by Rawi Hage
At the funeral of Mr. Stain III, many honourable guests were in attendance, and the populist mayor promised to henceforth be even tougher on crime. The late CEO had left behind two beautiful daughters and a wife.
THE NEXT DAY a professor of political science at the local university was found, with his wife, mutilated and burned in the woods outside the city. The camping equipment and clothing of the victims had all been stolen. The couple, it was determined after forensic analysis, had been chained together and stabbed. In a gruesome statement, the police revealed that acts of cannibalism had been performed. Some of the limbs had been barbecued on the spot, and traces of human saliva were detected on the victims’ arms and thighs. The car of Edward Stain III, the young CEO, was found parked in the woods close to the scene. It was clear that the killer or killers must have switched cars. He, she, or they had arrived in the first victim’s car and left in the second. Both crimes appeared to have taken place on the same day.
The news about cannibalism caused renewed panic and debate all over the city. It even made the international news. Experts on cannibalism and satanic rituals were seen on every channel. A panellist who said that the act of cannibalism was justified in times of famine was condemned by the religious establishment, and the news channel was inundated with complaints and threats. The expert later stated that he had merely been referring to human history, and that cannibalism was an undeniable part of our past. He stated that there was proof of cannibalism by First World War soldiers, not to mention incidents as recent as the Vietnam War and after certain plane crashes. Journalists expanded on the topic, chairing panels on devil worshippers, Masonic lodges, and the demonization of Jews in Europe through false accusations by the Church and the Nazis alike.
In a lengthy obituary in one of the local newspapers, the professor was remembered for many of the conservative policies he had helped introduce through the current government. He had been, behind the scenes, an effective adviser on such policies as the abolishment of the gun registry, the dismantling of the census, and other deep cuts to the governmental bureaucracy. The life and work of the victim stirred another debate over the role of academia in the government, and vice versa. Political talk shows on radio and on television suddenly began to question politicians’ competence. Is the prime minister a mere front for ideologues and think tanks? Who are the brains that run this country? What is the role of academics and policy-makers in the forming of our values?
NEITHER THE INVESTIGATORS nor the journalists could find any kind of link connecting these latest victims to one another. Judging by their life histories, one could easily assume that the killings had a political motivation; yet, since the murders appeared to be the work of a psychopath or a serial killer, the focus of the investigation fell on the psychiatrist’s files, with a secondary focus on patients with possibly radical political affiliations.
The detectives estimated that, out of hundreds of bureaucrats and government employees who had been the doctor’s patients, seventy-five percent were on antidepressants and anti-psychotic medicines. Many at police headquarters began to joke that the country was being run by drugged-up zombies and potential mass murderers masquerading as bureaucrats. A chief investigator, discussing the case with his superiors, lit a cigar and said, What happened to going to a bar and getting drunk, getting a prostitute and waking up to go to work in the morning? No one can handle a drink anymore. Pills are the easy way out, and that is why this country is going down the tubes.
The head of the Episcopalian Church demanded the abolishment of the Carnival, stating that its pagan origins were an incitement to debauchery and violence. The Catholic Church was in a precarious position: carnivals had a long history in Church functions and, through the ages, these festivities had never been suppressed or condemned. In an eloquent act of defence, the spokesman for the Catholic Church invoked Francis of Assisi, who had spoken of “spiritual joy” and been known to call himself and his companions “God’s jugglers.” The spokesman blamed a few decadent elements for transforming the Carnival from a community affair into a drug-infested gay pride parade that was taking over the decent essence of the celebration.
When a task force was formed, ultimately recommending that the city shut down the Carnival, a counter-committee of local merchants, large corporations, and sponsors threatened to withhold their financial support for the mayor during the upcoming election, should the task force’s recommendations be followed.
THE LINK BETWEEN the killing of the taxi drivers and the murders of the psychiatrist, the professor, and the CEO continued to baffle the investigators. Ultimately, they came to suspect that two separate serial killers were at work. While the gruesome Corporate Murders, as they became known, had a clear psychotic element to them, the taxi murders were of a different nature. Those killings were not as spectacular and deranged as their corporate counterparts.
Yet both cases remained very puzzling to the police. In the case of the Corporate Murders, though, one breakthrough came from the fact that the killers had been sloppy and reckless. Security cameras had captured images of two men driving the CEO’s car out of the gym parking lot. Detectives were able to match a set of fingerprints in the car to those of a minor who had previously committed a felony.
TWO SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD BOYS by the name of Tammer Gonzalez Othman and Billy Bloom (known as Skippy the Bug) were identified as murder suspects in the corporate cases. They were caught and dragged to police headquarters for questioning.
“Skippy,” to the officers’ surprise, admitted to all three murders without hesitation, reciting the names and addresses of each of the victims, accurately describing the killings in precise detail, and even mimicking the victims’ reactions. He identified Tammer as his partner. When asked why they had chosen those people, he said that they had followed a list. When asked where they got the list, he said they found it at the house of a man named Otto.
The kid was incapable of lying or of feeling remorse, the police psychologist reported. During his questioning he had asked for a hamburger and a Coke. His statement was punctuated throughout with chuckles and even laughs.
Tammer was interrogated separately.
When the investigators asked him why they had gone to Otto’s house, Tammer said that it was to get some special suitcase for Otto.
Where is the suitcase now?
Under the bridge.
What was in the suitcase?
Papers.
What kind of papers?
Just papers.
What was written on them? the inspector asked.
Names of rich people, Tammer said.
How did you know that they were rich?
Tammer said that Otto had noted down the income of all the people on the list.
When asked if Skippy had looked at the list, Tammer answered, Skippy can’t read.
When questioned about the last time he’d seen Otto, he said Otto had shown up in a clown outfit under the bridge.
When they asked him to list the people he had killed, he named the three men that Skippy had described, and also added a fourth victim, Fredao Mwalila. He said that they’d used Fredao’s gun on the CEO.
Meanwhile, in the other interrogation room, Skippy asked if he could go to the bathroom. His feet were shackled and he was escorted by two officers. In the bathroom, he took off his shirt and started to wash his hair and face over the sink. There were still traces of blood on his undershirt. On the way out he stole the soap. Soap, he mumbled to himself, and smiled.
When Tammer and Skippy were brought together in the same room and asked if they had affiliations to any political group, they said no.
Do you go by any other name? the inspector asked, and Skippy said, The Savage Capitalists, and the boys looked at each other and laughed.
When asked if Otto had ordered the killings, they said no, they’d thought of them on their own.
When ask
ed if they’d killed any taxi drivers, they said no as well.
Who, then, was responsible for the killing of the taxi drivers? an inspector asked.
God knows, Skippy said, and chuckled.
MUD
I STOPPED BY Café Bolero. All the spiders had their newspapers spread out on the tables like a pageant of butterflies in a collector’s attic. They murmured and showed each other the photos of the Killer Kids.
I recognized Tammer and Skippy and I ran across the street and bought as many of the day’s papers as I could carry. I sat at the counter and I read. Their photographs were on the front page of every single newspaper and tabloid. Inside were stories about Skippy’s history inside juvenile detention centres and psychiatric institutions, and articles on the effects of prostitute mothers on kids’ lives. All of it was paraded in the local, national, and even international news. Otto’s picture was in many of the papers too. A prime suspect in the killing of the French journalist, he was mentioned as a foster parent to one of the Killer Kids. The link between the two raised multiple speculations and made for a convoluted story that left many unresolved ends. It was reported that Otto was on the run and was being actively pursued by the police. He was labelled a dangerous ideologue and extreme left terrorist with ties to anarchist organizations.
Once again, experts, this time on the history of anarchism, found their way into the news. The story of the Serbian Gavrilo Princip and his band of anarchists, which, one expert stressed with evident spite and delight, included a mysterious Arab who was later hanged — and their assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria, consequently triggering the First World War, was trotted out for the public like a history lesson explained to kids in an elementary school class. The life of the famous anarchist Emma Goldman was cited as a lesson in the failure of the movement and its practices of sexual liberation, which, they said, led only to promiscuity and debauchery. Clichés and misconceptions about the movement were revived and repeated. “Anarchist on the Run,” read the photo captions, and “The Resurgence of the Anarchist in the West” and “Why a Good Citizen Was Killed by an Anarchist” and all those words made me go to my car, leave the lantern off, and drive aimlessly.
I drove all evening. I watched the delinquents two surface at night and the partygoers two walk like dancers, impersonating movie stars and mobsters, straightening their collars, pulling down their hats, and reapplying their fading lipstick. I drove ignoring all the creatures who bumped their heads on my glass like blind birds and soundless bats trapped in a world devoid of insects. Then I drove up the mountain and gazed at the streets down below, searching. Futile, I thought: in the chaos of the Carnival, a clown could vanish like a laugh. And then, towards morning, I decided to go back home. I opened the garage door and I parked my car.
I saw the vague shadow of a man standing in the corner. The shadow approached me and I recognized Otto with a quilt over his shoulders. He looked like a defeated bat: his beard had grown, the wrinkles on his face had multiplied and traced deep lines that reached the corners of his eyes. His back was hunched and his face had the look of an old black-and-white photograph that had found its way out of an attic.
I didn’t want to come up, he said. They might be looking for me there.
Are you hungry? I asked.
I’m okay, he said.
I could go and grab something, I said.
No need, we will pick up something on the road.
Where to? I asked.
To Aisha’s, he said.
WE DROVE TOWARDS the limits of the city. Otto rode in the back seat and lay down for fear of being seen. He covered himself with the quilt as I drove through back alleys and into deserted streets. I sailed my boat in the manner of the black and golden ships bringing pharaohs to their burials down the Nile. Once the city was behind us, I stopped at a gas station and I bought water, food, and alcohol.
Otto moved from the back seat to the front. He reached for the bottle of alcohol, opened it, and drank as I drove.
This has to end, he said.
All ends, I said, and then I kept quiet because all was quiet. The roads narrowed and the trees swayed in the silence of dawn. A few cars passed us but no one seemed to be going anywhere. All was still except for the road that curved and passed and disappeared underneath our wheels. Trees appeared suddenly at the edge of the road; they grew in front of our eyes only to pass and shrink again in the frame of the rearview mirror. Otto opened the window and froze his face against the cold wind. Fresh air, he said. Fresh wind for the rodents and the cavemen, he said, raising his voice through the whistle of the open window. Then, to make a fire, he closed the window, lit a cigarette, opened the window again, and blew into the rushing air.
The ground is wet, Otto said. Look how all has turned grey. How I hate that pale colour. The colour of evenness and submission, the colour of dormitories and hospitals and jails. For the funeral of my father, my mother bought us grey suits. She said, Kids shouldn’t wear black. Kids should be in grey, and then one day she left us. I can’t even remember where she’s buried. Do you remember where your mother is buried, Fly?
Beside a river, I said. Somewhere between the Danube and the Italian heel. There was a band playing, and everyone wore bright colours.
Bright colours, lucky you.
We passed by a river. Otto suggested we stop to look at the water. There is a good view here, we can reach it by going behind the truck stop, he said. Pull over. There are no trucks at this hour.
I parked the car and stepped out. A cold wind was coming up from the water. Otto didn’t seem to mind. He saw me shivering and handed me the bottle. Here, this will keep you warm, he said. I took a sip and we walked through an opening in the bushes. The soil was indeed wet and muddy. We stood on the edge of the river and we looked at the currents rushing towards an old bridge and a few rocks standing on the shore.
This should end, Fly, Otto said again.
This? I asked.
This, me. This person here. This small universe. This insignificant star. This ephemeral river. All of it should end.
WE ARRIVED AT the cottage. The door was unlocked.
There must be another bottle around here somewhere, Otto said. Aisha had stopped drinking and worried about my habit, so I hid it from her. He went to the kitchen and came back with two glasses and a bottle of rum.
We poured ourselves drinks and we drank.
I asked Otto, What did you and Aisha talk about before she was gone?
Many things, he said. Her family, her childhood. She remembered reading The Iliad to Mrs. Rooney, the neighbour. She said that, during the battles, the Greeks burned their dead but the Trojans buried theirs. They all feared for the well-being of their corpses and wanted to protect them from birds and hungry dogs . . . Once she asked me to find a jazz station on the radio, but there are none in this area. We laughed about that . . . We talked on the days when she didn’t feel as bad, we had conversations about music and dance. She remembered a short story about a black jazz musician who played across the Atlantic in Paris for years, then one day decided to return home, only to be pursued and lynched by a mob . . . She remembered us dancing, she talked about her father. One day I asked her how she was feeling and she said she finally felt at peace, now that everything was about to end.
Let’s light a fire, Otto said suddenly, and got to his feet and went outside. He disappeared and came back with two logs in his hands. He laid them in the stove and started to make a fire, using some leaves as kindling.
We sat across from it and waited for the fire to appear. There was only smoke coming out.
The leaves are wet, Otto said. They’ll dry out soon.
It was cold and damp inside the cottage.
When the fire starts, it will warm up, Otto said.
Do you remember that tune, Fly? “Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea”? The great Thelonio
us, you used to call him. It went like this . . . Otto hummed a bar and swayed a bit. He always swayed gently when he drank.
What album might that be, Fly?
Straight, No Chaser, I said.
You know it, brother. Straight, No Chaser, he said, and smiled. There is no one left but you, Fly.
And you, I said.
Otto didn’t reply. The conversation stopped when the fire started to take off, and we sat quietly, looking at the smoke.
Then I suggested we eat.
Otto waved his hand and raised his drink and I understood his gesture. He raised the glass because he preferred to maintain the quietness of the place.
You can sleep on the bed if you are tired, he said.
I shook my head in negation. But when the flames started to dance inside the chimney, my eyes felt heavy and I slept on the chair with the empty rum glass in my hand.
Otto woke me up gently and said, Lie on the bed, Fly. It is more comfortable there.
And without resisting I stretched myself out on the bed and Otto took his quilt and covered me with it.
When I heard the gunshot, I must have been dreaming, because for the past few weeks I’d been having the same disturbing dream, which always struck me as very real and vivid. It was a chaotic dream, involving cars and a rundown place that I would struggle to escape from. There were always people chasing me in the dream, though I had never once seen their faces. But this night, I remember turning to confront them and to fight and then chasing them in return . . . I woke up sweating, thinking, They’ve killed another man. In my dreams, the victims were always nameless men.
