Janwillem De Wetering - The Mind-Murders

"Beautiful," the commissaris said.

"I've always liked black women. I'm having some white jumpsuits made for her. It'll be fun experimenting with how far the zipper should be pulled down. She has perfect breasts, but they shouldn't be exposed completely, I think."

The commissaris agreed.

'Til ask the adjutant and that handsome sergeant to be on the committee. They're good men; they have the talent, too, I think. I sometimes recognize it in others. Not too often, though; it must be rare. You have it."

"Do I really?" The sparrow flew off. The commissaris turned his back to the railing too. "And the car? How did you arrange that? Hyme didn't know, did he? My sergeant was going to ask him, but I cut the question off. I didn't want Hyme to run to you and prevent this conversation or alter it."

Beelema burped. "Excuse me. Too rich a meal again. It'll be worse when Zhaver opens his restaurant. I should really go on a diet. Hyme? No, he never knew. He has a habit of leaving his car keys on the counter, and that night he had a lot to drink. I slipped out and got the two kitchen boys at Hotel Oberon to help me push Boronski's Porsche away. Then I replaced it with Hyme's Porsche and took all the stuff that Boronski had in his car and rearranged it carefully in Hyme's. The kitchen boys changed the number plates. When I knew that Boronski had seen the car, I changed everything back to normal again. No, Hyme never knew. His Porsche was back where it had been by the time he went home."

"The kitchen boys also arranged the matter of the watch and the laundry?"

Beelema laughed. "You heard about that too? Yes. They were foreign students who have meanwhile left the country. They'll be hard to trace. They helped me with all the other setups too. Little things mostly. It's amazing how a man can be shaken by little things. I noticed that a long time ago at school, when I practiced on the teachers. It seems as if each man creates a foundation for himself, a pattern of habits. A teacher I particularly disliked would always hang his hat on a certain hook. I would take it off and hang it on the next hook. It drove him frantic. Nobody could understand why he got so upset. I sat in the hotel lounge sometimes and observed Boronski. I read some of his thoughts, analyzed his mind. He was neat. I arranged that the waitresses would spill on him, just a little, a drop of coffee, a tiny splash of ketchup. Can happen to anybody, they would apologize and pretend to clean his trousers or jacket and then they would worsen the stain somehow; women are very clever at that. There were other instances. I know the traffic attendant who writes out the parking tickets here; he drinks at my cafe. Boronski got a lot of tickets. My friend would wait for Boronski to come out of the hotel and make him pay in cash. And my dear old lady friend, Mrs. Cabbage-Tonto, pretended that Boronski had stepped on her Chihuahua and made a terrible scene in the street. Much more happened, I won't bore you with it all, but I had Boronski jumping during every waking minute, and I daresay I got into his dreams too."

"True," the commissaris said, "we live in patterns. We make them ourselves, they're our safety, and you dare to interfere with the patterns of others."

"With reason," Beelema said. "I'm entitled to do it; I have both the talent and the right. You don't agree?"

"No," the commissaris said.

"You don't," Beelema said. "I'm sorry to hear it. I thought you, would agree. I've studied you a little. I took you for a superior man, like myself. But you're small-minded. You would be, of course, in your official capacity, but I thought you would liberate yourself from prejudice in your spare time. However, no matter, would you care to step into my cafe" and have a drink with me?"

"I would not," the commissaris said, "but I thank you for satisfying my curiosity."

Beelema did not move.

"Is that your last word? I had hoped for a little more."

"There is the law," the commissaris whispered so that Beelema had to lean over to hear him. "I don't mean the law in our books, that's no more than a projection. The true law is in all of us, in our center, in the core of our being, where we are all connected and where the illusion of identity no longer obscures our insight. If you have, as you say, the talent, you are misusing it. Reflect, sir, and take care."

Summer changed into autumn, the heavy rains had passed, and the air was crisp. It was late at night and Beelema walked by himself. Kiran wasn't with him. The dog had refused to leave the house and snarled when Beelema tried to pet him. The dog's behavior had been gradually changing; he no longer bothered people and seemed tired and listless. The veterinarian could find nothing wrong with the Great Dane. Beelema worried about the dog. If Kiran continued to snarl at him, he might have to get rid of his pet.

Beelema also worried about himself. He was getting fatter. He also drank too much. He had been drinking a lot that particular evening, served by the two lovely barmaids, one black, one Indonesian. Yet everything was going well. The bar was crowded every evening and Zhaver's restaurant, in which he had an interest, was usually booked days in advance. He was busy in bis hair salon too.

It's the time of the year, he thought, as he walked on, maneuvering around a corner and bumping his shoulder. It's autumn, nature is dying, the general decline affects me.

He bumped into a tree, softly, for his stomach protected him. Then he stumbled over a low fence. Really, Beelema thought, I must watch myself. I know every square inch of the area. This is where they keep blacktopping the same hole. Every time, it caves in again, and they bring out the machinery and make a new mess. He stepped back and walked around the fence.

A young man, a boy still, but tall and slender, walked toward the stumbling figure.

I still feel sexy, Beelema thought, that's good.

"You're a dear boy," he said aloud. "You're handsome. Walk with me a little way. We'll like each other."

The boy stopped. Beelema caressed his black leather jacket.

"Can I feel your skull? I like bare skulls. I shouldn't because I'm a hairdresser and naughty boys like you spoil my trade. You are naughty, aren't you?"

"Sure," the boy said. His teeth shone in a black regularly shaped face. Beelema's fat finger pressed on the aquiline nose.

"Yes, you are beautiful. Would you like some money? First we play together and then I give you some money. How much would you like, naughty boy?"

"He'll want all of your money," a voice said behind Beelema. Beelema tried to turn around but his shoulders were held.

"Let's take his gold too," the first boy said, "everything. He's got some in his mouth. Break it open and I'll knock it out. Use your knife."

"No," Beelema yelled, but his cry was cut short by a hand clasping his mouth. Another hand yanked off his watch chain. There seemed to be many hands, punching him, slapping his face, tugging at the rings on his fingers, removing his wallet, even the loose change from his pocket. The hands hurt him; there were hard feet too that kicked his ankles and shins. Then he felt a sharp pain in his neck.

"Don't say a word, sugar daddy, this is a sharp knife, it'll cut you and you'll bleed like a pig; you ever see a pig bleed?"

"Let's get bis teeth," the first boy said.

"Hold him, Til get my pliers. They're in the car. Don't run away now, sugar daddy, I'll be right back to take your nice teeth."

"And his nice balls," the first boy said. "He has gold balls too, haven't you, sugar daddy?"

Beelema pulled himself free. The boys allowed him to get away a few steps, then ran after him and pushed him down.

He fell on the fence, knocking it over, and rolled in the tar. The boys removed the top of the fence and pushed him so that he rolled on. He rolled till the tarmac was solid again, scrambled to his feet, and ran on. The boys were close behind, running soundlessly on their rubber-soled halfboots.