burglars had tried in vain. I regard him as a trustworthy person. He found her in her skirt, a repellent, evil-smelling, hideous skeleton, dead, completely dead, not for one moment did he doubt her death. He called in the neighbours; the joy in the entire block was universal. It was no longer possible to state the precise time when death had occurred; but it had occurred, and it was generally agreed that this was the essential fact. Not less than fifty tenants of the block filed past the body. Not one uttered a doubt; each acquiesced in a fact which could not be recalled.