Poisonous Kiss

by Andras Totisz

  John reached into his pocket. He pulled out an empty cigarette pack, and swearing, he crumpled it. He wasn't watching the entrance door, he was watching me.

  "How is it different? What is this virus like?" he asked. "Or is this something I wouldn't understand?"

  I have to tell him. I have to tell him everything, but not now, worn out and broken, in the car. I couldn't. I came here to tell him everything. I thought I would be able to force myself to tell him in a pleasant, dimly-lit bar, where we'd be sitting next to each other, sipping a cocktail. I was a romantic fool!

  Someone came out of the club. He looked familiar. When the light suddenly illuminated his face, I knew why. He was the guy who wanted to pick a fight with John.

  "Look!" I whispered with relief.

  The guy was leaning against one of the cars, smoking and waiting.

  "Why were you so sure I would win that fight?" he asked. His voice sounded the way it had during our first sessions, soon after his accident. Then, he was exploring his own weaknesses, trying to find out what prevented him from being a really good cop, what prevented him from saving Carl's life. I could see him investigating himself. He's not a stupid man. He's noticed the change. Now he wants to explore the limits of this new freedom, and fortunately, he has turned to me again.

  Suddenly I didn't feel like crying anymore. I had a chance to really help him, and it did more to improve my spirits than his efforts to console me.

  "I sensed that you were calm, prepared to handle the situation," I started. "You might think I say this because I'm just some woman who doesn't understand anything about fights. But don't forget that I've been dealing with the psychology of aggression for over ten years. There's more to aggression than a desire to hurt some one. A certain level of aggressiveness is healthy. Without a little aggression, no one would attempt anything bold, daring, untried. Aggression can help you handle difficult situations. Remember Carl's death? You were paralyzed by the danger of the situation. And not because you are a coward. If you were a coward, you wouldn't have been there. You wouldn't have taken up a job as a detective in a dangerous city. You have handled lots of dangerous situations fantastically. The reason you were paralyzed in the stairway was because you lacked the ability to commit a violent act."

  I have no idea why I said all this. Maybe I was trying to work my way up to what I really should have told him. John was silent. He wasn't looking at me, he was staring at the guy leaning against that car. And yet I knew for sure that, with every single nerve, he was straining to listen to me. I kept talking:

  "Fear doesn't necessarily make you avoid fights. You might be able to oppress your fear long enough to get into a fight. But if you do something like that, you'll often lose. Fear can make your muscles more tense, your reactions slower. Fear can also make you think too much—you end up trying so hard to second-guess your opponent that you freeze up with indecision. You don't do anything."

  "How do you know all this?" he asked in a soft voice.

  "You shouldn't underestimate me. I've done thousands of animal tests. I've interviewed racecar drivers, crime victims and criminals. I've measured their intelligence and then studied their reactions both when they were calm and when they were excited. And you still underestimate me. I probably haven't told you anything you didn't already know from your own experiences. You're just surprised to hear all this coming from me."

  "Don't stop now."

  "OK." I wanted a cigarette, too. I looked at the crumpled-up pack in the glove compartment. I was craving a smoke. The guy in the street dropped his stub and lay down on top of the hood.

  "An exaggerated desire to hurt your foe lessens the chances of victory in the same way. If you are enraged, your movements become too bold. If you're trying too hard, you won't be relaxed enough to fight well. The perfect state for a combatant is purely empty. It's the Zen state that the Buddhist monk is seeking. It's the frame of mind that students of karate or aikido are trying to achieve."

  He shrugged, unimpressed.

  "That's philosophy. A street-fight or a barroom brawl is different. You don't have time to become Zen."

  "It's possible to achieve this frame of mind instantly," I said. "It's not easy, only a few people can do it, and even those just rarely. I saw you achieve that state a little while ago. Maybe it was for the first and last time in your life, but you did it. Your mind was empty, clear and your body was free. You reacted immediately, without delay. You were relaxed and calm, your muscles only tensed for a split second—just long enough to push that guy away. Neither fear nor anger paralyzed you."

  "Why did it happen now?"

  I really wished I could answer that question.

  "Perhaps your two egos, the aggressive and the peaceful-empathic, happened to be in balance. Perhaps you'll always be like this from now on."

  He must have heard from my voice how much I wanted this to be true. He put his arm around me, pulled me closer again, and this time I happily let him, I snuggled up to his side as if that was my place designated by fate.

  "I love you," he said. "You can't imagine how much I love you. I've changed since I first met you, and I know I have you to thank. I would be a wreck without you. Instead, there's some kind of power radiating from me now …"

  "The barmaid smiles at you, Simone starts flirting with you …"

  "Come on—" he burst out laughing. "Yes, actually, that too. If I feel more charming, that's also because of you."

  We both stopped talking suddenly. Someone else came out of the club. The man that John had knocked down slid off the hood, and the man who'd just come out of the club opened the car door. It was a new face, I didn't remember seeing this one in the crowd around John.

  "Who are you waiting for?" I asked. "Do you want to know who Simone or Patricia will go home with?"

  "Tell me, doctor, based on your observations from tonight, don't you think there's something strange about this gang?" He was in a good mood for some reason.

  I tried to remember. I thought of the face Simone made when John squeezed her shoulder. I thought of how strange it was that no security guards appeared during the whole scene. I remembered a lot of details, but I didn't think he was hinting at these.

  "Frost first met Pat in this club, but apparently, this gang beats up everyone who tries to pick up their women." John was giving me a hint.

  "Maybe they beat him up too," I tried. He gave me indulgent smile. I could tell he was glad to be more knowledgeable about something.

  "These Saturday night fighters? He would have turned them into meat balls."

  "Twenty of them?"

  He shrugged and my head bounced off his shoulder.

  "You can't be sure. But even if he did get beaten up, he would come back the next day with his friends and raze everything to the ground. That good-looking guy who stopped the kid from getting in a fight with me—that guy's never been hurt, really hurt. I can tell by looking at him. You're the expert, you should see it too. He's too easygoing, and it's not a Zen thing. It's just that he doesn't know what it's like to be hurt bad, hospitalized, near death. Until he's really tasted punishment, you don't know what he's made of. A real beating would either break him or make him tougher. Frost is way beyond all that, and it hasn't broken him. Frost is a dangerous man who doesn't like to lose a fight."

  I didn't know what to say, I kept quiet. John started to massage my scalp with his strong fingers.

  "If these guys had messed with Frost recently, they wouldn't still be strutting around that club like they owned the place."

  "Mmm hmm. Go on …what are you saying?"

  He had begun to massage my head with both hands and it felt good, very good. Desire began to creep over me. I wanted him to have me right there in the car.

  "I'm saying that, if this gang attacks everyone who flirts with their girlfriends, and they haven't gone head-to-head with Frost, it must mean that they know him. Frost had an in with these guys, at least one of them is a friend of his. And that's why we are n
ot going home yet."

  CHAPTER 26

  Of course Simone is not trying to appear modest. This trial is getting a lot of TV and newspaper coverage. She's not going to pass up this kind of opportunity. She wears a tiny skirt, and a thin sleeveless blouse that hugs her magnificent shape. Men look at her eagerly. They don't seem to care about what she's going to say.

  But the prosecutor cares. He looks over some files, standing there reading to build suspense while Simone waits, slim and beautiful. The prosecutor finally takes off his glasses, and puts them on the table before looking directly at her and asking her name. Then he pauses again, smiling at her. He's playing a role, just like those stupid punks at the nightclub, Arany thinks.

  "Can you tell me if you and Detective Arany had intercourse?"

  Hushed murmurs fill the room. Simone looks embarrassed, she closes her eyes. The judge does not accept the defense attorney's objection. He says the question might very well be significant and relevant. Some people look at Celia. She's pale, her lips are trembling.

  "I'm sorry?" Simone stutters.

  "What I mean is: Did you have sex with the accused? Did you sleep with John Arany?"

  Simone blushes, but she pulls herself together quickly. Journalists are listening to every word she says. As soon as she leaves the courtroom, all the cameras will be on her. If she plays her cards right, her modeling career will take off. But she knows no one will be interested if she comes off shy, feeble or appearing to be some kind of nut case. She looks up defiantly.

  "Yes, I did go to bed with him. What I mean is: We screwed, we fucked, we—" the thud of the judge's gavel interrupts her. The room gets louder. There's a sort of appreciative murmur that forces the judge to bang his gavel once more. Simone knows she's found the right tone. The judge reprimands her, but it has the same effect on her as her teacher's scolding when she was in school.

  "How did Mr. Arany convince you to have intercourse with him?" the prosecutor, appearing undisturbed, continues.

  Arany knows where the prosecutor is going, and so does Celia. Every experienced member of the audience is aware of it. He wants to prove that Arany abused his power as a police officer and forced her to have sex—essentially raped her. That's not the case before the court right now, but it would certainly make the accused seem like an unsavory character.

  Nearly everyone can see the trap, except Simone. She shrugs.

  "How would I know? It just happened. You know how it is."

  The prosecutor nods understandingly, like someone who knows exactly how it is, like he ends up in bed with different people every day.

  "Arany went to find you in your apartment, if I understand correctly."

  "Yes," Simone smiles. Her almond-shaped eyes are nicely highlighted with just a little makeup. Her long dark hair falls on her back. She is exotically beautiful. Her smile is mysterious, suggesting secrets that would never be uncovered by the prosecutor. The men in the room begin to hate Arany. The women look at him with suspicion mingled with respect.

  Arany stairs into the air. He remembers how sleepy he was when he knocked at Simone's door. It was 11 a.m., but he hadn't slept much the night before. He had watched the door of the Star until half past three, looking at the faces, checking who goes home with who. Pat and the slick-looking guy left together. Simone was taken by another guy in a fancy two-seater sports car.

  "You're jealous, right?" Celia had asked when Simone left, and Arany had sleepily and lovingly pinched her thigh.

  Then he had taken Celia home. It was dawn. The trees of the suburb had looked ghostly, with the streetlights still on, while the big light fixture in the sky had begun its work. The houses had seemed dense and heavy, standing next to each other on both sides of the street. Stray cats and night bums were also asleep already, only the birds were tasting the new day.

  And Baruch had been awake, too. A sad and lonely window was lit upstairs. Celia had turned away, so Arany couldn't see her eyes.

  He only slept a few hours that morning. He had tossed in his bed, thoughts racing in his head. Celia! She said she loved him! But how much? Can he trust her? What she did in the car in front of the club …how could she do that? Arany couldn't imagine that a decent woman, a woman he loves, would do something like that. Someone might have passed by at any time. What if someone looked in the car? The faces he saw leaving the club had continued to pass through his mind. Simone. How soft her skin was under his palm! He bit into his pillow lustfully. Celia! He had already begun to miss her.

  Simone had been wearing a short little nightie when she opened the door. She was so sleepy that she could hardly keep her eyes open. She was blinking at Arany, stupefied. Then she had made a gesture of resignation, turned around and shuffled back into the apartment. He had been unable to avoid watching her walk away.

  "I guess you might as well come in. What time is it?"

  "Did he show you his shield? Did he tell you he was a policeman?" the prosecutor continues.

  Simone begins to get it.

  "No," she says, "But I knew he was a cop. I mean I don't know if he was on duty when we had sex, but …"

  Celia D'Allesandro looks at Arany only now. The man feels it, turns towards her, they look into each other's eyes. Don't worry, dear! Celia's look seems to say. She's not going to say you forced her. What kind of compensation can she expect from a poor cop who's about to go to jail?

  This wasn't the first time Celia heard about this episode. Arany had told her the day after it happened. Maybe he confessed out of remorse, or maybe he had wanted some kind of revenge for the way she returned to her husband's bed. Who knows? Celia had been understanding. She said he was right, he did the right thing. He didn't need an old woman like her. She hadn't cried until Arany started saying how much he loved her—that she was his true love. She had argued with him, she had acted hysterical and accused Arany of lying. And then they had made love, wildly and gently. The woman tried to prove to be better than anybody, while the man wanted to dispel her suspicions.

  Don't worry, dear! Arany's look seems to say in the courtroom. If she says I was harassing her, I'll tell them that I was only with her to find out where Frost is hiding.

  But Simone isn't even thinking about making accusations against Arany. As a rather simple young woman, she enjoys making a powerful, learned man look foolish. And she feels sure of her success now. She can practically taste it. She'll find a new agent to replace that idiot who can only get her jobs with those cheap ad circulars and in nasty strip joints. Much worse looking women have become stars. And from tomorrow on, she will flooded with offers.

  With that mysterious smile on her face, she waits for the next question. She bends one leg slightly and raises her heel, to emphasize the curve of her calf. Her thighs are perfect, as if they never wanted to end.

  "Thank, you, ma'am," the prosecutor nods politely.

  CHAPTER 27

  It was a strange afternoon. I was floating around half-asleep. I walked, I talked, I filled in forms. All this seemed to be happening to someone else. It was like I was watching it from far away on a big screen, lying in a huge comfortable bed.

  The whole scene with the well-dressed woman whose bag had been snatched was like a movie. I kept nodding understandingly. I made arrangements for a car to search the neighborhood. I typed the report and had it signed. But in the meantime I had been somewhere else: At Simone's, with Celia, at home in my armchair equipped with beer, chocolate and crackers, reading Baruch's thoughts.

  I had even walked the woman out, I promised her that we'll do our best, but at the same time I felt Simone's little breasts stroking my face.

  And then I went back to my desk, put piles of files and forms around myself, and took my notebook out of my bag. This notebook contains everything. Everything I learned from Simone, I took notes in the car after leaving her apartment so I wouldn't forget. Baruch's thoughts are also listed in here. Not word by word, but condensed—a distilled version of a mystery.

  That was where
I opened the notebook.

  According to Baruch, the virus that he simply calls Q-virus appears in almost everyone in the world. Baruch talks about macro and micro levels, but in my notes there is simply an equation between the word individual and the word race. After this, there is a question mark indicating that I have my doubts about this idea.

  Q-virus becomes active in the life of the individual the same way it has followed us throughout the history of humanity, according to Baruch. In everyone's life, the periods of aggression and complacency alternate. He points out that aggression appears more blatant among adolescents, but old age aggression is just as well known.

  I tried to think back. I remembered that I was always picking fights when I was ten …shaking my head, I returned to the text.

  According to Baruch, this virus infects most of the world's population, and the exceptions to this rule are the people who become saints or martyrs. I doubted his reasoning. It bugged me to see him try that old ploy that scientists use: They come up with a theory they like, and then selectively re-write history to conform to their theory. If Baruch is to be believed, Jesus and Buddha were suffering from a lack of Q-virus. This virus doesn't have a great effect in normal periods, the virus is usually dormant. As Baruch explained it, society can control the disease. Even if the illness is not correctly diagnosed, each society has its own tools to fight back and keep the diseased people separate. They get locked up in jail, sent into exile or executed. These are rough, primitive methods, but they are relatively efficient. They cut the center of infection out of the healthy body—unless the virus starts spreading on a large scale. That's when fuming populist leaders and religious fanatics appear on the scene. Senseless wars break out, and aimless murders abound. The daily papers indicate how fast the disease is spreading. The society's self-defense system becomes weaker and weaker, since beyond a certain limit it is society itself that is infected.