Poisonous Kiss

by Andras Totisz

  Patricia is lies on a carpet. She looks out of place under the golden ornaments.

  Arany squats next to her, sweating. His hands are unsteady.

  "Who did this?"

  Arany slowly raises his head. The young doorman towers above them. Arany feels his anger rising until he looks into the boy's face. The young man's eyes are scared, somehow childish.

  "I don't know," he replies at last.

  The guard squats opposite him. He puts out his hand and caresses the girl's forehead. His calloused hands are incredibly tender.

  "But you'll get him, won't you?"

  Arany's face contracts into a cruel, vicious smile.

  "Yes," he says without thinking. "Yes," he nods as a reinforcement. "I'll get the scumbag."

  CHAPTER 35

  I hated that place. I had been coming there every day for six years, and I realized only then how much I had come to despise it. I couldn't stand the bleak corridor, the stunted plants and cutouts from travel brochures that someone used once in an attempt to decorate, to make the place friendlier. I hated that coy stupid girl guarding Martin's office. I hated her wicked, envious glance whenever she looked at me, I hated the way she slobbered over Martin. She would have loved to be in my shoes, I bet. What a joy it was.

  Damn! Most of all I hated myself. For years I'd been happy to be Martin's wife, I had it in me to be happy, even in this environment. We did the research, we were always together. I looked at the table where we made love a couple of days ago, under the eye of the silently working camera. How come I felt ashamed now? It wasn't the first time it happened and I suppose it's not the last either.

  I hated that room. I hated knowing that all the white mice, who sniffed my hand happily whenever I reached into their cage to pet them, were condemned. I hated the wicked labyrinth in which red markers measure the stages of their deaths. I hated the camera that sees all…where could that cassette be? Had Martin wiped it? Or had he kept it, to watch it when the mood struck him?

  All was quiet. It was a hot, uncomfortable silence. Ellen had finished tapping away at her keyboard and begun puttering around her office. The absence of sound was menacing. I missed the well-known noises, like Martin's hurried steps, his cough, his humming, the sound of scurrying small feet in the cages, the noise of constant nibbling. I missed the hum of the air conditioner. Without it, the silence was warm and humid, too. A dead room.

  Glancing at my watch, I realized it was early. Martin should still have been there. It was only three o'clock. In the last few years my husband had never once left the lab before six o'clock. I bitterly recalled all the times we worked overtime—just the two of us. We weren't tired at all, we could go without sleep. How many nights we spent on the narrow, lumpy sofa in the corner of the office. We cuddled up close to each other, we slept in our crumpled clothes and still woke up happy the next day.

  Once we even celebrated New Year's here. Martin left his microscope for a minute, I put down the charts I'd been working on, we stood up and drank a toast to the new year. To mark the special occasion, we spared the life of a mouse. I took him home. We called him Jonas and he lived with us for two years.

  This silence …I turned to the cages, then stepped closer not believing my eyes. It's impossible! I stopped in front of a tiny cage and eyed the half nibbled pieces of carrots and cabbage shreds. I was shocked. All the cages were empty!

  I shook my head, not believing and took a deep breath. OK, let's count again! I knew how many mice there were previously, and I also knew how many of them Martin needed for a busy day when he was running tests. I calculated for a minute, but the result was the same. The cages should have been full of mice, especially because Martin wasn't there, so he couldn't have been running tests. I didn't know where he was, but I had a feeling I knew why he'd left.

  I looked around and tried to see the room objectively. What else had changed? Martin's desk was strangely barren. It looked as if it was dusted and wiped, not a trace of the usual mess on it. I caught a glimmer of something shiny in the corner. I approached it slowly as if I was walking on strange and dangerous ground. I used to know every inch of this room, like I know myself. So why was I shivering?

  There were shards of glass in the corner. I squatted down on my haunches and tried to collect them in a paper tissue. It was the ashtray…

  Martin had promised to be here in the afternoon. I told him I had invited John to come. I remembered his face. His eyes were sad but understanding. He knew everything. He knew why I invited my lover along, he knew why they had to talk. Dear old Martin. The best man in the world. I really don't know how I could cheat on him. Well, maybe because he was the best man in the world, I thought cynically.

  Something had changed in Martin. Maybe his eyes, the way he looked at me. No trace of his former, warm and friendly smile. There was a glimmer of coldness and cruelty in his eyes. When he looked at me I shivered under his stare. Was he going to hit me? Impossible. He would never do that! Martin would never…I started to back away.

  Then he lowered his eyes and then his head, too, so all I could see was his balding skull, his trembling body and his fisted hands. He smiled at me at last.

  "Everything's all right, darling."

  And then he'd missed our meeting. I would have been just as happy to not ask that stupid girl anything, but I couldn't stand to wait any longer. I felt so helpless. Martin had disappeared. Arany should have arrived long ago. And I was still alone, surrounded by silence and silence only, in a dead room. Both the men in my life seemed to have forgotten about me.

  I peeked into the other room. Ellen was engrossed in polishing her nails. She favored a harsh, dark magenta shade I would never use. Ellen's best feature was always her hands, her long, tapering, graceful fingers. I don't think she ever did her nails in the office before, or if she did, she would surely stop doing it the moment Martin or I opened the door.

  But today it didn't even cross her mind. She looked up at me with a triumphant gleam in her brown cow-eyes. So you went to bed with my husband, you bitch, I thought. So you made it at last, and poor Martin didn't put up too much of a fight. He might have wanted to take his revenge for my affair with John. Or he just wanted to demonstrate he could find a lover, too, if he wanted to. Poor old Baruch. You're an amazing lover. You could have found someone better.

  I felt like smashing Ellen's disgusting, plain face. I felt like going for her face with my nails, ripping into her. The psychology of aggressiveness…

  Of course, I wouldn't do anything of the kind. I even managed to force a smile and hoped it was as sarcastic as hers. So he used you. So what? This is what my face was meant to say. But then I couldn't possibly ask her about Martin's whereabouts, or whether he left a message.

  "Could you tell me what's happened to the mice?" My voice was cold. No one can make me like this bitch.

  "The mice?" Ellen echoed with a foolish expression on her face. She had the annoying habit of repeating questions.

  "Yes, the mice!" I snapped. I was happy to be able to give vent to my frustration. "What the hell has happened to the mice?"

  Ellen held the tiny brush in her right hand, her left hand in mid-air, waiting for the polish to dry. She looked at me as if in stupor. I could hardly resist the temptation to lean over the desk, get hold of her shoulders and start to shake her. I was beginning to see what John meant when he tried to describe his fits.

  "What has happened to the mice?" Ellen asked, and I couldn't help laughing hysterically. Was she going to repeat every word I said?

  "Why do you do that? What are you? A parrot?"

  It was such a gratifying feeling to be able to call her names at last, but Ellen the bitch doesn't realize that. She stared back at me in confusion.

  "Parrot?"

  That tore it. I lost control. My hand flashed out on its own, I wasn't even aware of what I was doing. I knocked the bottle of polish out of her hand, took a fistful of her hair and pulled her up.

  "I asked what had happened t
o the mice, you silly stupid girl? Where are they?"

  She didn't answer. She didn't even try to protect herself. She just started crying softly. I heard her whimper, I saw her shoulders move convulsively. Her eyes were red and wet with tears.

  I let go of her. Confusion, shame and pity got the better of me. Poor dumb thing, who could tell what is going on behind that narrow brow? Her fling with Martin could have been her only great adventure and I…I thought of John—my great adventure.

  Ellen crouched slowly and recovered the bottle of polish from under a chair. Still sobbing, she lifted it to check if there was anything left in it. I turned on my heel without saying a word and marched back to the inner room, to the empty cages, the silence. As I stood with my back to her, I heard Ellen walk out of the office and slam the door.

  I went to the desk. Its uncluttered top drew me like a magnet. I'd never seen it like this. There were always sheets of paper, slips of calculations, cuttings from newspapers, floppy disks, odds and ends covering it. It had always been littered with food, crumbs. There has always been a pack of peanuts or some other tidbit lying around. Slips of paper, telephone numbers, notes. The imprint of a hard-working and preoccupied mind.

  Who had wiped away this imprint, and why?

  I hesitated before sitting in Martin's shabby swivel chair. I'd never rummaged among his things, never opened up a letter of his. But I'm his colleague, too, I'm trying to set my mind at ease. Deep down I knew it was only a pretext. I was trying to get in his desk for an utterly different reason. The drawers were locked, which didn't hold me back any. I knew where Martin kept his keys. The key ring was in its usual place. I was relieved, I had already started to imagine things. I pulled the drawers out one by one, started to go through their contents stealthily, as if I were a criminal. I was trembling. I listened tensely to noises outside, I tried to figure out how long it would take me to put everything back and lock the drawers again.

  Nothing! I didn't come across a single thing that would explain what has happened. Was it all because of me? Was it possible that he couldn't bear the thought of what had happened? I suffered pangs of guilt. I started regretting everything I had done. Maybe it would have been better if I had never met Arany. If only I had never felt sorry for him, never wanted to help him, never got crazy about his slim, well-built body, his open face, his sad smile.

  Research papers. I knew all of these. I pulled papers out fast and crammed them back even faster. I wasn't afraid of getting caught any more. In the middle drawer I spotted Martin's red notebook. This notebook was an old acquaintance, too. Martin invariably jotted down his thoughts, his ideas before starting to work on them. He used up at least twenty notebooks in a year. He always bought these red, ruled notebooks, I don't know why he likes them. I thought of Arany and his small, gridded notebooks. I tried to dismiss the memory from my thoughts.

  I don't know why I opened the notebook. I didn't expect anything special. Martin's notebook was always a work in progress. There weren't any coherent ideas or even full sentences in them. They normally displayed a jumble of signs and associations, which seemed to lack any recognizable logic. But I suddenly caught a glimpse of something I could understand…I concentrated on the elongated, slanting letters. I read slowly to make sure I didn't miss a thing. My hands trembled; I began to sweat; I felt a tightness in my stomach. I read the notebook, completely lost to the world.

  CHAPTER 36

  Ellen never confesses to having gone to bed with Dr. Martin Baruch. Strictly speaking, the issue never comes up. While she gives her testimony, she blushes. Her plump, young body looks awkward and ungainly. She's dressed up for the occasion. The long, magenta skirt must be new, and so are the elegant pumps, the frilly blouse with the enormous collar. The small bag dangling from her wrist looks like a recent acquisition, too. Why has she taken it with her to the stand, instead of leaving it with her mother, who sits in the gallery? What important items does she keep in it? Apparently just a little lacy handkerchief.

  She lowers her eyes for fear she might look in Celia's direction, even though she's not really saying anything damaging. Celia had been prepared for the worst when Ellen was called. But the she never once mentions how close Celia had been to beating her up once. She describes Celia as a calm, levelheaded person, a good boss. As for Baruch…well, he's a wonder. The girl idolizes him and it's quite obvious that she was in love with him. Celia is composed. She has felt glances directed at her many times during the trial. Now the same searching glances compare Ellen to her. The homely, loving girl and the good-looking, unfaithful wife. She glances stealthily in the direction of Arany. The man is smiling. So it has occurred to him, too, everyone in the room is thinking of the same thing. Ellen blushes violently, grips the rail in front of her and cries convulsively.

  Celia lowers her head. She doesn't find the prissy dress or the lacy handkerchief ridiculous any more. Someone brings a glass of water. No in the room is talking.

  Ellen's voice falters but her sentences are correct and coherent. The news came as a complete shock to her. She couldn't believe it. She can't believe it now. This is the first time that she looks at Celia, blushes violently and snatches her glance away from her. Ellen believes they loved each other. You could tell it from the way they looked at each other, the way they talked.

  "Do you see what I mean?" she looks questioningly at the prosecutor.

  He nods. Of course, he sees her point. Is there any mortal, who doesn't know the intimate glances, unfinished sentences and hints couples use if they are used to each other's ways.

  "Did they ever quarrel?" He doesn't expect too much of this question. He has just about given up on this witness. It didn't do any good to have this stupid girl subpoenaed. Baruch was a good man, a nice and clever one, he even had a good sense of humor…all right, so now we know some more about him. His wife simply adored him…of course! So much so that she had him shot by her lover!

  Ellen takes her time about answering the question. Some people in the back start whispering. Even a giggle is heard. Arany loosens his tie nervously. He's had enough of this. The trial is beginning to seem like a barbaric ritual meant for the entertainment of the crowd. He'll be convicted anyway, he deserves it. And they'll never know what really happened, even if they go on badgering this girl forever.

  "Well, they didn't really quarrel…" Ellen starts, her voice hesitating. Someone laughs; the audience relaxes. Arany sighs. He's thirsty, he'd give anything for a cold drink.

  "It was more like an argument." Now, that Ellen has found the proper word her face glows triumphantly. She wants to provide the district attorney with meticulously correct answers. This trial is not a game for her. This is the first time in her life that so many people have listened to her so carefully.

  "Can you tell us what they had this argument about?"

  Some people in the audience glance at Arany, but Ellen doesn't. She shrugs her fleshy shoulder, her bag dangles precariously from her wrist.

  "Well, they argued about…the experiments. They worked together and…" here she starts crying again. Even though her distress is sincere, these tears are not as meaningful as the ones from before. Crying now seems rather pointless. The faces surrounding her grow impatient. The trial is starting to drag. The audience longs for drama.

  "They never used to argue before." Ellen's voice comes in sobs and gasps. "They worked together so well. They discussed new developments, sometimes they talked shop, even during lunch." Her eyes shine brightly, she obviously is happy to recall the times when Baruch was still alive, sitting at the table, talking about work with his wife while his soup grew cold in front of him. Few among the audience seem to be listening to Ellen. A member of the jury is looking pointedly at his watch. The judge keeps fidgeting with his glasses.

  "But in the last few months…" Ellen is searching for words again. She wants to be specific. "Something must have happened. I knew it first when all the mice died." She doesn't care about the ripples of laughter caused by her r
emark, she wants to get it over with quickly, she wants to get it off her chest, she wants to get rid of the feelings, which kept her depressed for months. "They accused each other. They were shouting, screaming at each other. It was horrible." Ellen doesn't cry any more, her eyes are still red, she shakes her head staring desperately into the air. Why can't she make them see what an impossible, terrible situation it was? "Professor Baruch had never shouted before." She talks too fast, her words sputter out. "Once I heard a horrible noise from the lab, as if chairs were knocked over, something shattered…but I didn't dare to go in to see what was going on."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I thought…" Ellen lowers her head. "I thought they were fighting. It was incredible! Dr. Baruch couldn't hurt anyone if he wanted to. And Dr. Allesandro even cried about the white mice that died. And…I didn't want to go in because a couple of times before that…" her face reddens to crimson but she looks the district attorney defiantly in the eye and finishes her sentence, "before, I had heard them making love."