Now, however, at long last, the parasite was lying dead on the ground. No doubt about it. The blade had sliced deep into his skull. It hadn’t taken much effort. Almost as though gravity alone would have done the job. No strength required. What an ally, thought Ferdinand, who had devoted his life to the natural sciences. The other neighbors were still staying out of sight, even though they’d all had to put up with the same provocation all these months. Perhaps they’d been watching as Ferdinand shouted at his neighbor from the latter’s doorstep and—a miracle—had actually been heard. The artist had come down and opened his door, but still couldn’t understand Ferdinand through all the noise, and so turned his back to head for his computer. Ferdinand followed him and, with stunning simplicity, put an end to the misery of the past few months.
This ongoing stretch of silence in the middle of the day astonished Ferdinand. He quickly shut the front door, which had been standing half open. It felt as though Ferdinand had been hiding here for an indeterminate length of time, waiting for something, something as yet unknown, but which he’d be sure to recognize whenever it occurred. The artist hadn’t fallen on his face, as might be expected, but had stumbled backwards due to the awkward reactions of his nervous system. He lay there the way all dead people do, a position that can’t be imitated by the living. The daily press was filled with photos, a whole illustrated inventory, of the victims of the New Measures: long columns of passport-like photos documenting the dead. Looking at those people, even when their faces were still intact, you could tell immediately that they were dead, just from the pictures. Death can’t be imitated.
The floor plan of the artist’s house was just like Ferdinand’s. This model, however, showed obvious signs of neglect. The old-fashioned couch, covered with green velour, retained the unmistakable impression of its owner, and was littered with crumbs. On the mantel above the fireplace, Ferdinand saw a loose collection of figurines from the Far East. He imagined that long before the establishment of the Commonwealth some tourist must have bought them from some kid in front of a temple. Via the usual unfathomable routes, the objects had landed in this house. Unfathomable since the neighbor never went out and never had visitors. Ferdinand speculated that the fact that no one had ever wanted to hang out with the artist was probably the only reason he hadn’t been killed sooner. The murderer is usually someone you know.
Ferdinand crept deeper into the grim house, instinctively crouching down. In the kitchen, the disorder was less obvious, though everything was dirty. The windowsill was covered in dead flies, as if someone had shaken them out of a sifter. Piles of trash littered the yard; when the trash was in garbage bags, these weren’t tied up. Ferdinand hadn’t pictured the house quite this way. But his conclusions remained the same.
Back in the living room, he parted the blinds with two fingers and peered out. A spotted cat, seemingly lost in thought, was crossing the street. The other neighbors were still out of sight. Perhaps they’ve all got bigger problems, Ferdinand thought. Perhaps they’ve put up with more than I have, and so take a wider view. Perhaps they just didn’t consider the young man worth it. They probably wanted to save the two murders allotted them by the New Measures for better targets. They’re probably afraid to waste their opportunities on little nuisances. But I’m old, thought Ferdinand. I don’t have to save my murders for anyone else. My neighbor was the most important person in my life.
The dark, gleaming puddle around the artist’s ruptured skull was no longer spreading. In fact, it now seemed to Ferdinand that the corpse was just another part of the décor, and that the real owner of the house was probably used to stepping over it on a daily basis. Ferdinand took a couple of careful steps across the living room and peered up the staircase. The next floor, lit in a particular way, stirred a faint memory in him, and Ferdinand suddenly had the feeling he’d been there before. He saw a young woman lying naked on a bare mattress, her dark pubic hair curling up toward her belly, her chest flat, her dull white tongue sticking far out of her mouth. Both legs of the panty hose around her neck were lying to the left, as if a fashion photographer had draped them just so. I didn’t kill her, Ferdinand thought anxiously. I’m imagining things. It’s impossible that I killed her, I have no idea who she is. I’ve only ever murdered my wife. I gave her poison. Because she was clumsy. And because she’d asked me to.
Nevertheless, since the New Measures were instituted, Ferdinand had been fantasizing about killing just about everyone he met. Before the New Measures, he thought, you’d see someone and wonder how they’d be in bed. Now you wondered what it would be like to kill them. And Ferdinand was haunted by these visions. He didn’t know which were true. The only thing he knew with certainty was that no one else had gotten to him yet. “I’m seventy-three,” he said aloud, as proof.
His words disturbed a balance. Now Ferdinand remembered that he’d only just entered the house, and specifically to kill his neighbor. He stood motionless in his leather shoes, caught, captive. The front door, his means of escape, was less than three meters away. It was unreachable. He couldn’t move, not until the echo of his words died away. Again he saw the image of the girl. Her face was frozen in panic. I don’t know her, he said to himself. I’ve never seen her before.
The axe began to weigh down his arm. He was racking his brain trying to assure himself that he’d never killed anyone aside from his wife. He also wondered what he should do with his axe. The New Measures required that you report your murder and hand in the weapon. After that, the state police made sure that the person who reported the murder was really the one who’d committed it. Shortly after the proclamation of the New Measures, there had been many cases of people offering to sell their allotment of murders to career criminals or to people for whom two murders just weren’t enough. After it was proven without a doubt that you had committed your murder and that no robbery had occurred, they let you go. This was also the procedure with all sorts of other crimes. No one was punished right away.
The State hadn’t wanted to impose limits on the number of children a couple could have. This seemed a terribly cruel means of population control. The official line was, if you do your fellow men no harm, no harm shall be done to you.
I have to hide the axe, Ferdinand thought. I have to put it back in my cellar, where no one’s thought to look for sixteen years. I can’t take any risks. I have to be on the alert. If you turn someone in who’s overstepped the New Measures, you don’t have to worry about that person anymore. He’s eliminated. It happens several times a day. Naturalized murder. Ferdinand made his way to the door gingerly, distributing his weight as though walking on thin ice. He hid the axe under his clothes. He still couldn’t see any neighbors outside. But through their glass doors or from behind their shrubs, he was certain that they were watching, that they were curious about the sudden silence. After he closed the neighbor’s front door, he felt empty. All in all, it was a farewell: the end of an era.
He didn’t know what the future held; he’d only planned as far as killing his neighbor. I’m too old for the unknown, he told himself. He made his way to his own house, dejected. But I’m still alive, he repeated. I’m seventy-three.
Ferdinand closed the door to his cellar. Back in his living room, he sank into the chair where he sat each day to read old books—books from before. Those were the only books he had. Now, however, he just watched the light cluster into patterns on the wall. Despite the silence, he felt no peace. He laid his arms on the armrests, head on the headrest, but he could still hear his heart beat, keeping him from relaxing. I can’t stay here. I have to get away. He stood up, went to the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator. He bit into a tomato, tasted something strange, and spit the cold mess into the garbage can. He used his hand to wipe his mouth. Then he went into the bathroom. Standing on a stool, he removed the picture of his wife that had always hung on the wall. He looked her in the eye for a moment. Then he removed the photo from its frame, folded it, and stuck it in his pocket.
The st
reet was about a hundred meters long. All sorts of people occupied the houses on both sides. They’d painted the trim around their windows, marking the small rosettes impressed into the plaster with bright colors. They heard me yell and saw the neighbor come out, he thought. How long before someone calls the police? As far as I know, I’ve never made anyone around here angry. Nevertheless, someone will make the call sooner or later. They’d rather see me dead than alive. They don’t know what goes through my mind. They don’t know if they play a role in my thoughts. It worries them.
He adjusted his collar and began to walk, abruptly turning left. Surely it wouldn’t surprise anyone that he was walking in that direction. He took this same route to buy bread every day, around the same time. But today it felt like he was escaping, rushing to the end of his street, since that’s where he could find a world whose inhabitants hardly knew him. He had to stop himself from running.
Ten meters in front of him a door slowly opened. The first thing out was a dog that was small and obscenely fat. It lost no time in shitting against a wall. Then Ferdinand saw the head of a shriveled old woman. Holding onto both sides of the door to maintain her balance, she made a huge effort and lifted her gaze from the ground to survey the rest of the street. I didn’t know she lived here, Ferdinand thought. And yet I pass this house every day. Is it possible we’ve simply missed each other all these years? Was it just chance that led her to send her dog out when she saw me passing by her window? Maybe the animal just couldn’t hold it anymore? Whatever the case, the sight of the old woman calmed him. She belonged to the generation before his. It was possible that, despite all the drastic changes taking place in the world, she was simply pursuing her normal life, same as ever. Yes, he remembered her now, as if he’d suddenly picked her out of a crowd. He gave her a friendly greeting as he passed her door. But though her toothless mouth had been working the entire time in a constant droning mutter, Ferdinand now clearly heard her say, “Murderer.” The dog ran up to Ferdinand, sniffed him once, and then discovered something more interesting on the sidewalk. That doesn’t mean anything, he thought. Everyone’s become a murderer. Her words are completely meaningless. Finally, five or six houses further on, Ferdinand looked behind him. She was still watching him from her open door, her head straight, as though resting on an invisible cushion. She lives too far away from my house, he thought. There’s no way she knows what happened. He listened closely, but he couldn’t distinguish between any of the sirens sounding in the fog of city noises. The old lady didn’t mean anything by it, he decided; she mutters nonsense like that all day long. Ferdinand had almost reached the end of the street when he saw the blood on his shoes. His neighbor’s blood, which had dripped from his axe and stained his beautiful, calf-leather shoes.
I can’t go back, he thought. I can’t waste the time changing shoes. Then I’ll really look suspicious. Rounding the corner, he leaned against a wall and lifted his foot. A cluster of drops, obviously blood. Those shoes had lasted him twenty-five years. They didn’t make shoes like this anymore. Instead, shoes were mass-produced in factories—without real skin, real sickness, real manure. He licked his thumb and massaged the stain. He heard someone put his fingers to his mouth and whistle back on his street. Then this person cried a few words Ferdinand couldn’t understand. Still, he realized that these sounds must be coming from a place about as far away as his own house. He didn’t dare to look. Someone saw me hurrying away. He knows I’m around the corner and he’s calling me back. I have to run. I have to reach the next street before he finds me standing here. If he sees me, he’ll run after me and grab me by the collar. He’s probably younger than me.
Twenty meters more and Ferdinand was out of breath. He pulled himself over a railing and hid himself on a porch. His lungs were expanding and contracting like two thin paper bags. He smothered his wheezing in his jacket. No one passed. He waited and waited and finally realized that if the other man were going to pass by, he would have seen him by now.
A small lantern dangled over his head. Its four sides were spotless. Perhaps there wasn’t actually any glass in the thing. A stately door, decorated with gleaming copper, was set deep in a recess nearby. If only I lived here, thought Ferdinand. Everything would have been different if I lived here. He changed position. Maybe that stranger had been calling to someone else. Or else he’d given up. Ferdinand looked over the front door with its thick wood, perhaps fifty years old. The owners had taken such good care of it, however, that it looked brand new. Perhaps the woman of the house is standing nearby, Ferdinand thought. Perhaps she needs to run an errand and is deciding on what coat to wear. He stood up. If the woman saw him crouching on the ground, she’d immediately start yelling.
He went back down into the street calmly, as though he himself were the owner of this property. Turning left, he followed the route he’d chosen earlier and tried to ignore the windows on either side of him. He resisted the urge to look back over his shoulder. He knew he had to disappear.
I don’t know her, thought Ferdinand. A bare mattress, and a summer dress with puffy sleeves. The girl in his vision was clearly too old for that kind of outfit. The hose around her neck was a winter brown. Fashion designers sometimes come up with strange ideas like combining a bright summer dress with dark winter colors. Unless the hose didn’t go with the dress at all—maybe it was found in the room, maybe taken out of a chest of drawers? He couldn’t see any. Had the young woman dressed like a little girl for her lover? He looked at the slight body, its bones pressing against its skin. I didn’t fuck her. That’s just impossible. He wanted to shut her eyes. He wanted to push her tongue back in her mouth and close her lips. He wanted to cover her naked body.
Ferdinand found himself on a park bench. The shadows lengthened under the trees, and a light drizzle hung shimmering in the air over the grass. A man with a classic black umbrella, which could have been plucked out of virtually any picture of virtually any street, strolled down a nearby path. He heard the man talking on a phone. Or was he talking to himself? It was impossible to tell with all these new implants. The microphone extends inconspicuously to just below your lower lip, the speaker is embedded deep in your ear, the antenna hidden in the curve between your outer ear and skull. It was the newest in telecommunication technology. The computer controlling it was actually inside the microphone, which itself was no bigger than a pinhead. The whole system could be installed shortly after birth. The earlier the operation, the simpler it was. Besides, that way parents always knew how to locate their children, and they could hear and speak to their child wherever it happened to be. Most people paid for a lifetime subscription. The monthly cost was low.
The talking man strolled in Ferdinand’s direction. Only his mouth and chin were visible. The rest of his face was hidden in the darkness under the umbrella, which he held upright. He was still chatting away unintelligibly. For safety’s sake Ferdinand shoved his stained shoe farther under the bench. It was too late to get up and run. Flight encourages the hunting instinct in carnivores. On the other hand, no one could tell just by looking at him that Ferdinand might have killed anyone, or know how many times he’d done it. Yes, the names and addresses of perpetrators were printed next to the names of their victims in the daily news, but that meant nothing. There was no external evidence to point to Ferdinand. Many first-time murders were committed on a simple impulse. Because a dam had burst. Because too much had been bottled up.
The man was slowing down now, as if his conversation was taking up so much of his attention that he could barely put one foot in front of the other. Of course he’ll stop next to my bench, thought Ferdinand. The man turned his back recklessly, absently. Now I can go, Ferdinand thought. Now I can get a little head start, maybe put enough distance between us to discourage the man from doing what he’s planning. But the moment passed. Ferdinand saw the man’s lips now, even heard a few words of what he was saying, figured there was a microphone hidden under his lip. This is how death comes to meet you—under a black um
brella in an empty park. Death comes out of nowhere. You watch him approach over a gravel path until he stops right in front of you. He’s got nylon thread neatly rolled in his pocket. Any minute it will cut into your throat as easily as into a wheel of cheese.
The man no longer seemed to be carrying on a conversation so much as a monologue. He passed by the bench, but was still too close to Ferdinand for comfort. There were deep creases in the back of his overcoat. Perhaps he came to the park every day to pass some time on a bench. His voice was steady—as though in prayer. Perhaps he was one of those neurotics Ferdinand had read about in the paper—people who develop strange psychological conditions because of their implants. People who don’t even hear what other people say to them anymore—they just go on talking regardless.
After the man had walked a few meters more, Ferdinand decided to stand up. His body was tense with anxiety; he felt a pain in his lower back. Nonetheless, he began walking down the path. After he’d put some distance between the bench and himself, taken a few turns, he looked back. He could just about make out the black umbrella—casting a shadow that swallowed the talking man whole.
I have to find shelter, thought Ferdinand. I don’t want to be out walking around the city after dark. My jacket is wet—hunger I can stand, but I should get out of the rain. A man like me doesn’t need to eat much to stay alive. This cheered him up, brought him a moment’s peace. He’d always been that way. Hunger didn’t worry him.
Best European Fiction 2010 Page 4
