Elfriede Jelinek - Greed

The country policeman's colleagues begin to go systematically from house to house asking questions. Who saw Gabriele Fluch for the last time? Not even that can be precisely established. Even late in the evening, even at night, the little detached house in which she lived is brightly lit up. Every window so bright, as if it wanted to invite everyone in, then Gabi will certainly be among the visitors who constantly ring the bell, enter without having properly wiped their shoes, and hold out magazines, to which we are supposed to subscribe, or thoughts about Christ, which we are allowed to enter. No she isn't here, Gabi. Everything has been searched. Her boyfriend has meanwhile gone home, he has to study for an exam. The mother will ring him immediately, if something happens. At his home his parents will do the same, if something happens. The family house of the Fluchs stands in a small group of the like-minded. Everyone knows everyone else but perhaps they don't want to know one another too well. Since the houses are all alike, the people want to be like everyone else too. Each is like the other and no one says anything about the other or to the other. It's an estate for workers, cheaply built in the sixties, but they've got everything inside, even running water, we were allowed to choose the wallpaper ourselves. It's just like life, in which the inclinations live, but if once they work against us, then no one objects to that either. They destroy us, no one weeps, but the result is quite respectable, because our house is still there after all. On this estate the people stick together, even without knowing each other particularly well, it's not even necessary. The inquiries lead nowhere. They are not yet very urgent, since at this point one still hopes that Gabi will come back home, talking and laughing, she doesn't hurt anyone, why should anyone hurt her. No one hurts her. Peace is strong and determined to reign. No one can make a stand against it, it pulverizes even the longest war. A crippling passivity takes hold of people when peace reigns, don't give war a chance. Never again! Peace must immediately seize everything and take possession of it and its reign shall be endless and all-powerful, it is considered very practiced, it can do that no bother!, the peace that gives orders, it is always very strict with us, stricter than war. That's how it should be, and we like to obey this stronger force, peace, its power is secure, its name be praised in all eternity, with brief interruptions. No, not in all eternity, the dead sleep there, and peace no longer needs to reign over them, they're already quiet. Of their own accord.

Don't interrogate the face of a human being, it will tell you nothing, it will grimace or dissemble. The country policeman is partial to the darkness of night. The scene of a crime lures him again and again, and other places, which only a few people know, even if they were born here, also lure him. Whom does the country policeman disturb as he goes on his way? Only the bright feet of time, or is it someone else's feet?, which rush away ahead of him, into the darkness, at a rapid gallop, as if they wanted to laugh at the country policeman. For the victims of murder, nature is a bed, should they have to lie out in the open. But for the murderers, too, it's a made bed, which they are free to use, and for their killing business they cover it with seclusion, so that no one sees them, but one always has to reckon on something happening by chance. The car plows through the night, in the houses lights are still on, slide by as if they were ships, but it's the country policeman driving past. Soon from right and left the forest closes over him like giant folded hands over a head, full of desperation. The village has slipped away from Kurt Janisch, and with the village life slips away, too. It is often poisoned by neighborly acts of revenge, but still, it's life. But also the houses, in which it takes place, they should all rightly belong to him, who himself represents what's right, here, if you please, he has the appropriate regulation gun, its barrel is just as dark as the night, not nickel-plated, not bright as this day, which as surviving dependent has remained behind with lowered head. So, now it reigns at last, for, let's say, at least another eight hours, pain and pleasure and pleasantries disappear together in the forest, snow hangs like a veil over the mountains, so thin that one can't even see it in the darkness. Today the woman didn't keep the meeting on the mountain, something like that has never happened before. A bad sign. Instead she constantly calls him at home and puts the phone down when his wife answers. She's slowly beginning to notice, but she doesn't think anything of it, because her husband has told her: Just you tidy up, and see that you don't forget anything, including under the beds. This revolver, a Glock, its 16 rounds lie properly in the magazine and concentrate on their big moment (it will come once and not be repeated!), surrounded by only a little metal and a great deal of polymer plastic, the butt fits easily into the hand, but it will not be so easy for someone to pull it out, at least that's what we hope. At the moment this weapon is just as relaxed as its owner, but inside it trembles towards an event, which will lend it importance. Night, transfigured night, let me be afraid at last! All right, all right. In the headlight cone a still winterblind embankment, spindly undergrowth, the stream only puts in an appearance right at the bottom, and will certainly work its way up during the summer, with gentle murmuring, at present inaudible because of car noise, a bit of car is already enough for a driver not to hear anything from outside. Here a passing place, right at the edge a stack of wood, a pile of shit, a bright eye, which a team of woodcutters left behind, is cut out of the landscape by the moving light, disappears again. On the left the slope drags itself up, covered in brushwood and dry, old grass, it will throw off its burden step by step, because it will soon be too heavy, the higher it goes, until it is empty, icy, pure rock, where only chamois can survive, will be able to rise up, alone, free, and single; the individual branches of bushes point in the air, the birches over there have already missed their first leaf deployment, on the plain they're already diligently putting forth shoots. Further up there are perhaps even patches of snow, until there is only snow, we also still have to expect night frosts, a tasty dessert to follow the day that remained.

The road grants us the not to be underestimated pleasure of the blue, no the gray ribbon, which only thunderstorms are allowed to cut. The country policeman is on his way to the place, where he has already tidied up the bed of a murder victim several times, but he is repeatedly drawn there, just behind the village is the spot, soil cheated of plant growth, wasteland, but today the country policeman is driving further. Strangely enough he cannot remember whether he removed all evidence. Did he pick up the tissue or not. And if so, perhaps there's another one left over. He would also like to see if something was left lying at another spot, further away, where he also was with Gabi, which also has to be tidied up. He removed every piece of fluff, every scrap, but perhaps there are, left over from earlier intercourse, somewhere else, still a couple of stuck together paper tissues, which he now also wants to dispose of, better safe than sorry, he has a powerful torch, almost a searchlight, with him, the country policeman. Its beam will playfully leap after every thread, until he has caught up with and caught it. At this time, in this cold, no one will notice its hard, strong cone of light, still less down there, right by the river. One wrong move and the water puts one in its sack. It's as if the winter had returned, it has suddenly become so cold again. Over there the crouching back of a sawmill, a giant shadowy shape, there, too, the bridge (lovelessly poured of concrete, but completely suitable for heavy trucks) over which one can drive back and forward, the saws are silent, the lips, too, but the stream whispers, which usually one doesn't hear for all the squealing of the huge, rotating, and wood-spitting metal bands. I say: Away with the stream! Down here at last, if you please: THE RIVER. In with the stream and off it goes. Thank you for your free appearance, but you're too big for me to describe, although I would be paid something for it if I asked. At the moment I'm practizing on the little things, though not with the modesty of some colleagues, e.g. a Mr. K. whom I know personally, no, not the one you're thinking of. Once again, my God, what a coarse language one sometimes has to speak, if even animals and plants are to understand one: If one switches off the engine, one can hear it rushing, use another word immediately, let's say: one hears it talking to itself, the river. So the stream has abruptly disappeared, and now the roaring river steps up to us, which had come strolling around a gentle left-hand bend, which it almost missed, and demands its quota of admiration. Now they are running along side-by-side the river and its embankment road, which has been leant against it, so that it looks halfway good, but the road stands there obstinately, stands firm against the river's desires to pull it down, to play with it, and only the inhabitants of the heights move, as fast as they can. To get away from it, because it is threatening to their tender feet or furs.