Sascha Arango - The Truth and Other Lies

The door wasn’t deadbolted, and it was child’s play to push back the latch with a penknife. Opening it didn’t take five seconds. He noted with satisfaction that he had not yet forgotten the time-honored motions — but you don’t forget how to ski either. The door opened only a crack, then it met with an obstacle. The gap was just big enough to squeeze through. Henry was met by a strong smell of drains. Entering the apartment, he had the absurd feeling he was conducting an endoscopic tour through the body of a stranger, beginning in the musty rectum of the hall.

Henry had never stolen more cash or jewelry than he needed to live. Because he respected people’s privacy, he always left personal effects untouched, which made the theft more tolerable. He never went near art on principle; that kind of thing is hard to turn into money. Ideally, the theft would go unnoticed, but that rarely happened. Once, many years earlier, he’d broken into a dental practice and stolen dental gold. When, days later, he read about the doomed special units who had forced open the mouths of the dead and quarried gold out of them behind the gas chambers of Auschwitz-Birkenau, he returned the gold immediately and left two opera tickets by way of apology. Thrilled, the dentist and his wife watched La Traviata from the best seats. When they got home, their diamond jewelry had vanished. But that was a long time ago.

Printed paper was piled up to the ceiling on both sides of the hall. Newspapers, magazines, books, photocopies by the ton. The dust had strung threads, and clouds of disintegrating cellulose snowed down on him. The paper was elaborately held together with string, and shored up with broom handles and all manner of laths and slats, so that the hall resembled a mineshaft. Between the mountains of paper ran a path less than six inches wide. It was only thanks to his early participation in Boy Scout field trips that Henry was able to negotiate it.

Silverfish scuttled under the shower tray, shunning the light, when Henry looked into the bathroom. The vile smell was coming from there. Henry closed the door. The bedroom floor was covered with semi-disemboweled appliances, rotten fruit, and dirty laundry. In the bed lay an almond-eyed creature with her thighs spread and her mouth open wide. Her perfectly proportioned body and expressionless face were turned a little to one side. Curling irons were lodged in her hairless vagina. Out of sheer curiosity Henry lifted the doll and discovered that she weighed the same as a living woman; he put her at over one hundred pounds. Her name was stamped on the sole of her dainty foot: “Miss Wong.” The doll couldn’t have been cheap. The flesh color was convincing, but the silicon skin felt cold to the touch, which would explain the irons to heat her vinyl vagina. This still life with curling irons seemed to Henry like a joke in poor taste.

A telephone was ringing somewhere. Henry felt his way back along the paper bowels of the hall and followed the sound until he came to Gisbert Fasch’s surprisingly tidy, spartan study. On a big double-sided corkboard Henry saw himself. His life in the form of a flowchart, with pictures, dates, and hundreds of different-colored circles. Henry was touched. It was as if he’d just entered a lost-and-found office for vanished memories. There were Polaroids of buildings and places, press photos, pictures of him at readings, and, in the top third of the chart, an old postcard showing a photo of an arched gateway. On the arch in cast-iron letters it said: SAINT RENATA. In this instant Henry knew where he’d met Fasch.

The almost antique answering machine started up. A cassette began to whir. This is Gisbert Fasch speaking. I can’t take your call right now. I’ll get back to you. Beep!

Mr. Fasch, this is Honor Eisendraht from Moreany Publishing House. As we have already communicated to you, we do not release personal information about the life of Mr. Hayden. Furthermore I must point out to you that an unauthorized biography of Mr. Hayden could have legal consequences for you. I would ask you not to address any further written inquiries concerning the matter to the publishing house. I wish you a pleasant day.

Henry barely heard the end of the message. He had already stepped back into the bedroom and switched on the curling irons in the doll’s plastic vulva. He left the apartment in silence. No one saw him drive away.

The black smoke alerted the neighbors. It rose through the cracked bedroom window and up the front of the building. A little later, the windows in the living room shattered. The firemen came with three large engines and put out the fire with foam. Anxious tenants rescued their children, animals, and most valuable possessions, and assisted the firefighting operations with their silent prayers. Outside the cordoned-off area a number of onlookers recorded the event on their phones. Some of the videos appeared the same day on YouTube. The one to get the most hits was by a thirteen-year-old elementary-school girl who filmed the rescue of two burned cats from the third floor and set it to music she’d composed herself. After the smoke had dispersed and the static equilibrium of the building had been tested, the majority of the tenants returned to their apartments. The arson squad set to work in the charred apartment. They came across what was left of a melted silicon doll; the foot had survived and belonged to the “Miss Wong” model. Her remains were salvaged. The forensic investigation into the cause of the fire dragged on in the usual way.

——

The friendly gentleman from the insurance company waited patiently while Betty hunted for the car key. She had gone to the door in wooden sandals and a robe, assuming it was the courier service bringing her typeset pages to proofread. The man waited in the hallway outside the door. He had put down his bag and folded his arms over his belly. He enjoyed contemplative moments such as this.

Betty knew perfectly well that she wouldn’t find the key, because it was rusting away in the Subaru at the bottom of the sea. For a long time she’d driven the Subaru with the spare key, because the original key had gotten lost at some point. Nevertheless she rummaged around in the drawer of her desk, theatrically pushing it open and shut.

“I can’t find the key just now,” she explained in embarrassment as she handed the car’s papers to the friendly gentleman at the door. “Does it matter?”

“What about the spare?”

“The spare? Lost that ages ago.”

“That’s bad,” the insurance expert said with regret. “Because without the key to the vehicle we can’t accept liability for the loss.”

“Never mind,” Betty let slip far too quickly, “I didn’t report it because I wanted money from you.”

“Then why?” he asked, clearly surprised.

“Well, because I thought it’s what you have to do when your car’s stolen. Isn’t that right?”

“No. You just have to cancel the car’s registration, because you no longer drive it or because you’ve sold it.”

“I haven’t sold it!” she protested, and immediately lowered her voice. “It was stolen.”

“That”—he bent down lithely to open his bag—“is why your vehicle is being searched for. The police are looking for it all over Europe.” He took out his documents and a questionnaire, put the papers from the Subaru into a transparent folder, and slipped it into his bag. Then he licked his index finger, opened up the questionnaire, suddenly and inexplicably had a pen to hand, and clicked the doodad.

“Now then. Where was your vehicle stolen?”

“Right outside my front door.” Betty tried to remain polite. “Listen, I don’t have any time; I have to drive to work in a second.”

“In which car?”