Blood Crime

by Sebastia Alzamora

  “Great. Now you insinuate that I am dull simply because I am not jumping for joy before the sight of Doctor Frankenstein here and his hunchback friend. What will you do, have your creature kill me, too?”

  “For the love of God,” sighed Doctor Pellicer, crestfallen.

  Hadaly neighed briefly, the sound like an admonition. Out of the corner of his eye the superintendent glanced at the animal with apprehension.

  “Superintendent,” Judge Carbonissa said somewhat shyly, “you have nothing to fear from us or from Hadaly. We don’t wish anyone harm. As I’ve said, our goal is quite the opposite. At the risk of sounding immodest, I would say that Doctor Pellicer and I might be considered philanthropists.”

  “Go tell that to the fellow at the Church of Bethlehem,” replied the superintendent. Then he had an idea: “What are you, masons?”

  Judge Carbonissa and Doctor Pellicer exchanged a quick glance.

  “That is not a matter we need to clarify now,” said the doctor. “It is a policeman’s job to ask questions, but this one, if you don’t mind my saying, is irrelevant.”

  The superintendent raised a hand, then let it drop, conveying his lack of interest in the matter.

  “Superintendent,” the judge again addressed the officer. “Allow me to pose the question. Wouldn’t you agree that the real monstrosity is not to be found within this cave but outside, in the streets and homes of this city, where men are killing men, where fury, hatred and rage have poisoned people’s souls? Don’t you see that the true danger comes from the beasts running wild among us, not from Hadaly, who is merely the brainchild of two men who yearn to come closer to understanding life?”

  The superintendent couldn’t say whether the judge’s reasoning was absurd or whether it forced him to think, but the fact was he didn’t know how to respond.

  He looked at Judge Carbonissa and Doctor Pellicer and thought that although they might be crazy, not only were they harmless, but their behavior and mode of expression reflected a rare kind of goodness. He hadn’t encountered goodness in anyone since his mother’s death. I hope I’m not mistaken, he told himself.

  He waved away the cigarette smoke, gave the judge and the doctor his back and took a few steps, until he was in front of Hadaly. The horse observed him with a look that sent chills through him: What was in those eyes? Who was looking at him, exhausted, from the depths of those pupils, as though imploring his help?

  He caressed Hadaly’s muzzle and nodded. Then he turned to the men: “Could you please tell me how you reached this point?”

  “Hey. Hey.”

  “Mmm?”

  “Wake up. Open your eyes. Hey.”

  “Mmm? Where . . . ?”

  “Over here. Open your eyes.”

  “Where . . . am I?”

  “In the big house. Rise and shine, little priest.”

  Brother Pau Darder rubbed his eyes and opened them. The first thing he saw was Burntface standing at the foot of the cot, his scalded mug observing him, then the chamber pot in a corner of the room, next to the candle butt that was against the wall. Then, in front of him, the iron grille extending from wall to wall. He had been asleep but he couldn’t recall his dreams. It was as though he were already dead.

  “You do sleep a lot, little priest,” Burntface reprimanded him in his hoarse voice.

  Brother Darder covered his eyes with the palm of his hand. “I’m thirsty and hungry,” he said slowly. “When I sleep, at least I forget.”

  The Marist raised his head and saw, on the floor by the straw mattress, a pot full of brownish water and another that contained a few lumpy garbanzos. He started to spring for it but an intense nausea made him pause; he sat on the cot unable to move, queasy, his head spinning. A spasm made his stomach churn; he tried to vomit, but only succeeded in coughing and strings of saliva oozed from his mouth.

  “What a spectacle,” Burntface taunted him. “Aren’t you ashamed of welcoming guests in this manner, little priest?”

  “I don’t feel well. I need to get out of here,” murmured Brother Darder, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Burntface grinned. “Of course you do. You’re right, you need to beat it. But in order to do that you got to get your strength back. Go on, eat up.”

  Burntface crouched and grasped the pot of water in one hand and the garbanzos in the other. Very slowly, he brought them closer to Brother Darder, until they hovered beside his emaciated face. With his back resting against the wall, Brother Darder lifted a hand to grasp the garbanzos, but when his fingers were about to touch the tin pot, Burntface suddenly withdrew it.

  “You want your meals in bed, I got to put the fucking food in your mouth? You’re a spoiled brat from moneyed folks, little priest. You want the chow, you get up and get it.”

  Burntface turned around and walked to the other side of the cell. He placed the garbanzos on the floor by the chamber pot and peeked inside.

  “Son of a bitch, your insides rotten or what, little priest? You know you’re shitting green, don’t you?”

  Brother Darder didn’t say anything. He remained seated on the straw mattress, his back glued to the brick wall, his head canted to the side, on his shoulder.

  “No response?” asked Burntface, turning to him. “C’mon now. Come and get your grub.”

  The spots on Burntface’s face gathered into a scowl, as though he were staring at the sun.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” asked Brother Darder with a thread of a voice.

  With two steps, Burntface planted himself in front of the Marist, extended his arm, and slapped him with the palm of his hand, knocking his head against the wall.

  “Why am I doing what to you?” Burntface screamed, enraged. “What is it exactly that I am doing to you, stupid little priest?”

  He grabbed Brother Darder’s ear between his thumb and index fingers and jerked on it with such violence that the priest fell off the cot and onto the floor. Brother Darder felt as though something had exploded inside his skull.

  “Go get the food!” ordered the militiaman. “Go get it, dammit! Are you deaf?”

  Pressing one hand against the cot, the other against the wall, Brother Darder slowly gained his footing. His head throbbed; sharp pains cut through him, as though he had been pierced through with one of those sackcloth needles his father used to stitch together the sacks of grain in his warehouse.

  Emili will bring shame on his family.

  He took one step and tottered. He thought about the rats outside his window.

  “What’s the matter, little priest? I thought you were hungry. You’re three steps away from the food. You can’t take three sorry steps?”

  Three steps. It would be more than that—his steps were small now. And he was tormented by the pain. He took one more step, then another. He was shivering as though from a fever. Come to think of it, it probably was a fever.

  Suddenly he found himself back on the floor. He had lost his balance. No—Burntface had tripped him.

  “That won’t do, little priest!” Burntface shouted above him. Brother Darder shifted his head and saw his tormentor’s boots. “Better watch your step! Go on, get up and eat!”

  A blow to his nape made him kiss the ground again. Another of Burntface’s caresses, this time delivered with the side of his hand.

  “What’s keeping you? Get moving, we don’t have all day, dammit!”

  Brother Darder’s head boomed; it felt as though it was about to explode. His teeth ached as well and he recognized the greasy texture and the unmistakable taste of blood; he started to run his tongue over them but the pain stopped him.

  “You better get up, little priest, or I’ll have to give you a real beating. You hear me?”

  Fear. Fear. He didn’t want to be beaten again. He couldn’t take any more blows from that singed-face beast. He propped himself up on
his elbows and flexed his legs until he was in a kneeling position. Then another push, and he was up. He looked straight in front of him: two small steps and he would be at the pots. He glimpsed the chamber pot and its revolting contents, no longer disgusted. He felt only pain—and fear. He couldn’t take any more thrashing.

  His first step was more assured than he had expected.

  “Good, little priest. You’re almost there.” Burntface was breathing down his back, whispering in his ear.

  The shivering started again and he paused for an instant. He breathed deeply and swallowed some blood. One more step. He put his right foot forward, but before it came to rest on the floor, Burntface had knocked him off balance with a knee-jab to his left calf and a shove to his back that threw him against the wall. He held his hands out in front of him as he hit the wall, but he couldn’t keep from tumbling to the floor again. He lay there, curled up in a fetal position, within reach of the pots of water and garbanzo beans and the chamber pot.

  “See how you were able to make it to the food, little priest? You only needed a little push, didn’t you? A little push was all it took to get you there. Are you not hungry anymore, little priest? Are you not thirsty?”

  Brother Darder coughed and spat out blood. Perhaps he had broken a tooth—there was a sharp pain in his mouth. Slowly, he stretched his body to reach the pot of water. He had to have a sip.

  But it was not to be. Burntface bounded forward and, with a kick, knocked over the pots and the chamber pot. The water and garbanzo beans lay scattered across the floor next to a pool of greenish fecal matter. Some of it splattered on Brother Darder’s clothes and on his face, which wore a blank expression.

  “See what you’ve done now, little priest. You’re a real mess, aren’t you?” Burntface taunted him. “There’ll be no slop for you now. You’ll have to wait for me to bring you some more. And, to tell you the truth, I don’t know when that will be. Oh—wait—you could just eat it as is, seasoned with a bit of your own crap! Don’t you like eating shit, little priest?”

  Brother Darder recalled the rats.

  He thought about Brother Gendrau, killed next to a child, and about the blood puddle that had formed beneath their bodies.

  He wouldn’t have been able to say where he got the strength: it was as though he were a puppet and someone were making him go this way and that. He jumped up and pounced on Burntface, grabbing him by the waist. The militiaman was caught off guard and fell backward.

  “Son of a bitch!” he screamed as his hand went to his waist, in search of his gun.

  He didn’t make it in time. Brother Darder raised his fist and delivered a ferocious blow to the militiaman’s crotch and he doubled over and wailed in pain. His hand continued to fumble at his waist, but Brother Darder grabbed it and bit into it as hard as he could, drawing blood.

  Burntface scrambled to get away from the Marist and managed to half-sit up to defend himself. But Brother Darder was so filled with rage that he seemed to have taken on the strength of two men. He moved frantically, eyes bulging, mouth full of blood, and swooped down on his jailer, grabbed him by the neck with one hand, and pounded his pocked face with the other, the fury of his actions emanating from the depths of his soul or from some other, unknown source. Another punch, and another. And another. Each harder, wilder.

  The men fought in a silence disturbed only by the dull sound of flesh being pounded. Burntface punched Brother Darder in the face, the neck, the abdomen, and drove his knees into his opponent’s back. But the Marist took the blows in stride, as though suddenly desensitized to pain, and he kept up the speed and brutality of his attack. Like a jackhammer, he hit and hit, until his jailer’s face was a deformed, bloodied mass. At some point he heard the crunching sound of bones breaking and he smiled when he realized they weren’t his own.

  He suddenly understood the rodents’ pleasure as they tore at the body of their dying comrade.

  Burntface had not moved for a while. Brother Darder stopped when he finally realized how tired he was. The priest huffed like the engine of an old, overheated car, but he was exultant. The militiaman mumbled something—he was still alive.

  Brother Darder stood up with a lightness that only minutes before would have been unthinkable, and then he crouched down again, maneuvered his hand under Burntface’s ribcage and flipped him over so that he lay face down. The militiaman made guttural sounds, muttering incoherently like a drunk sleeping off a hangover. Still panting, Brother Darder sat on Burntface’s back, grabbed him by his hair and lifted his head. Then, with all the strength he was still able to marshal, he slammed it against the floor. Again and again—and again. On the seventh time his skull cracked, a sound like glass falling on stone. Burntface’s body writhed a couple of times. Then it was still.

  Brother Darder rose and observed the blood oozing from his jailer’s bashed skull, mixing with the paste formed by the garbanzos, the water and the feces.

  He thought: If God so deems it . . .

  God had done nothing to prevent it.

  He rummaged through the militiaman’s uniform and found thirty pesetas in paper money and a bunch of keys. He opened the door to that hellhole, stepped out onto the stifling, low-ceilinged landing, and bolted the door with two turns of the key.

  Part 3

  Stabat Mater

  He wrote:

  I am comfortable here.

  I like the coolness of the chapel in the middle of the night when everyone is asleep and I can be there alone, contemplating the images of the saints.

  I like the smell of clean clothes hung out to dry on the small terrace by the laundry room; I get close and breathe in the soap and bleach-scented air.

  I like the gothic arcade of the gallery in the cloister. So simple, so delicate, so elegant.

  I like to sit in a corner by the woodshed and wait for the mice to come out. I enjoy catching them.

  I feel good here. Protected by these stone walls, sheltered from the incessant clamoring of war. In the company of the Holy Ghost. In the company of monsters.

  I am but a poor chimney sweep who has left his coffin and now wanders aimlessly through a city that is bathed in blood.

  When the moon is high, I enjoy walking silently down the hall where the cells are, watching over the nuns’ sleep.

  I am fond of the sleepless young girl confined in her small alcove, striving to compose a piece of sacred music. There is a certain beauty to such futile efforts.

  The convent is an orderly world, oblivious to the chaos that governs the city. A world in which everyone performs the task assigned them and fulfills it in the best possible manner.

  I could easily grow accustomed to such a place. A place where I can rest, protected by the shadows. A place where I am well taken care of.

  I have made a foolish mistake.

  Oh, yes, it was foolish, but there are times when a vampire is unable to tame his thirst no matter how hard he tries. And the pigs were right there, nice and warm, nestled in the straw and dung, lying on their bed of fruit skins and potato peels, sleeping.

  I had only to sink my teeth into them.

  The first one was easy because I caught it deep in slumber. The second, not so much: it was roused by the squeals from the first (just the one squeal, really—I snapped its neck at once) and tried to defend itself. Pigs are ferocious fighters.

  But I knew how to grapple with them. It had been a long time since I had feasted on the blood of barnyard animals, but I remembered the method well.

  I started by slowly removing my jacket without glancing away from the animal’s eyes, the creature observing me, gauging how best to tackle me. We were locked in that stance for a long time; removing my jacket seemed to take forever.

  Finally, the pig charged toward me. I saw it flying at me, enormous.

  In one breath, I wrapped my left arm in my jacket—a thick jacket like a milit
ary coat, but soft and pleasant to the touch—and offered it to the pig. The animal’s canines sank into the cloth, tearing through it down to the flesh. It clamped its jaws and bit harder and harder, furious, grunting, slobbering. I held out my arm as firmly as I could, though the pig kept jerking and it felt as though my arm was on the point of being severed. I raised my other arm, fist clenched, and delivered a hard, blunt blow to the animal’s head. Its eyes bulged; the sound of its skull cracking thrilled me. Its bite slackened; it released me and took a few steps on shaky legs. Then it collapsed, heavy. Inert.

  I unwrapped the jacket from around my arm and observed the blood. I sucked on it greedily. I approached the pig, lying with its back to me, and crouched to make sure it was dead. With a swift motion, I flipped the animal over, belly up. Then I saw it had my own face. I felt an unspeakable anger. I threw myself on the pigs, sank my teeth into them and drank their blood until I was sated.

  “What a pleasure, Superintendent Muñoz.”

  Manuel Escorza uttered the words with an affability that seemed almost sincere. Seated in an armchair in his office at the Department of Investigations, he resembled an oversized puppet that someone had left as a prank intended for whoever happened to be passing by. He was flanked by Aureli Fernández and Antoni Ordaz, who sat silently in upholstered armchairs, the three of them forming a semicircle. In the center, at a rather formal distance, sat Superintendent Gregori Muñoz.

  “Likewise, sir.”

  Escorza flicked his hand as though waving away a fly. “Let’s do away with bourgeois formalities. To you, superintendent, I am a comrade.”

  “As you wish, sir—that is, comrade.”

  “The two men joining us,” said Escorza, “are Comrades Aureli Fernández, who heads our Committee of Antifascist Militias, and Comrade Antoni Ordaz, who works with him.”