After my arrest and interrogation in connection with Lucy's murder, I found myself ostracized by everyone I ran into in the corridors and rooms of the University of Truth and Justice. Lucy had been a general favorite: her wide azure eyes, the vitamins she had dispensed so freely, and, above all, her angelic demeanor had endeared her to all. People were too polite to spit at me in public and I tried to bury myself in my work and to drown my sorrows in strong drink. I hoped that the storm would soon pass over and that I would once again be loved and respected.
To no avail. Everything was going wrong. Yeltsin had a heart attack and the Xox Foundation office in Bucharest was invaded by angry pig farmers protesting global capitalism and Xox's unwillingness to invest in a sausage factory in Ceaucescuville. Franta, our computer repairman, got a splinter in his finger which got infected and the doctors were threatening to amputate. A cyclone destroyed half of Bangladesh, killing 50,000 head of cattle and stranding twenty million people without food, shelter and drinking water. Three Bulgarian students got pregnant in the same week by the same man, a drunken florist across the street who believed in keeping his customers happy at all costs. Lady Snatcher was declared Person of the Century by Newsday magazine. And I was just beginning to get used to the stares and the polite insincere smiles and the nervous giggles when Professor Masaryk had me summoned to his office. He sat behind his desk, ostentatiously frowning at some papers. After a while he looked up, took off his glasses, and stared at me suspiciously. "Well, what do you want?" he snapped.
"You called me, sir," I said patiently. "They said you wanted to see me."
"Oh, yes, it is possible that you may be telling the truth," Masaryk conceded. "But I am very busy and I don't have much time to talk to you." He linked his hands together and his brow wrinkled in thought. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and waited. "Nevertheless, we must discuss this problem. We cannot evade the issue. It is always best to look things in the eye. Stare trouble in the face." Masaryk nodded weightily and sighed noisily. "That is my advice to you, young man. Confess!"
"Excuse me?"
"Confession was the great innovation of the Catholic Church," Masaryk went on ponderously. "A great relief for the sinner to feel the weight of sin lifted off his shoulders. As we all know, psychoanalysis is the pale substitute developed by our secular age. I understand they have very good psychoanalysts in our jails these days."
"Professor Masaryk," I said, grinding the words through my teeth. "I have nothing to confess. I did not kill Lucy. I had nothing to do with Lucy's sad demise besides identifying the body. Now will you please excuse me? I think I had better go speak to Lord Hades."
I turned on my heel and left the room. As I slammed the door I seemed to hear again from a great distance the plaintive cry, "Confess!" I strode down the corridor, knocked sharply at Hell's door, and went in. Hell was, as usual, writing. With his usual courtesy he rose and offered me a chair.
"Otto, I would like to offer you my resignation."
"Best thing in the circumstances," Hell said impassively. "Don't like to kick a man when he's down. But Masaryk told me everything this morning."
"Otto, since I no longer work for you, may I ask you a question?"
"You just did," Hell growled. "What is it?"
"Just exactly what did Professor Masaryk tell you?"
"You were arrested. Police think you did it. Embarrassment to the university. Asked me to get rid of you."
"Purely to set the record straight, Otto, the police released me because I proved that I could not be the serial killer for whom they are looking."
Hell shrugged. "Doesn't really matter, does it?" he asked reasonably. "What matters is perception. Can't have people thinking you did it. Bad for the image of the university."
"Why is my presence bad for the image of the university?"
"Seen Wiederkaufen lately?" Hell inquired ironically. "Man's going bananas. Wrote an open letter to Xox telling him that I was senile and that you were some sort of evil Asiatic eminence grise taking over the university for your own nefarious ends. Suggested that I should be retired and that he should be promoted from head of his department to take over the university for a while."
"But that's crazy!" I gasped. "Professor Hohenstaufen can't even run his own department. All the European Studies students are constantly threatening to go on strike because they don't want to learn how to curtsey."
"Man's mad," Hell replied laconically. "But he's got allies in the university senate. Attila Ugh in Budapest is still furious with us for postponing his courses on ethnic cleansing."
"What will you do?"
Hell shrugged. "Nothing. Tempest in a teacup."
"What should I do?"
"Lie low for a while. Let people forget. Maybe the police will find the killer. Go back to Amerika."
I winced. I knew that my mother would eventually find out and I dreaded the scene that would follow her discovery that her only son was a brutal sex-killer. I offered Otto my hand. "I enjoyed working for you," I said huskily, my voice breaking. I turned away to hide the single tear that was coursing down my cheek. I knew Hell hated displays of emotion.
I went back to my office and took my sole personal possession, a gold Mont Noir fountain pen I had inherited from my father, back up to my room. I sat down on the side of the bed, mechanically popped the last of Lucy's `vitamins' into my dry mouth, put my head between my hands, and drearily wondered what I should do now. Should I pack? I looked around at the untidy mounds of clothes dispersed all across my room and my depression grew deeper. I wanted to get into my unmade bed and pull the tangled heap of blankets over my head and to burrow blindly like a mole into a rich dark tunnel of careless velvet sleep… However, as usual, the vitamin soon took effect. A few minutes later, I was striding briskly down the corridor, whistling loudly, rhythmically clapping my hands; my head was high, my chest stuck out, my gut was sucked in, and a mysterious melody in my head grew louder and more distinct, bright voices chiming together in complex counterpoint, a shining carillon rising to ecstatic clarity... And then I was singing along to a brassy jazz tune, waggling my hips and shaking my head to the rhythm, as I took the elevator down to the reception desk, down, a dark eminence falling, a solitary majesty cloaked in resplendent robes of dark purple velvet:
Waves breaking on the sands
Better learn to read your hands
There is no future, the die is cast
And the first shall be the last
So don't you worry about a thing
But raise your voice high and sing
(Refrain) Peace and love, little baby
God's in heaven, maybe...
You can't know who I am
And I don't really give a damn
But when you hear that trumpet blast
And you have to face your past
Get down on your knees and pray
Or just smile bitterly and say...
Annichka looked up in alarm as I marched up to the reception desk, lustily singing the refrain. "You have messages," she nervously squeaked and held out two pieces of paper with trembling hands. I read them, still whistling. Call Steele and would I please try not to avoid offending his boss when she picked up the phone? And would I call Bob? Bob, the long-haired liberal from Santa Kruz? I called him first.
"Hi, how are ya," a voice drawled. "I've been trying to get a hold of you all day. Immanuel says hi. Hey, listen, how about givin' us an exclusive interview? You know, about this murder 'n' all."
"Wait. Is this for that English language newspaper you started here?"
"Yeah, for Prahahaha!. It would really boost our circulation, you know, if we could have a scoop. Exclusive interview with sex-maniac, that sort of thing."
"Look, Bob," I said patiently. "I hate to disappoint you but I actually didn't kill her. I'm sorry."
"That's a shame. We were kinda counting on this interview." Bob sounded disappointed but he cheered up quickly. "Immanuel and Divka don't think you did it either. We're thinking of polling our readers, you know, asking them to call in with their opinions. Say, did the police beat you up? We could do an exclusive on police brutality towards foreigners."
"How much will you pay me?"
"Hey... we're journalists. We got ethics. How much do you want? We don't have much money. We're just starting up the paper, you know."
"How about the price of a train ticket to Berlin?"
"Deal," Bob said happily. "You mind if we bring in the racist angle? Like if we take a few pictures of you being beaten up by skinheads or something?"
"No, that's just fine. You find the skinheads, okay?"
We made an appointment for next afternoon. I was exquisitely polite to the bitchy lady at the Amerikan Embassy when I asked to speak to Steele.
"Hey," Steele said despondently. "I've been transferred."
"I've been fired. Where are they transferring you?"
"Tirana." Steele laughed bitterly. "Because of my financial expertise."
"What are you talking about?"
"I can't talk on the phone. You want to get a drink? Meet me at the Cafe Classique in half an hour, will you?"
"I'll be there."
As I hung up, I felt the warm pressure of a soft hand on mine. I looked up in surprise into Annichka's pretty downcast face. I was touched, literally: it was my first physical contact with another human being in days. Little Annichka's big brown eyes were wet. "Are you going to leave Prague?"
"I think I had better get out of town for a while, Annichka."
"I don't think you killed Lucy," she whispered.
"Thanks," I replied, sincerely.
"We never played with crayons," she murmured. "And you never gave me any drugs, like you promised."
"I know, sweetie," I said sadly.
"Will you come back?" A solitary tear rolled down Annichka's porcelain cheek.
"Yes."
She raised her eyes and looked at me like a mistrustful baby. "Promise?"
I gently wiped the tear from her cheek and cajoled her into a smile. "I promise. I will return. In fact, I'll come right back after I've had a drink. Don't cry, all right? Everything will be just fine. Peace and love!"
To no avail. Everything was going wrong. Yeltsin had a heart attack and the Xox Foundation office in Bucharest was invaded by angry pig farmers protesting global capitalism and Xox's unwillingness to invest in a sausage factory in Ceaucescuville. Franta, our computer repairman, got a splinter in his finger which got infected and the doctors were threatening to amputate. A cyclone destroyed half of Bangladesh, killing 50,000 head of cattle and stranding twenty million people without food, shelter and drinking water. Three Bulgarian students got pregnant in the same week by the same man, a drunken florist across the street who believed in keeping his customers happy at all costs. Lady Snatcher was declared Person of the Century by Newsday magazine. And I was just beginning to get used to the stares and the polite insincere smiles and the nervous giggles when Professor Masaryk had me summoned to his office. He sat behind his desk, ostentatiously frowning at some papers. After a while he looked up, took off his glasses, and stared at me suspiciously. "Well, what do you want?" he snapped.
"You called me, sir," I said patiently. "They said you wanted to see me."
"Oh, yes, it is possible that you may be telling the truth," Masaryk conceded. "But I am very busy and I don't have much time to talk to you." He linked his hands together and his brow wrinkled in thought. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and waited. "Nevertheless, we must discuss this problem. We cannot evade the issue. It is always best to look things in the eye. Stare trouble in the face." Masaryk nodded weightily and sighed noisily. "That is my advice to you, young man. Confess!"
"Excuse me?"
"Confession was the great innovation of the Catholic Church," Masaryk went on ponderously. "A great relief for the sinner to feel the weight of sin lifted off his shoulders. As we all know, psychoanalysis is the pale substitute developed by our secular age. I understand they have very good psychoanalysts in our jails these days."
"Professor Masaryk," I said, grinding the words through my teeth. "I have nothing to confess. I did not kill Lucy. I had nothing to do with Lucy's sad demise besides identifying the body. Now will you please excuse me? I think I had better go speak to Lord Hades."
I turned on my heel and left the room. As I slammed the door I seemed to hear again from a great distance the plaintive cry, "Confess!" I strode down the corridor, knocked sharply at Hell's door, and went in. Hell was, as usual, writing. With his usual courtesy he rose and offered me a chair.
"Otto, I would like to offer you my resignation."
"Best thing in the circumstances," Hell said impassively. "Don't like to kick a man when he's down. But Masaryk told me everything this morning."
"Otto, since I no longer work for you, may I ask you a question?"
"You just did," Hell growled. "What is it?"
"Just exactly what did Professor Masaryk tell you?"
"You were arrested. Police think you did it. Embarrassment to the university. Asked me to get rid of you."
"Purely to set the record straight, Otto, the police released me because I proved that I could not be the serial killer for whom they are looking."
Hell shrugged. "Doesn't really matter, does it?" he asked reasonably. "What matters is perception. Can't have people thinking you did it. Bad for the image of the university."
"Why is my presence bad for the image of the university?"
"Seen Wiederkaufen lately?" Hell inquired ironically. "Man's going bananas. Wrote an open letter to Xox telling him that I was senile and that you were some sort of evil Asiatic eminence grise taking over the university for your own nefarious ends. Suggested that I should be retired and that he should be promoted from head of his department to take over the university for a while."
"But that's crazy!" I gasped. "Professor Hohenstaufen can't even run his own department. All the European Studies students are constantly threatening to go on strike because they don't want to learn how to curtsey."
"Man's mad," Hell replied laconically. "But he's got allies in the university senate. Attila Ugh in Budapest is still furious with us for postponing his courses on ethnic cleansing."
"What will you do?"
Hell shrugged. "Nothing. Tempest in a teacup."
"What should I do?"
"Lie low for a while. Let people forget. Maybe the police will find the killer. Go back to Amerika."
I winced. I knew that my mother would eventually find out and I dreaded the scene that would follow her discovery that her only son was a brutal sex-killer. I offered Otto my hand. "I enjoyed working for you," I said huskily, my voice breaking. I turned away to hide the single tear that was coursing down my cheek. I knew Hell hated displays of emotion.
I went back to my office and took my sole personal possession, a gold Mont Noir fountain pen I had inherited from my father, back up to my room. I sat down on the side of the bed, mechanically popped the last of Lucy's `vitamins' into my dry mouth, put my head between my hands, and drearily wondered what I should do now. Should I pack? I looked around at the untidy mounds of clothes dispersed all across my room and my depression grew deeper. I wanted to get into my unmade bed and pull the tangled heap of blankets over my head and to burrow blindly like a mole into a rich dark tunnel of careless velvet sleep… However, as usual, the vitamin soon took effect. A few minutes later, I was striding briskly down the corridor, whistling loudly, rhythmically clapping my hands; my head was high, my chest stuck out, my gut was sucked in, and a mysterious melody in my head grew louder and more distinct, bright voices chiming together in complex counterpoint, a shining carillon rising to ecstatic clarity... And then I was singing along to a brassy jazz tune, waggling my hips and shaking my head to the rhythm, as I took the elevator down to the reception desk, down, a dark eminence falling, a solitary majesty cloaked in resplendent robes of dark purple velvet:
Waves breaking on the sands
Better learn to read your hands
There is no future, the die is cast
And the first shall be the last
So don't you worry about a thing
But raise your voice high and sing
(Refrain) Peace and love, little baby
God's in heaven, maybe...
You can't know who I am
And I don't really give a damn
But when you hear that trumpet blast
And you have to face your past
Get down on your knees and pray
Or just smile bitterly and say...
Annichka looked up in alarm as I marched up to the reception desk, lustily singing the refrain. "You have messages," she nervously squeaked and held out two pieces of paper with trembling hands. I read them, still whistling. Call Steele and would I please try not to avoid offending his boss when she picked up the phone? And would I call Bob? Bob, the long-haired liberal from Santa Kruz? I called him first.
"Hi, how are ya," a voice drawled. "I've been trying to get a hold of you all day. Immanuel says hi. Hey, listen, how about givin' us an exclusive interview? You know, about this murder 'n' all."
"Wait. Is this for that English language newspaper you started here?"
"Yeah, for Prahahaha!. It would really boost our circulation, you know, if we could have a scoop. Exclusive interview with sex-maniac, that sort of thing."
"Look, Bob," I said patiently. "I hate to disappoint you but I actually didn't kill her. I'm sorry."
"That's a shame. We were kinda counting on this interview." Bob sounded disappointed but he cheered up quickly. "Immanuel and Divka don't think you did it either. We're thinking of polling our readers, you know, asking them to call in with their opinions. Say, did the police beat you up? We could do an exclusive on police brutality towards foreigners."
"How much will you pay me?"
"Hey... we're journalists. We got ethics. How much do you want? We don't have much money. We're just starting up the paper, you know."
"How about the price of a train ticket to Berlin?"
"Deal," Bob said happily. "You mind if we bring in the racist angle? Like if we take a few pictures of you being beaten up by skinheads or something?"
"No, that's just fine. You find the skinheads, okay?"
We made an appointment for next afternoon. I was exquisitely polite to the bitchy lady at the Amerikan Embassy when I asked to speak to Steele.
"Hey," Steele said despondently. "I've been transferred."
"I've been fired. Where are they transferring you?"
"Tirana." Steele laughed bitterly. "Because of my financial expertise."
"What are you talking about?"
"I can't talk on the phone. You want to get a drink? Meet me at the Cafe Classique in half an hour, will you?"
"I'll be there."
As I hung up, I felt the warm pressure of a soft hand on mine. I looked up in surprise into Annichka's pretty downcast face. I was touched, literally: it was my first physical contact with another human being in days. Little Annichka's big brown eyes were wet. "Are you going to leave Prague?"
"I think I had better get out of town for a while, Annichka."
"I don't think you killed Lucy," she whispered.
"Thanks," I replied, sincerely.
"We never played with crayons," she murmured. "And you never gave me any drugs, like you promised."
"I know, sweetie," I said sadly.
"Will you come back?" A solitary tear rolled down Annichka's porcelain cheek.
"Yes."
She raised her eyes and looked at me like a mistrustful baby. "Promise?"
I gently wiped the tear from her cheek and cajoled her into a smile. "I promise. I will return. In fact, I'll come right back after I've had a drink. Don't cry, all right? Everything will be just fine. Peace and love!"
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