Poisonous Kiss

by Andras Totisz

  Lewis didn't expect an answer, it wouldn't be in keeping with his character. He just passed the message on to me, the rest should be my responsibility. But he didn't hang up yet.

  "I've checked up on your Q-virus," he bellowed into the receiver. I'm pressing the receiver as close to my ear as possible but I was aware of the fact that Celia overhears our conversation. I saw her body tense almost imperceptibly. She seemed almost as relaxed as she was a minute ago, but then she looked like a flower, soft, silky, vulnerable and beautiful. Suddenly she was giving the impression of a beast ready to spring.

  "Listen, Lewis, I can't …" but I couldn't even finish the sentence. It's not so easy to stop my brother once he gets started. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that Celia had had enough. She stood up and drew the belt of the robe tightly around her waist. Goodbye naked breasts and thighs, all I'm allowed to see is her angry and stubborn back.

  "It is rumored that Baruch could trace it," Lewis was going on, full speed. "An acquaintance of mine gave me a tip about the Department of Defense. They are supposed to finance the experiments and it's obvious that they wouldn't part with the money if Baruch was still at the theorizing stage."

  There are hundreds of things I wanted to ask, but I was hindered by that hurt little back stationed at the window. It was already dark outside. The bathroom door was open, a shaft of light oozed into the room, but otherwise it was dark, too. My bathrobe is of a darkish color, so Celia's figure almost blended with the dark rectangle of the window. I didn't really see her, but I felt her presence.

  Fortunately, I didn't have to ask too much, Lewis did some mind reading.

  "Now, you don't have to tell me. The Department of Defense has been known to squander money on obviously crazy projects. Maybe Baruch didn't have to do much persuading. Just think it over! If we could inoculate our soldiers to make them more aggressive, and at the same time infect the enemy and sap their desire to fight, there's no earthly reason why we shouldn't do so. It's a great idea, better than the A-bomb. But you know what? I'll believe it when I see it." Lewis thinks it's a good joke and chuckles as heartily as only stupid and conceited people can. Though he isn't stupid. He used to be at the top of his class.

  I hung up. Celia stood stiffly. She didn't react when I started to caress her neck. She pretended I wasn't there. She didn't have to say a word, her hurt pride and anger were almost palpable. If only I could communicate my feelings without clumsy words! What message would I send her? You little fool, my fingers would tell the smooth skin of her nape, I was only curious, you shouldn't get offended, come, I love you, let me pamper you.

  But I didn't speak. I stood behind her, torn between remorse and anger. A car was parked below the window. Both of us focused on it. The driver must have been clumsy, the thought crosses my mind, he should've turned the wheel at a sharper angle. I couldn't imagine what was going on in Celia's mind. The room was silent and this silence was getting more and more oppressive. Overcome with frustration and anger I started towards the bathroom.

  "Have you been spying on us?" Celia's voice stopped me at the door.

  I didn't move. The monotonous dripping of water, the pleasant steamy air, the lights all drew me irresistibly towards the bathroom. If only I could simply go in, shut the door and escape the coming argument, the long and awkward explanations. If only I could let warm water heal me, wash away my pain, my weariness and the disgusting memory of killing. But I couldn't, something kept me back. It might have been the fear that by the time I'd emerge from the bathroom Celia would be long gone and I'd never find her again.

  "I'm not spying on you. I was simply curious, so I asked my brother."

  I hated apologizing as if I had done something criminal. I thought of the strange laboratory, the coy and plump assistant, Baruch's worried face, the white mice and the mysterious blood tests.

  "Why didn't you ask me instead?"

  I didn't dare to look at her, I can't tell her that I suspect her, too.

  She turned away and started crying. I stepped toward her slowly, taking hold of her shoulders and drawing her closer. Her body was soft and pliant now. She cuddled up to me, I felt her hot tears on my shoulder, her hot kisses on my face. I ruffled her hair and wrapped my arms gently around her neck, as if I could keep her, dominate her more completely this way. But it was only for a second, and by the time I was thoroughly aroused she has already withdrawn. She sat in the armchair, her feet tucked beneath her. She was such a sexy little creature even with her eyes red from crying, her lips swollen, her face stubborn. She picked up a cigarette with trembling fingers and brushed her hair back from her face.

  "Why has only this aspect occurred to everyone?"

  I didn't have the faintest clue to what she's talking about. I stood in the middle of the room, a motionless, naked figure, his penis erect. Celia looked straight into my eyes. If her eyes weren't so sad and helpless I would have gone to her, taken her face in my hands and kissed her again.

  "People are only interested in what your brother's just told you."

  I realized that she must have heard everything. Sighing, I picked up my underwear.

  "So it's a weapon now, better than the A-bomb." Anger sizzled in her voice, I was embarrassed to hear it. "A new invention, which makes our soldiers more aggressive and the enemy surrenders in no time. That's all they need it for: Wars, killing, new conquests."

  "What else is it good for?" I reached for a cigarette. I deserved it. I'd deserved a drink, too.

  "Well, peace. Hasn't it occurred to you that once Martin finds the antiserum of Qvirus, everyone could get inoculated with it. Every single inhabitant of the Earth! It could be made one of the obligatory protective vaccines. And then wars would really cease to exist. There wouldn't be 'our soldiers' and 'their soldiers' any more."

  "Do you get your ideas from science fiction stories?" I was on my way to the kitchen for ice. I mixed a drink for Celia and she accepted it, but then she just sat there with sad eyes, shaking her head not even tasting it.

  I sat down, too, facing her. My sweaty back stuck to the cover of the armchair. There was some unholy racket in the flat above us. What the hell could they possibly be doing at this hour? I took a gulp, but the drink didn't agree with me, so I turned the glass around in my hands for a moment, then put it down on the arm of the chair, its habitual place. Some time I'll knock it over by accident and it'll serve me right.

  "No, I don't." Celia shook her head and looked at me with disgust. "When aggressiveness reaches a certain limit it automatically becomes an illness, which should be cured, because otherwise it might result in death."

  I didn't feel like quarrelling, but this got my goat.

  "And this is only a hypothesis, isn't it?"

  Celia leaned closer to me and looked me in the eyes. Her slender body was not seductive any more. This woman was cold, her words and look were icy.

  "Martin has traced the virus. It does exist. So one day the antiserum will be discovered as well."

  "Only because your genius of a husband finds it."

  "Yes, exactly. My genius of a husband will find it," she echoed my phrases, but while my words were dripping with acid her voice rang with conviction. I was jealous as hell, and it was made even worse by the fact that she was here with me and her naked body was covered only with my robe.

  Not for long. She started dressing. She flung her clothes on in the fashion offended women always have. I watched the pathetic anti-striptease helplessly. I couldn't stop her. She was going home to her genius. I was supposed to be thankful for having her for a few hours. I gulped down my whiskey and slammed my hand down on the arm of the chair. The polished wood protested with a loud creak.

  Celia stopped in front of me. She had already put on her suit, her elegant leather bag dangled from her hand. She was towering above me and I felt vulnerable and numb because of my nakedness. My anger had evaporated, all I felt was numbing sadness. I was facing a stranger.

  "You must know that I love you," the
stranger said and I have the premonition about an emphatic "but" coming. I don't have to wait for long. "But Martin is my husband. He is a good man and a great scientist." That's all the strange woman wanted to tell me. I sat in the armchair looking up in her face and I didn't have the power to reach up and touch her. Touching her might prove she is not a stranger after all.

  "If you are interested in Q-virus why don't you come and visit the laboratory?" She was about to leave, but I raised my head and look her in the eyes.

  "The laboratory where your husband is more than eager to welcome me," I snapped back at her.

  She looked back on me with a pitying smile on her face.

  "Yes," she nods, "Martin would welcome you."

  When I was alone at last, the memories of the day started crowding me immediately. I was rushed by the images of Delacroix's corpse, the detectives questioning me. The memory of anger and shock still haunted me. The cops wanted to know why I had fired three times. Alone in my shabby armchair in an empty apartment I started sobbing. I called out for Celia and when I heard some noise outside I was convinced for a moment that she was back. I straightened up and made ineffectual dabs at my eyes, then I realized that it was only my neighbor the musician, who was back after his night shift. Oh, God, was it really that late?

  I won't let you go, I said to myself. You can't walk out of my life as if you were some angry stranger. And yes, oh, yes, I'll get the truth about Q-virus. I'll go visit the lab tomorrow and if Baruch doesn't like it that's his shit. I toddled back to the kitchen and put some more whiskey into my glass. I wouldn't drink out of Celia's unused glass.

  CHAPTER 34

  "Fifty million dollars!" Ericsson slams his hand on the table and looks at the others as triumphantly as if all this money were his. The others make satisfactory noises, only Arany remains silent and aloof. Immersed in his private thoughts he looks absent-mindedly at the tiny gallows-model on the captain's desk.

  "The boy helped himself to fifty million, and if we hadn't caught him he'd be spending it right now somewhere in Buenos Aires." He glances in the direction of Arany, but the young detective is preoccupied with a different image. Arany can clearly see the bloody corpse, just the way it was in the hallway. The distorted features half hidden by bloodied locks of hair. Why did he shoot three times? The investigators didn't want to let go of this question. As if it mattered. What really mattered was that he shot at all. So then why three times? Did he want to make sure Delacroix was dead? Or was it his fear that made him pull the trigger three times? Or did simply he want to kill?

  Ericsson has called this meeting to discuss the operation. Although it's an official meeting, it seems like it might turn into old man's solo performance. So what if he just wants to bask in the glory once more before retiring?

  The two stupid punks broke into the bank. They knocked one of the security guards down. After a few shots were fired, the other guard surrendered because they threatened to kill one of the employees. Everyone was told to lie face down on the floor. One of the bank robbers kept an eye on the hostages, the other one had some valuable passwords obtained through a serious breach in bank security. He went to the main office, logged onto the computer, and started to sending money from hundreds of accounts into about a dozen other accounts.

  Most of the faces around the table appear skeptical. They are all tired and frustrated cops. They chase thieves, robbers and mass murderers, and they have to make order out of these people's chaotic crimes. They have developed a hatred for incomprehensible events.

  Ericsson understands. He has everything under control. He's just left the commissioner, who, together with ten other experts, spent several hours analyzing the whole crime.

  "They must have been sure the bank wouldn't notice these transactions for a while, so they'd be fine as long as they could make bail in a week or so."

  The faces are silent, none of them finds this explanation satisfactory. Arany feels their eyes turning slowly toward him, as if they expected him to say something enlightening. He is trying to get away from the memory of Delacroix's corpse, Celia and her genius of a husband with his damn Q-virus. He is exhausted—he couldn't sleep all night. He feels like shouting out in his frustration, telling them all to leave him alone, but he knows he can't do that. He shrugs his shoulders.

  "Delacroix double-crossed them. Does it really matter how he did it?"

  "Yes," one of the faces pipes up. Arany turns in that direction and tells himself to relax and keep his cool.

  "All right," he starts with a nod. "Suppose everything went according to the scenario the captain has just outlined, and they were sure they'd make bail. They didn't hurt anyone. OK, the poor guard got smacked in the head, but it was nothing serious. He'll be fine. They didn't do serious harm or take any money. A good lawyer would get them released in a couple of hours."

  "But how could someone capable of handling this amount of money be so naive?" someone murmurs.

  With a condescending smile on his face, Arany waits till the murmur abates and glances are directed at him again, as if he had all the answers.

  "None of the hostages saw the boy enter the main office. All of them were lying face down on the floor, remember? And who would think of bank robbers not taking any money out of the building with them? Chances are they could have pulled it off if they hadn't been so clever, but they out-smarted themselves. The boy working on the computer should have just left it running. He tried to hide his tracks by logging off of the secure program, but he didn't follow the usual protocol. The next time someone tried to log in, it was obvious that the computer had been tampered with."

  He feels for a cigarette in his pocket. Nothing. He'd smoked them all during the long night last night. He'll have to watch himself. A few more bouts like that and he'll turn into a heavy smoker. He's grateful for the proffered packet and takes out a cigarette.

  "It is also possible that Delacroix gave them some song and dance about getting them out of prison." He continues, inhaling the smoke with some annoyance. The cigarette doesn't taste good. Arany is angry with himself for not resisting a smoke. He's angry with the others for their stupidity. Why does he have to explain things that are self-evident? He knows he is right, period.

  "Why can't you see that the boys were stupid, criminally stupid. What did you expect? Criminal masterminds? The crime of the century?"

  Yes, now he sees that this is exactly what they've been hoping for—something amazing, some kind of payback for all those years of backbreaking, tedious service.

  "This isn't a movie," he sighs. "Do you really think that kid was a damn genius because he knew how to work a computer? He was just some wise-ass punk."

  He glances around the table, then decides to say nothing further. The blank faces and benevolent, but utterly stupid eyes justify his own pet theory: That even a moron can still survive in a tough job.

  "Anyway, Delacroix somehow got them to do the dirty work for him, and when it was over he simply leaned out of the office window and shot them. We can only guess why. He must have wanted the money for himself. Or maybe he was afraid that we'd eventually get the truth out of these kids."

  Ericsson is ready to take over now. He feels safer explaining this part. One of his hands is in a cast—the bone splintered when Arany pushed him aside in the passageway. His face is more haggard than normal, but his eyes are enthusiastic.

  "Most of the cops believed it was one of our own who shot the kids. Delacroix must have been counting on this. He wanted to make his getaway in the commotion. All he had to do was go through the passage and disappear through the entrance of the other building. By the time the police searched the houses in the neighborhood he would have been long gone. And by the time we got our warrants, got into the office that Delacroix was using and found the gun on the windowsill he would have been out of the country. He would have had it made if we hadn't been there."

  "What about the money?" someone asks. Oh, yes, that is the most interesting feature of the case. The
fact that Arany killed someone is of minor importance. He's expected to go to the lab where Celia and her husband will tell him about the benefits of Q-virus. Arany is getting immersed in his private thoughts again.

  It's as if he's been running around in circles. The same places, the same faces again and again. He's chasing after Frost, but why? To kill him, to get killed, or will he just try to bring him in alive? He's chasing after answers for his behavior in that staircase. Why didn't he shoot then? If it happens again, will he shoot? Why is he still doing police work? He seems to have got stuck in some kind of merry-go-round. He's always attacking someone, or being attacked, or going to boring meetings. He hates the work, but something always draws him back. Meanwhile, he's supposed to go to the lab to see Celia, which he's looking forward to about as much as another detective's meeting. He has to face the fact that he doesn't want to meet Baruch. He doesn't want to shake hands with him and smile, all the time knowing that he is the lover of this man's wife. To make things worse Baruch is apparently aware of their relationship. He knows about it and puts up with it, not because he believes in open marriage but because he loves his wife and he is a good man. Damn all good men!