Sascha Arango - The Truth and Other Lies

“I’m staying at home today. How did she react?”

Henry paused for effect. This always did the trick in a phone call, whereas face-to-face it was the mysterious smile that carried the day. You simply couldn’t go wrong with it. “Martha’s incredibly brave.”

He heard the metallic snap of Betty’s lighter. She inhaled menthol smoke. “Moreany will fire me when he finds out about us.”

“He won’t find out anything from Martha.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“But she must be incredibly angry with me, right?”

“Yes, she is. Are you worried about your job, Betty?”

“Me? No. I just feel sorry for her. To be honest, I’m a little bit ashamed.”

“Why only now?”

She drew on her cigarette. Henry could positively feel the tip glow. “What are you getting at, Henry? Do you think I don’t care?”

“You haven’t cared so far.”

“I’ve always cared. Now you’re being so cold again. Don’t take it out on me. I understand you— It’s difficult for you, but please don’t blame me.”

“It’s the truth — that’s all.”

“Yup — that’s all. I don’t want to know what’s going on in your head at the moment.”

That, in Henry’s opinion, was for the best. He saw that the dog had picked up a scent and was zigzagging across the dewy, glistening meadow.

“You don’t think I got pregnant on purpose, do you, Henry? Be honest.”

“I’m always honest with you, darling. Always.”

The idea hadn’t crossed his mind. But now that she mentioned it, he thought it was a definite possibility. Betty was almost thirty-five, she’d been waiting a long time, he hadn’t been careful — and now it had happened.

“We’re breaking up, Betty.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m serious. My credit’s running out — I’ve got thirty seconds left. We’ll talk this evening.”

“You gave me a bit of a fright, Henry. Is that what you want?”

“Just a bit. You know me. Wait for me — I’ll be there at eight. And stop smoking. Think of our baby.”

“I will, my darling. Henry…”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“You’re wrong.”

“You always say that. Accept it, don’t fight it. I love you, I love you, I love you. Big kiss!”

Henry pulled the battery out of the phone, making himself invisible once again. Betty was afraid that Martha might snitch on her to Moreany. She feared with good reason that she would lose her job as editor in chief, a job that she didn’t know she owed solely to Martha. Moreany would fire her because she was no longer able to do her work objectively. But that was the good thing about Betty — she thought only of herself, and he was part of her plan. Henry liked that. Betty was eccentric; she wanted success and intimacy all at once, wanted, as it were, an adventure in the wilds with central heating. Deep down, she was as spoiled and unconscionable as he was. That made everything easier.

Henry whistled to the dog. He could see him about a hundred paces away. Poncho had gotten his teeth into something. It looked big. Henry walked across the clearing, his boots sinking into the sandy ground. The hovawart was too slow and heavy to chase hares, and whatever was lying there was bigger than a hare. The nearer Henry got, the more resolutely Poncho tore at his prey. About twenty yards away, Henry could see it was a deer. Poncho was pulling a big piece of flesh out of its haunch; its hind leg was waggling in the air.

The deer was still alive. Maybe it had been shot, maybe it was ill. The creature looked at Henry uncomprehendingly as the dog’s teeth sank into its flesh. Trembling, it raised its head, its blue tongue hanging out, breath steaming from its mouth.

“Let go, Poncho, drop it!”

With a bloodred muzzle, the hovawart tore another piece off the deer, and then lay down a few yards away to chew its hand-sized piece of prey. Henry knelt beside the dying animal. The white fur on its belly was torn right open and its guts were hanging out. Everything in this open body wanted to carry on living. Henry patted his pockets. Apart from his phone he had nothing on him. The deer let out a moaning sound. Henry ran his hand over its warm, wildly throbbing neck. Far and wide, there was no stone with which to put the deer out of its misery.

Henry put both hands around the creature’s neck and squeezed. The deer started to twitch; Henry didn’t let go until it was dead. Then he ran his hand over its warm cadaver. Life had already fled the animal; decomposition was setting in. Henry sat down next to the corpse and thought about a parting gift for Betty. She would be angry and disappointed. But doesn’t all deception end in disappointment? It was forecast to rain that night. In ten hours he would tell Betty everything.

The long corridor of the courthouse was deserted. Sitting on the wooden bench under the window, Gisbert Fasch clutched his brown briefcase in both hands with no further thought for his toothache. People passed him, some hurriedly, some hesitantly, and then vanished behind gray doors. In a dim recess of the court’s archives, he had found two gray files in a box labeled with question marks. A bureaucrat had scrawled on the files “Please destroy”; after that, they had lain forgotten in this box of delights. A real find — thank goodness for administrative sloth.

The court files on the Hayden case were meager and at first glance not particularly revealing. The disappearance of Henry’s mother, Charlotte Hayden, née Buntknopf, on the second of December 1979 was related in matter-of-fact terms. Since no one had reported her missing, there had been no attempt to find her. In the next paragraph — the death of the tax collector Martin E. Hayden the same day, late evening, due to a fall down stairs under the influence of alcohol. No connection was implied between the two events; there was no mention of murder. A tragedy, no doubt about it, mysterious and terrible enough to break a nine-year-old boy, make a genius or a criminal out of him, or silence him forever.

The whereabouts of Henry Hayden were noted only in passing; his fate was to be settled in a separate lawsuit. Since it was obvious that no one suspected the reappearance of his missing mother, Henry was granted the status of an orphan and it was arranged that he be sent to an orphanage.

A year after the disappearance of Charlotte Hayden, the care and education of little Henry was settled by the family court.

——

So Henry had been lying back then. His father had never been a big-game hunter; he’d been a tax collector in the dog-license department. And little Henry hadn’t been the sole survivor of a shipwreck, fished out of the ice-cold Norwegian Sea. He had simply been left behind. A bed wetter, that’s what he was — a bed wetter, a liar, and an unpredictable psychopath.

Fasch remembered meeting Henry over thirty years ago in the Catholic orphanage of Saint Renata. Henry had been about eleven years old at the time and not a nice boy. It’s quite possible that the career of every psychopath begins with a tragic event, but often that event is birth itself. Evil is born innocently. It grows up, seeks shape and form, and begins its work playfully. At that time Henry already had a pretty long history of children’s homes behind him; he’d been kicked out of all of them or he’d run away. But he never breathed a word on the subject. It was as if each day that passed were left behind him like a frozen stone.

When Henry came to Saint Renata he was a precocious, sturdy lad with a shadow of down on his upper lip. He was sporty and cheerful; there was something catlike about him. He was always up for a bit of fun, often at other people’s expense, but never without a certain charm. Henry had more experience with the girls than most of the other boys — and more experience in dealing with the authorities and fighting over the largest helping. That’s why he always ended up with the most. He radiated an almost adult indifference, which made him seem invulnerable and terrifyingly strong. Whether in class or in the children’s home, he never failed to keep an eye out for himself, but he did it so subtly that few actually realized they’d been conned.