Woman of the Dead

by Bernhard Aichner

  • • •

  Every Sunday she had hoped that he would take her aside, that he would remember what she had told him so often. Blum had believed for a long time that he could help her because Jesus was a good man, because Blum had been stupid enough to believe that. Twenty-four years later she stands at the very back of the church looking at the altar, watching without emotion as Herbert Jaunig gives the blessing, spreading wide his arms and promising heaven. A hypocrite, a play-actor, not a man of God. Not Jesus, just a man in his midfifties. Not a lamb but a wolf.

  “Blum?”

  “Yes?”

  “How much longer?”

  “Not long. I can hear someone moving about. We must wait until the staff have gone home.”

  “Did I ever tell you you’re crazy?”

  “Yes, you did. But that won’t get you anywhere. We must go through with it now.”

  “But you know I’m a police officer.”

  “Don’t get so antsy, darling.”

  “We could at least open the champagne.”

  “We’re sitting in a closet, Mark.”

  “So? Is it against the rules to drink champagne in a closet?”

  “We wanted to celebrate in the mattress department.”

  “You wanted to.”

  “Because you don’t want a water bed. What else could I do?”

  “Correct, I’m not in favor of a water bed, and that’s why we’re spending the night in a furniture shop.”

  “Exactly.”

  “If they catch us it could be very awkward for me, you know.”

  “Then don’t be so impatient.”

  “I want to drink a toast with you here and now.”

  “We have to wait.”

  “Okay, then I want to kiss you while we wait.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then when?”

  “Soon.”

  “But I want to kiss you now, not later, Blum.”

  “Do you really, really want to kiss me now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then come with me.”

  • • •

  Blum opened the closet door and ran, ran on tiptoe through the furniture store. Hand in hand with Mark, upstairs. To the mattress studio, the water bed. They sank into it, giggling and embracing, then kissed. It was their wedding day, six years before. When she thinks of it, the memory still makes her tingle. She can see it in her mind’s eye—the face of the night watchman who suddenly appeared. The flashlight that came on, the beam of light shining on their bodies. Two lovers in each other’s arms, lying calmly on a water bed. Instead of jumping to their feet they simply looked up and past the watchman’s uniform to his face. No one said a thing, the night watchman didn’t move. Mark and Blum were smiling, there was no resistance. They gave themselves up and didn’t try to run away, but lay in their embrace, waiting to see how he reacted. The night watchman, the strong arm of the law. They were expecting the worst, but the worst didn’t happen. Instead of threatening them, exerting his authority over them, the night watchman grinned and politely informed them that the furniture shop was closed. Then he escorted them to the exit, just like that.

  • • •

  In the parking lot outside the furniture store they could hardly believe what had happened. To think that they’d been caught and there were no consequences! Only their laughter ringing out over the empty lot. Mark opened the champagne and Blum drank out of the bottle as they sat in the car, because it had begun to snow. Six years ago, in the little Polo where Blum was now waiting for Jaunig. Drinking champagne, holding hands, laughing until the bottle was empty. For a long time they sat in the car, watching the snowflakes fall, until the windshield was white, until they were alone. Mark and Blum, safe under a blanket of snow.

  • • •

  Blum is alone now. There is no snow on the windshield. The seat beside her is empty. It is summer, and what happened then is only a lovely, painful memory. Blum waits for Jaunig to come up the slope. She knows he will soon be running this way, it won’t be long now. He’s done that for the last four days, always at the same time. She has waited for him outside the presbytery. Every evening he has arrived in the forecourt of the cathedral in his gray tracksuit and begun to run. Out of the Old Town just before darkness fell. Over the bridge of the River Inn, along Höttingergasse and up to the forest.

  • • •

  Blum waits. She keeps looking in the rearview mirror, where she sees her face, her eyes. She thinks how Mark always told her that she had an unhappy mouth; it showed when she was sad or tired. She thinks of all the good things that Mark brought. How he had replaced her past.

  • • •

  Blum firmly believes he will come. She knows he will come. She has planned it all. She needed two days on her own, she said, two days at the seaside. Please, Karl, look after everything. I’m so grateful to you, Karl. She promised to bring the children something back, seashells and sand. She hugged Karl. Then she drank a glass of wine in the kitchen. The children were playing with modeling clay, and she decided on the next step, on what will happen when Herbert Jaunig appears at the end of the path. She remembers, with all her might, everything that isn’t here now, everything beautiful. She remembers Mark. It helps her justify what is about to happen.

  • • •

  The man of God comes, running towards Blum, who is ready to turn the key in the ignition. He can see the little car beside the path. He thinks nothing of it, he runs on. Until he reaches her, until she turns the key, about to step on the gas. Another twenty seconds. She must do it. Now, go!

  • • •

  She feels the car striking his body as the future bishop falls to the ground. She has only a brief glimpse of his horrified face; she doesn’t hesitate for a second, she runs him over, breaking bones. Pitilessly, Blum brakes and reverses. She must work fast, she must drag him into the car, force him into the trunk, wrestle with his legs, his arms, his torso. She jumps out of the car and uses all her strength to push, haul, and lift the priest into the small trunk. He is only a mass of flesh and bones. She ignores the pain he must be feeling. She ties him up with duct tape, gags and binds him. An accident, she thinks. Just an unfortunate accident. Breathlessly, she slams down the cover of the trunk, gets back into the car, and drives away. In six hours’ time she will be in Trieste. In six hours’ time she will talk to him. If he’s still alive then.

  • • •

  There are no traffic checks along the highway. She takes care not to attract attention; she has a full tank and doesn’t need to stop. She feels no pity for the priest. She doesn’t hear him groaning, doesn’t hear any noises coming from the car trunk. The sound of the engine drowns them out. The road runs through the Italian countryside, all of it familiar, every service station that she passes, the road signs at the exits. Blum and Jaunig are on their way to the sea. There is plenty of time to think, plenty of time to get accustomed to the situation, to the fact that she has killed before, and may kill again. She remembers that TV series.

  • • •

  Dexter. Mark loved it. He would sit in his study watching it for hours on end, watching a forensic scientist administering his own ideas of justice. Taking villains out of circulation, liberating the world from scum. Mark loved all seven seasons; he kept trying to persuade Blum to join him in the world of the serial murderer. Blum always laughed at him. She didn’t understand how Mark could think that anything on that show was remotely like reality. Nonsense, she said, lying down beside him on the sofa. It was all nonsense, so far-fetched, a man striking out on his own against the villains who had fallen through the net. A man of the law making sure that justice is done because no one else will. It was a fable of revenge, unrealistic and pointless. All the same, Blum lay there beside him, watching the man on the screen pinning his victims down on a table with plastic wrap. Plunging a knife into their hearts, then chopping them up and throwing the parts into the sea. It made Blum laugh. At Mark, and at Dexter. Dexter was nothing more than a mur
derer. She tried to get Mark to see that, but he defended Dexter to the hilt, even though he was a police officer himself.

  • • •

  Just before reaching Verona, Blum smiles. She has abducted a man, just like Mark’s hero, she has chopped him into pieces and put the pieces in caskets. She thinks of the hearse, the Funerary Institute, the cold room, the preparation room. Perfect conditions. Blum’s screenplay is better.

  • • •

  Blum drives on. She is composed, almost indifferent. She knows the peace that comes from within, even when your world has been turned upside down. She drives straight on. Just as she steered the boat so long ago. In the sunlight, eight years before. There’s nothing to stop her now. It’s the middle of the night, and Trieste lies just ahead. Herbert Jaunig is still alive. If she drives really slowly she can hear his groans, and the wheels passing over the asphalt. The sound of the wind, the car engine, and that muffled bellowing, distorted by the gag. Pain, despair, fear. Blum drives on without pity. He is still breathing, he can speak, and he will speak. They’re nearly there. Just down the winding roads to the harbor. The familiar pier, the Lanterna di Trieste, the old yacht, the sea.

  She slams the cover of the trunk down on his head, hitting Jaunig for the second time. He tries to sit up and shout for help, but Blum strikes again. She isn’t going to waste a second; she has parked the car close to the boat. Jaunig doesn’t have a chance, there’s no one there to help him, no one to prevent Blum from dragging him out of the car trunk and onto the yacht. Never mind how heavy he is, never mind how difficult the task is and how quickly it has to be done, Blum just gets on with it, because someone could come along at any moment. Jaunig has wet himself. He is just a piece of meat that she tips straight down into the mess area of the cabin, where they ate; he falls directly on the table. Unconscious in the bowels of the boat, defenseless as a baby.

  • • •

  Blum parks the car, unfastens the rope, and is ready to cast off in less than ten minutes. She wants to leave the harbor as quickly as she can, and be alone with him when he comes round. She ties him down to the table and pours gasoline over him. Then she starts the engine and steers the large boat carefully away from the pier. How good and familiar the world smells. Down below, Jaunig is coming to his senses. Overhead, the night sky is moving slowly towards day. Wonderful, she thinks, taking a long, deep breath. Italy.

  • • •

  She is out on the water now, far away from everyone. She feels free, even now, never mind what happens next. There is nothing but blue water, the waves, the salt on her skin. Maybe the sun will shine today, maybe it will rain. Never mind how the day turns out, Jaunig will be silenced. The whimpering and groaning will soon die away. She stays on deck a little while longer, steering the boat past the breakwaters, until she is thirteen miles out in the open sea. Then she turns the engine off and goes down below. She tells him to stop kicking up such a fuss or she’ll set him on fire. Then she tears the sticky tape off his mouth. He is in great pain, she can see, but he says nothing. He is trembling all over, but he tries to keep himself under control. He looks at Blum, he can’t move so much as an inch. Blum stands beside him with a lighter in her hand.

  • • •

  “If you lie to me I shall set you on fire.”

  “My legs. I can’t move them. You must help me.”

  “Did you understand what I said?”

  “You must get me to a hospital.”

  “You are going to tell me everything.”

  “What do you want from me? This is madness. Let me go. Please.”

  “I want to know who the other three men are. Where I can find them, their names.”

  “I need painkillers.”

  “Your pain is of no importance now.”

  “For God’s sake, put that lighter away.”

  “There were five of you. After Edwin Schönborn, that leaves three other men.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t say the wrong thing, because you aren’t going to get a second chance.”

  “I am a priest.”

  “That didn’t help the girls and the boy.”

  “We can talk about that later. It’s not what you think.”

  “No, it’s worse, much worse, and you know it.”

  “I don’t know who those men are. They wore masks. I have no idea who the others are. You must believe me.”

  “Why are you lying?”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “None of them will help you now.”

  “Do you want money? The diocese will set it all up. I can get you as much money as you want.”

  “You think you can go back to your cathedral and do good works, just as if nothing had happened?”

  “I never did anything else. You must believe me.”

  “Dunya. Ilena. Youn.”

  “They were lost souls. I was caring for their souls, don’t you understand? You must put that lighter away now and untie me.”

  “What about the boy? What did you and the others do to him?”

  “I can help you. You can still go back. It doesn’t all have to end like this. God will forgive you, believe me. His mercy is infinite.”

  “Hold your damn tongue.”

  “I can see that you’re unhappy, you have strayed, you can’t find your way back to the path of righteousness. You are helpless and desperate, let me stand by you. Please. Untie me.”

  “I was very happy once.”

  “You will be happy again. But only if you put that lighter down. What you’re doing won’t help anyone.”

  “My happiness is dead.”

  “I suggest we pray together. Whatever has happened to you, you can leave it behind you. Look at me. You have run me over, my bones are broken. You’ve put me in the trunk of a car, hit me, and poured gasoline over me. And yet I am ready to see the goodness in you. God’s help enables us to bear any pain.”

  “The police officer you and your friends ran over was my husband.”

  “I’m really sorry. But every loss can be overcome. You must look forward again, let life in once more.”

  “Yes, you’re right about that.”

  • • •

  The things he says. The things he doesn’t say. Asking anything else is pointless; he’d rather die than talk. Blum knows that. So she sets him on fire. Slowly and calmly she leans forward and holds the lighter to his clothes. As if she were lighting a candle, she sets the priest on fire, even if her reason tells her what she is doing is madness. She sees flames. The priest’s wide, staring eyes. The way he roars, abuses her. The wolf is trying to savage her with words. Jaunig begins to burn.

  • • •

  Slowly, Blum gets to her feet and climbs up on deck. She doesn’t turn to look back, she no longer hears his screams. She watches the sky grow gradually lighter. She doesn’t see Jaunig trying to tear himself free, tossing desperately back and forth, screaming for his life, trying to protect his face. She doesn’t see his burning clothes, his hair, his skin, she just stands there looking at the morning sky. For two long minutes, there is nothing but Blum and daybreak. Everything in her is still. She inhales the sea air, breathing deeply in and out. Then she goes below once more.

  • • •

  The foam from the fire extinguishers has preserved the boat from major damage. She protected everything round him, distributing the contents of three fire extinguishers on the floor and seats of the cabin. She tied Jaunig so tightly to the table that the flames remained under control, consuming only him. Blum has done it all exactly right. She acts very fast now. She throws blankets over Jaunig to put out the flames. There is smoke and soot everywhere, the mess looks like purgatory. Jaunig lies on the table before her. Jaunig is no longer breathing. The good Lord failed to come to his aid.

  • • •

  Blum surveys the scene. The boat has suffered damage to the cabin floor, upholstery and ceiling, and the mast. All the same, she smiles. She’ll have the cabin renov
ated. For years she’s been wanting to drive the spirit of Herta and Hagen out of the boat, change it to her taste. Now is the time and Jaunig has given her a reason. She will have it entirely refurnished in the spring and throw away the old fixtures and fittings. She will fulfill a dream, go sailing with the children in May. Everything she can see will be gone. There’ll be nothing to remind her of Jaunig.

  Blum is keeping watch. She has been sitting on the bench in front of the cathedral for over two hours, waiting. It is early morning, and she has driven all through the night, from Trieste to Innsbruck in four hours, twenty-four minutes. She wanted to get back to her children, to her family, to be rid of Jaunig at long last. So far no one has seen the plastic bag from the supermarket. The bag doesn’t look right here, it ought to attract attention. It cries out to be taken down from the cathedral door where Blum hung it. For two hours, she has been waiting for something to happen; for someone to find it.

  • • •

  Yesterday Blum was still at sea. It was a sunny day, a wonderful day. Exhausted and happy, she let the boat drift on the water. She had done the right thing. Jaunig was dead. Blum hasn’t often had burnt bodies on her preparation table, only a few times in her life. She went down to the cabin and stared at him, fascinated to see what damage the fire had done in just two minutes. The fire had taken hold everywhere his body was exposed, disfiguring his face, his hands.

  • • •

  Blum cut the dead priest’s head off. It had all gone according to plan; she put a bucket under the table and hacked at his neck with an ax until the head came away. She caught his blood in a bucket. Then she got rid of the body and cleaned up the blood. It was only a small cabin fire, an accident in the mess area, a candle she had forgotten to blow out. Blum scrubbed and scoured the soot on the cabin ceiling, the charred table. It almost looked as if nothing had happened. Then she put Jaunig’s head in a plastic bag and threw his body to the sharks.