Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

The church bells begin chiming with a thunderous clang. Keeping close to the wall, the librarian looks back. Now she knows she is being followed. She quickens her pace, trying not to stumble, trying not to think. Her heels, the bells, the masked figure’s footsteps behind.

The sheep is dragged over to the dip. The shepherd thrusts its head under the stream of water. The sheep struggles to get away. The shepherd strengthens his grip. He has to rub the sheep down, and he has to do it quickly.

The masked figure has caught up with the librarian, who finds herself trapped between the wall and a still unlit street lamp. She wants to throw her head back and cry out, but she can’t.

The shepherd begins rubbing the sheep’s flank vigorously with the water from the fountain, washing away the chaff and dust and excrement and the grease the animal secretes, the oily film that sticks to the wool and has to be rubbed, pulled, scrubbed away.

She can’t throw her head back and cry out because the masked figure has grabbed her from behind and is holding a knife to her neck, covering her mouth with his gloved hand, and has begun groping her with slippery urgency, panting behind his mask.

He ropes the animal’s legs together and grabs the shears, the honed metal. The rope tightens and the sheep’s flank goes into a spasm, seems about to explode, to leave its skin behind from so much writhing.

He binds her wrists with a piece of rope, grapples with her until he manages to cram a handkerchief into her mouth. The rope tightens, cutting into her flesh. The masked figure leans against the street lamp to steady himself, keeping the librarian with her back to him, her face pressed against the wall.

The wool closest to the skin resists the shears. The sheep’s lip curls with fright, baring its teeth. The shepherd works with both hands, his fingers trembling from the effort. The sheep’s mouth opens, letting out a more piercing bleat that resounds in waves. The shears become caught up in the twists of wool. The sheep’s teeth grind resignedly.

The librarian screams with the handkerchief crammed in her mouth, the knife digging into but not breaking the skin on her neck. The masked figure works away, emitting short grunts. The librarian’s heavy thighs stay clenched.

The sheep’s eyes bulge, filling with an amber liquid. Wide open with fright, crazed, unseeing, the sheep’s eyes swallow up the light.

The librarian’s coat lies tangled on the ground.

The wool begins forming a mound.

In a nearby alley, moving off into the distance, the nightwatchman’s cry can be heard: Watch over your fire and your lamps. Praise be to God! All praise!

Lieutenant Gluck was dictating to Lieutenant Gluck, who was taking notes. The two Lieutenant Glucks had been assigned to investigate the increasingly alarming case of the masked attacker. The two men got on badly but they loved each other — they were father and son. The father had held the rank of lieutenant for years. He had reached a state of calm contentment, and no longer aspired to any higher position. The younger Gluck had recently made lieutenant, although his rank would not become official until the next annual review of police promotions. He had his sights set even higher, and was occasionally exasperated by his father’s lack of ambition. The veteran Lieutenant Gluck was proud of his son’s meteoric rise, and yet this removal of the professional hierarchy between them gave him cause for concern on a personal level — he didn’t wish to make too much out of it, but lately he had the feeling that his son disagreed with nearly all of his observations and flouted his orders, more out of defiance than conviction.

Lieutenants Gluck and Gluck were in one of the offices in Wandernburg’s central police station, at the end of Spur Street. The room smelt musty, and the tiny window at the back was no bigger than a cell window. Lieutenant Gluck was leaning back in his chair, his heels resting on the edge of a desk full of woodworm. In the meantime, Lieutenant Gluck was pacing around his father’s chair taking notes. The older Gluck liked to run through all the facts in his mind in order to have a picture of the whole, before making any conjectures. His son preferred to investigate every possibility, analysing each clue as he went along, pulling on every thread to see where it might lead. Son, Lieutenant Gluck raised his head, will you keep still for five minutes? Sometimes a little calm is necessary in order to concentrate. I already told you, father, replied Lieutenant Gluck, I think better when I’m moving. But it’s the mind, not the body, that has to be agile, protested Lieutenant Gluck. It’s a wonder you can tell them apart, Lieutenant Gluck retorted, vexed. Sub-lieutenant! declared Lieutenant Gluck, removing his feet from the desk. Show some respect and keep still, that’s an order! And I’m warning you it applies to both things equally whether or not you can tell them apart ! The son stopped pacing. Lieutenant Gluck announced solemnly: Is that clear, Sub-lieutenant? Yes, replied the son grudgingly. Yes, what, Sub-lieutenant? said the father. Yes, Lieutenant, said Lieutenant Gluck. Good, said the father, settling back in his chair, satisfied, in that case let’s continue.

We know, Lieutenant Gluck resumed while his son took notes, that the attacker’s modus operandi has remained unchanged since the first attack, that is to say — in addition to the aforementioned carnival mask, the provenance of which we are attempting to determine, and the knife and the handkerchief he uses to silence his victims and the rope with which he ties their wrists, the attacker invariably strikes, according to all the witness statements to date — I’m not going too fast am I? All right, son, all right, I was only asking! Now, where was I? Oh yes — the attacker strikes in the vicinity of St Nicholas’s Church, more precisely in Wool Alley or Jesus Lane and other side streets off Archway. He doubtless chooses said streets because not only are they poorly lit and isolated, but because they enable him to lie in wait unseen by his victims, or rather by the women, intercepting them as they enter, or dragging them in as they walk past. To the best of our knowledge, the subject has never struck before seven o’clock in the evening or after ten o’clock at night. Therefore we can deduce (we can deduce, his son interrupted, stopping writing, that the attacker is well acquainted with the city’s habits, that is, he knows what time he is likely to find a victim in those streets, and more importantly he knows what time the policemen stop patrolling and the routes the nightwatchmen take), just so, just so, yes, and not only that (not only that what? his son said, looking up from his notebook), not only that, but we can, indeed we must, deduce from it the hours the attacker himself keeps. We might also suppose that he strikes relatively early because the next day he has to rise early for reasons of work, family or obligations of a different nature … (Go on, said Lieutenant Gluck.) Nothing, just that we should keep it in mind. If the subject is indeed familiar with police patrol times and the nightwatchmen’s itinerary, this would narrow down the suspect’s profile, whereas if his criminal routine is governed by familial responsibilities, then our search should include other types of profile (I can see no other reason for the criminal rising early except to go to work, reflected his son). Really? Why is that? (Quite simply, replied Lieutenant Gluck, because so far the criminal’s victims have all been young women, it follows he must be quick and agile, and of working age.) Hold on, we can’t be so sure about that, because it’s precisely the younger women who wear the kinds of garments that make running more difficult. What I mean is, if we take into account his victims’ clothing, the subject hasn’t needed to be fast on his feet. Patient, more like, I’d say. Anyway, have you got all that down, son? Good, excellent. How about a small beer? Don’t look at me like that, look at the time. We’re off duty!