by Bassoff, Jon
“And that’s what I did. Each evening, I would wait for her appearance. Most of the time it was shortly after eleven when she would stand in front of the window and gaze forlornly at the street below. Only a few moments before she would pull the curtains shut, but it was enough for me. Because once the curtain closed, I could still use my imagination to see her reading a book, or listening to music, or lying in bed. And it was those imaginings that eventually transformed into paintings…”
I wished Leider would shut up. I wished I could hang up the phone. But he kept talking. And I kept listening.
“But I know you’re curious about Claire. Of course you are! I won’t keep things a secret from you. Not from the fellow who’s living in my apartment and wearing my clothes! Here’s what I know about her. She was born on March 19, 1988 (a day when nearly a foot of snow fell) in Adena, Ohio, to Mike and Susan Browning. By all accounts, Mike was a good man and a hard worker. He was a carpenter by trade but lost his job in the recession and was forced to take a slew of part-time jobs—bus driver, prison guard, bartender. Still, he never called in sick, not a single time. Meanwhile, Susan, a lovely woman with a splendid figure though perhaps eyes a bit too far apart, stayed at home with Claire and Claire’s younger brother, Ryan. Remember that name for later, Mr. No Name! For her part, Claire was always a hard worker, always an overachiever. She became the valedictorian of her high school and attended Ohio State University. There she studied business and economics but became increasingly disillusioned by that world of slithery snakes. So after struggling through a couple of entry-level jobs, she hopped on a train and headed east to this wreck of a city where she intended to hit it big as a Broadway actress. And why not? She possessed a lovely voice (which I heard a single time from beneath her door). And her beauty! The angels had long plotted to strangle her out of pure jealousy. But, amazingly, in all of her time in the city she never got a single acting job. And, now, I fear she never will…”
The way he said that made me shiver. What the hell was he talking about? And now his voice was filled with static and was going in and out and in again, like a radio station losing reception.
“But I know what you’re wondering. You’re wondering how I found out all this information about Claire since I never met her, never spoke to her, only watched her from afar. As I mentioned previously, I became a detective for a short while. I had my sources who reported to me daily, hourly sometimes. They gave me good information. I found out, for example, that as a child she loved the Cleveland Indians. She wore a beat-up Indians hat to school every day, her long ponytail pulled through the half-moon opening in the back. And she would listen to the games, every inning, on a miniature radio that she’d purchased at a garage sale for four dollars. Her parents would tell her that it was time to sleep, but the game wouldn’t be over, so she’d sneak the little radio beneath her covers, turned on very softly, and press it against her ear, giggling when they won, but sobbing when they lost. Isn’t that an endearing detail, something that makes her more dynamic and easier to love? But wait! I’ve got more! In high school, from her sophomore year on, she was in love with a boy named Clayton Lackey, and she’d purposely plan her walk through the halls to coordinate with his, but he never noticed her, never even knew her name, and there is nothing sadder than unrequited love. In fact, and now you should pay attention, lovely Claire stayed pure through high school, stayed pure through college. She even stayed pure when she arrived in this cesspool of a city, swarming with sinners of the worst kind (women who spread seed on their filthy stomachs and sinful breasts, men who creep their fingers and cocks into every feminine crevice). A city teeming with vile parasites. Watch those cretins duck into darkened alleys, ready to slather themselves with city disease, ready to lap up sewer water and slick back hair with liquefied feces. A city that should be bombed into rubble, swallowed into the abyss. It would seem impossible for one to remain pure and unpolluted, correct? But she did! Claire did! She turned her back toward temptations, sealing cracks with cement when she smelled sin seeping through. That is why she appears in virginal white in my paintings. Look behind the yellow window. Can’t you see the white dress and how it tightens around her neck and extends all the way to her ankles? Look closely! That is how you paint purity. That is how you paint virtue.”
I staggered into the living room, going as far as the phone line would allow, and gazed at the paintings in question, and there she was, and she was indeed pure, she was indeed virtuous. Leider was a madman, this much was clear, but he was also a genius, and I would have told him if only my tongue wasn’t bloated, my throat numb.
“But enough of that. Did you find your way to the gallery? Pretty Pictures? Did you? No need to speak, because I know the answer. My sources told me you were there. And what did you think? A disturbing artistic space, I think. Paintings of rotted corpses being fucked by Dobermans. Infants being impaled by bayonets. Christ being sodomized by Pilate. The owner fancies himself a collector of the avant-garde, but in reality he is nothing more than a diseased fetishist, searching for grotesque and disturbing images to get his rocks off. It’s not art. It’s only the representation of very sick minds. Don’t think me prude or puritanical because I most certainly am not. But too often we mistake perversion for pushing the envelope. I only say these things because I’m sure you noticed that my painting was hanging in the gallery, covered by a velvet curtain. It will be revealed soon. I do hope you can be there for the grand opening! I will admit that my painting is grotesque. In fact, it’s terrifying! It’s the most terrifying painting ever created. But it’s not perversion for perversion sake. It’s far from gratuitous. No, this painting represents reality, in all its terrible and brutal glory…”
CHAPTER 12
Leider’s voice was becoming harder and harder to understand, syllables and vowels slurring together, ricocheting in my skull. So many questions I wanted to ask him (Where, exactly, did you come from and where did you go? Why did you leave in such a rush, your paintings and clothes left behind? What about Anthony Flowers? Were you jealous about his relationship with Claire? Did you slice his throat with an ice pick? Is that what happened?) but my vocal paralysis was complete, and I could not make a sound, could only listen to his ramblings, while the drool dribbled down my chin and dampened my T-shirt.
“But why are you so quiet, Mr. No Name? I know you’re there. I can hear your filthy breath. And you want to ask me about Anthony Flowers. It’s too bad your tongue is tied! Well, no matter. Let me tell you about him. He meant nothing to me. He was a blue-collar stiff who loaded crates from delivery trucks all day. Why should I have cared about him? He was just another worthless body on his way to becoming a corpse. But then, but then, but then. But then I saw him in Claire’s apartment. At that time I didn’t know he who was. He was just a guy. And he and Claire seemed to be enjoying each other’s company. Laughing. Nodding heads. She kept her curtains open so I could see. She wanted me to be jealous, and she succeeded. I was so disappointed in her! Remember how I painted her? In that white dress? In that white veil? Well. It fast became clear that she was no virginal angel. No, sir! Curtains wide, curtains wide, and I sat on the bed and watched through my binoculars as they hugged, as they kissed, and I felt sick to my stomach. No, that’s wrong; I felt as if I’d been stabbed in the stomach with a paring knife, the blade twisting around, slicing my innards. This I will admit to you. I cried. I hung my head and wept like a child. If anybody had pressed their ear against my door, they would have heard the mournful cries and gnashing of teeth. Be clear. It wasn’t that I was mourning the loss of Claire as a woman (I’d never even spoken to her!), but I was mourning the loss of my art. All of those months, pouring my heart and soul into those paintings, the representation of all that is good, the representation of all that is pure, and now I saw that it was a lie. Can you imagine? An artist feels pain more than mortal man, and I can only tell you that this pain was worse than familial death…
“Yes, my anger was focused squarely on
Claire. Wasn’t it she who had ruptured my trust? Wasn’t it she who had made me the fool, thinking she was good and pure? Wasn’t it she who had destroyed my faith by sticking her lizard tongue down that day laborer’s throat? And so each night I would watch her from the darkness of my room and I would imagine what it would feel like to place my thick fingers around her neck and squeeze. I visualized her face reddening and her eyes bulging and her blood trickling. Yes, my soul was engulfed by a terrible rage, and if somebody had been there to strike a match, her world and mine would have been burnt to the ground, only a few embers lighting the way for investigators and pig-faced bystanders. That’s how I felt initially. But it didn’t last. Because every time I would see her, I couldn’t help but recognizing that innate goodness that had attracted me to her in the first place. And if an artist cannot trust his instincts, then he will never produce great art. No, I decided, it is not she to blame, but rather the stranger in her house. After all, it was he who barged his way inside and, using tools taught to him by the devil himself, manipulated her into a position of submission. He soothed with his voice and controlled with his grip. She remained pure, I decided. It was he who needed to be taught a lesson or two. So I set to work on a pair of projects. Project number one was a new painting of Claire, a painting to truly reveal her beauty and purity. You see, all of my previous paintings of her had been from a distance, voyeuristic art in the vein of Edward Hopper or Vito Acconci. But that wasn’t enough. Mona Lisa gazes at us directly, without the protection of a glass veil, and that would have to be the case with Claire as well. If I had had the courage, I would have approached her, would have explained my situation as an artist and asked her to pose, but I have always been afraid of women, so I bought a camera instead, and it had a high-powered lens, and when her curtains were open, I snapped shot after shot after shot of her. If you are interested, the photos are hidden beneath the floorboards (as well as another item of note). It took me several weeks, but I finally snapped a photo that captured her beauty, and then I purchased a canvas and began painting, and I knew it would be my masterpiece, I knew it would be, but it was a struggle, every stroke had to be perfect, and sometimes I was paralyzed and was unable to paint for days at a time. I can now tell you that my series of yellow windows was only a crude rehearsal for my magnum opus.
“But I mentioned two projects. The first was the painting of Claire. The second were the letters to Anthony. You read these, no? It is fortunate that he lived in my very apartment building, just a single floor above. He lived with his mother. Yes, I saw the pathetic woman this morning, sobbing in the gutter, and certainly my heart broke for her. If I had been a man of courage, I would have approached her and, after introductions and condolences, explained that her son, Anthony, was better served as a stinking corpse than he was as a man. If only I had the courage! But, the truth is, I am a meek and mild man, terrified of any and all confrontations. Which is why for a long time I never approached Anthony. Just as I watched Claire from afar, I did the same with him. From behind doors and windows, I watched him, listened to him, gathered information. Eventually I wrote him letters, several of them, explaining the situation, pleading with him to let her be, but I never had the guts to mail them or to slip them beneath his door. See? I was a coward. But not for long.”
Leider cleared his throat, and I could hear him wheezing. My own stamina was running thin, and I returned to my bedroom, curled under my blanket and closed my eyes. He kept talking as I drifted in and out and in of slumber.
“I gave Anthony many chances to back away from Claire, to cease contaminating her soul. Weeks upon weeks I waited, and I watched, but he continued to enter her apartment, continued to poison the only chance I had of beauty. I continued painting her portrait, continued writing my letters. And when I wasn’t creating, I was watching. Watching Claire. Watching Anthony. Watching. He’d go to her apartment and sometimes they’d go out and sometimes they’d stay in. And it became harder and harder to paint, because I’d find myself wanting to press harder and harder on the brush, hard enough to tear through the canvas itself. At those moments I would force myself to drop the brush in question and return to my paper, return to my letters: Dear Anthony, you stinking heap of flesh, wait until I choke the life out of you, wait until I leave your corpse to rot and bubble and deteriorate in your heated room while your whore of a mother weeps and says, ‘I can hardly recognize him! He once was such a lovely boy and now he’s a bloated bunch of organs.’”
Leider laughed bitterly.
“But I kept my cool. Because despite their violent nature, it was only letters I was writing. We hear all the time how writing violent stories or painting grotesque images can be an outlet and can prevent actual destruction from taking place. They were letters, that’s all. An outlet. Don’t mistake them with a confession of guilt.
“But then that night. Late November and the wind was blowing cold and the sky was the color of coal. I hadn’t slept in many days, and my eyes were opening and closing quickly, the world turned to a flip book. Her curtains were closed, but my senses were acute, and somehow I could see through the curtains, could see not only their silhouettes, but the smallest detail of skin, the sparkle of eyes, the glint of teeth. And I watched as she removed her clothing and tossed them to the floor. You’d think I would have been excited, titillated, but I was merely disgusted. His influence had devolved her into a cheap whore, no different from the fat one I’d solicited. I watched as she positioned herself on all fours, watched as he removed his throbbing member from his pants and entered her from behind, watched as her eyes closed and her mouth opened in ecstasy, watched as my own hands trembled and then tightened into fists.
“It was then that I decided to kill him.
“It was the only way, you see. It was the only way to restore her purity, her innocence, her goodness. It was the only way to save my art.
“From the day I had moved in, I kept a low profile, rarely leaving the apartment, and when I did, I chose the hour of the wolf when the city was sleeping or dying. But while my neighbors scarcely knew of my existence, I was still cautious to keep my face concealed, to stay in the shadows, whenever I ventured outside to keep watch of Anthony. And now, morning after morning, I stood outside, hidden in the alley next to my building, and waited for him to appear with his lunch bucket and thermos. And then I would follow him, always staying a safe distance behind. He went to work, and it was a miserable job, loading crates all day, and I wondered how somebody with a job like that got a woman like that. I took detailed notes about his movements. Each human being, I think, is a prisoner of his habits, repeating the same series of circles and zigzags each day, and I soon learned Anthony’s. When he worked. When he took breaks. When he went to lunch. When he went home. I knew I needed to get him by himself, and those moments at work were rare. Certainly not enough time for me to pounce and slash. And not after work either. Whether in the bar or the restaurant or the subway, he was always surrounded by witnesses. Only one place. Outside the apartment. At night. I could pull him to the alley. The act would only take a moment. And my painting of Claire was almost complete.”
More laughter from Leider, and I knew, beyond doubt, that he was a madman. I knew how this story was going to end, and I didn’t want to hear. But I couldn’t bear to pull the phone away from my ear.
“Another dark night, another night with the wind blowing and the rain falling. I followed after him, just a specter in the shadows, and it was a strange power to know his fate while he remained oblivious. He wore a leather jacket and a gray wool hat. His hands were buried in his pocket, and he walked with his head down, shoving his way through the wind and rain. From somewhere, I could hear somebody playing “Moonlight Sonata,” the notes muted in the rain. The street was empty except for a drunk passed out beneath an awning. Anthony was going to die, he was going to die, and yet he kept walking toward his home, where his mother had a warm soup on the stove and a warm bread in the oven. I’m not a violent man, so you would have
thought that my heart would be racing and my legs would be unsteady, but instead I felt completely at ease, as if this was my fate, as if my whole life had been leading up to this singular moment. I quickened my pace until I was just a few yards behind him. I called out to him, and he spun around. Feigning a panicked voice, I pointed to the alley and told him that I needed help, that my wife was having a seizure, that I needed help, help, help. He hesitated, and he should have walked away because there are so many crazy people in the city, people who mean to do you harm, people who would just as soon slash you with an axe as hold open the door, but he trusted his instincts and followed me into the alley, and it was the first time I’d seen him up close, and he was just a kid. He was looking around, but there was no woman there, it was just he and I. With only a moment’s pause, I pulled out my slender knife and, watching myself from up high, sliced the blade across his throat. He cried out, but it was very soft, and then he reached to his throat and pressed against the wound, but soon his fingers had turned scarlet. He took one step forward, and then another, and then suddenly collapsed to the ground. I used my foot to kick him again and again, and the blood poured from his throat and mixed with the city rain. Then I took a step back and stared at the man who had just been walking and breathing and living, but now his eyes were bulging from their sockets, and his body was contorted grotesquely, and I knew that he was dead and that I had killed him I had killed him I had killed him I had killed him…”
And as Leider spoke, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I noticed that my own lips were mouthing those same words: “I had killed him I had killed him I had killed him…”
CHAPTER 13
Me: I’d like to report a crime.
Detective: What type of crime?
