Thomas Glavinic: The Camera Killer

My partner asked for the check and I got out my wallet. The proprietress took the money in person. While doing so, she struck up a conversation about the captured murderer. It was awful, she said; they had just announced that he was a twenty-four-year-old from the locality — the cook had heard it on the radio in the kitchen. Heinrich asked if there was any doubt about the young man’s guilt. The proprietress shrugged her shoulders, which were swathed in a black silk shawl adorned with a floral pattern, and said they wouldn’t have arrested him otherwise.

My partner praised the quality of the dishes we had consumed and inquired if the restaurant used organically grown meat and vegetables. This the proprietress confirmed, substantiating her assurance by citing various names that meant nothing to us (Herbert Stadler, possibly a farmer, and Karl Gnam, a butcher). My partner commended this policy, and the proprietress regarded her with approval from then on. One could see and hear that my partner was a townswoman, she said, and city folk sometimes failed to appreciate natural products, though this situation was improving.

Last of all, she turned to the Stubenrauchs. She knew of them, she said, and they were well spoken of even though they hadn’t lived in the district for long. Heinrich said he was interested to hear that; he’d had no idea they were a topic of conversation. Well, yes, said the proprietress, you know how people talk. The Stubenrauchs fitted in well locally, she went on. Johann Fleck, the mayor, with whom she was sure they were already acquainted, was someone you could always turn to in an emergency.

Heinrich laughed. If the camera killer showed up at their home, he said, he would be sure to notify Herr Fleck. Eva punched him in the ribs.

They’ve caught him anyway, the proprietress muttered.

Once my partner had finished her drink, we left the inn accompanied by good-byes all around. Several well-dressed children with smart haircuts were playing in the parking lot. Heinrich, who had gone on ahead, flapped his arms again. This resulted in a temperamental outburst on Eva’s part. She declared that she wouldn’t stand for any more of his cynicism. My partner backed her up. Eva said she meant it, and he should think before he spoke; he had made her look a fool at the inn with his talk of notifying the mayor about the murderer. Heinrich laughingly put his hands above his head as if defending himself from an assailant. Eva again said she meant it.

We got into the car. Heinrich was once more seated at the wheel with me in the passenger seat and the womenfolk accommodated in the back. Heinrich drove off. He said he proposed to make a short detour to enable us — meaning my partner and me — to savor the beauties of the surrounding countryside. He apologized for flapping his arms. Perhaps it was his way of coming to terms with what he’d seen, heard, and experienced. He was no psychologist, but he knew that many people dealt with such matters contemplatively, whereas others, of whom he was clearly one, adopted an aggressive approach. From behind us, Eva called out that this aggressive approach contained the seeds of another problem — namely, the danger of hurting the feelings of other, less coarse-grained individuals.

Heinrich said he was aware of this and apologized yet again; he would try to behave more acceptably in the future. He turned on the radio. Various people from the victims’ hometown were being interviewed, among them someone who claimed to know the person who had been captured in the course of the manhunt. The man under arrest certainly wasn’t the guilty party, he said; that was out of the question. All else apart, he had no idea how to operate a video camera.

Heinrich professed himself surprised by the fact that, in the aftermath of a crime, friends and neighbors, etc., invariably expressed astonishment that the person in question had committed an atrocity, as if it were possible to see inside someone’s head or stake one’s life on their innocence. It really was strange, said Eva.

Heinrich said that none of us differed from the man on the radio in this respect. He felt convinced, for example, that none of us would believe him, Heinrich, capable of a flagrant breach of the law, and if he were arrested overnight for murder, it would be our voices that issued from the radio, churning out the I-just-can’t-believe-its and he-couldn’t-possibly-have-done-its.

My partner objected that he hadn’t committed murder — that was the difference. If he were arrested tomorrow and she were speaking on the radio, her statement that Heinrich was incapable of murder would be true because he genuinely hadn’t committed one.

How could she be so sure? Heinrich retorted with a grin.

He was starting again, Eva exclaimed, and he’d promised to curb his tasteless witticisms.

Heinrich said he was only joking, but the underlying circumstances were serious and worthy of discussion. How did my partner know he wasn’t a murderer? he demanded. It was just the same with the man’s friend on the radio. Eva started to protest, but my partner interjected that Heinrich was right; one could never tell.

Meanwhile, we had reached the Stubenrauchs’. With all due care, Heinrich coasted to a stop in front of the house and we got out. Ominous storm clouds were gathering on the horizon, but the sun overhead was still generating intense heat. While feeling in his pockets for the front door key, Heinrich asked whether it was worth playing a game of badminton. It was 1:42 p.m. The press conference was scheduled to start at 3:00 and might be shown live on television.

At this point, the farmer came rushing out of the house next door. They’ve caught him, he hollered, they’ve caught him, have you heard?

Heinrich confirmed that we were in the picture and asked if there was any more news of the killer. The farmer said he didn’t know, he’d only heard of the arrest. Heinrich referred him to the impending press conference, but the farmer didn’t take this in. Instead, he called the prisoner a monster and a swine, etc., said they should give him short shrift, and promised to sign the petition for a referendum on the death penalty.

He also ignored Eva’s inquiry as to how his wife was feeling. After a brief conversation about the weather, he turned and strode back to his house. Heinrich asked Eva how she could ask such stupid questions; it was obvious that the man had already stabbed or at least shot his wife, and she was now lying in the kitchen in her own blood. Eva punched him hard in the back and said she’d had enough of his disgusting jokes. Laughing, Heinrich unlocked the front door.

Eva immediately betook herself to the bathroom.

My partner and Heinrich pushed their way into the living room, where they jocularly contested a comfortable seat on the sofa. Heinrich argued that it was his regular place. My partner countered that she was a guest and that her wishes must be duly respected; she wanted to lie down for a brief rest, being afflicted with the fatigue that invariably beset her after an ample meal. Heinrich retorted that she could forget about having a rest, as they would soon be playing badminton. My partner greeted this statement with groans and laughter. Heinrich eventually surrendered the sofa to her, but not without adding that she would be permitted only five minutes’ relaxation.

He turned on the television. “Man under interrogation. The young Styrian who was captured after a breakneck car chase is currently being questioned by the police. Press conference scheduled for 3:00 p.m. The chancellor calls for calm. No vigilantism!”

Just imagine what would happen, said Heinrich, if the man under arrest were handed over to the inhabitants of the victims’ hometown. The result would be quite terrible. They would rip the eyes from his living, breathing body and subject him to every imaginable form of torture.