'I don't care what people say
Santa Claus was a black man.'
(Traditional)
'Testing, testing. One two, one two. Testing.' (Click.)
(...)
(Click.) 'Hallo. I'm sorry I have to contact you like this. I mean, you don't know me. My voice, my accent, my way of speaking. I'd like to keep it that way. I don't know you either. It's better like that... As long as you keep on listening. You have to keep on listening.
Twenty-four years ago, I shot a man dead in Antwerp. He was the best friend I ever had. I've had many friends, but none like him. His name was Marc. How I got to know him, and where, is beside the point. That is a story in itself. A beautiful story. I'll take it to my grave.
We lived together for exactly one year. The happiest year of my life. I hadn't expected more; I was already fifty-two.
I still remember everything. The tiniest details. Conversations, what we ate, the films we went to, everything. I was obsessed by that boy. I still am, I see him everywhere. In bath attendants, taxi drivers, even a guardia civil... Last week, I saw him playing football in the park. He was fifteen or sixteen years old. Lank black hair. He snapped at his pals, tapped the ball between their legs again and again, then turned around a couple of metres farther, laughing defiantly, arms akimbo, one foot on the ball. I couldn't bear to watch. I hurried out of the park and into the Prado. There he surfaced in every painting, in every statue. I rushed outside and stood there, my teeth chattering from the cold. Have you ever been in Madrid, at the height of the summer, in the hottest part of the afternoon? I was shivering.
Marc was everything I dreamed of. Every week he assumed a new body. The night of Sunday to Monday, at the stroke of twelve. He remained himself, but assumed another body.
The one time he was a young lumberjack, all muscles, the other an adulterous wife, shamelessly pressing me to his bosom and demanding eternal fidelity. A week later, he undressed in front of me as a stunningly beautiful, bashful seminarian, who hardly even dared to look at his own genitals. The next week, he was a newspaper boy, giving me the eye before I had a chance to seduce him. Yet another week later, I had a boarding school girl in my arms. He panted with desire and surrendered himself as if for the first.
I often asked him how he felt about it. I mean, I had nothing to offer him. I took my pleasure to the full. That's all. While he overwhelmed me, week after week. What could I offer in exchange?
That always made him laugh. You should have seen him laughing; as a young French teacher, or a wrestler, or a sunburned bricklayer's mate. With such hands. He smeared his arms and shoulder blades with suntan oil and grinned broadly. What do you mean, you have nothing to offer? he said. You're everything I ever wanted. Security, trust. I hate changes. When I come home, I know what I'll find, and I like that. You think it's fun to look different every week? He pulled off his jeans, smeared his legs and thighs, and went to sunbathe naked on the terrace.
And that's how we lived together. Both content.
Once, on a Monday afternoon, I came home unexpectedly. I'd been away on a business trip the whole weekend. I was still working in the diamond sector then. I stuck my key in the lock, and as I did I heard somebody on the other side of the door blow a saxophone. It had to be Marc. The Friday before he had said goodbye as a female lawyer. Blonde, headstrong, sporty. He was irresistible. And he stammered. A female lawyer who stammered, and sizzled like a pan of bacon! It took all my strength to get free of him that Friday.
I stood there outside the door and wondered what he'd look like this time. I didn't know he had a saxophone. He was playing it clumsily. I decided not to burst in upon him, he might be embarrassed by his fumbling. I took the key from the lock and rang the bell of my own apartment.
The door swung open and I found myself looking at the face of a young negro. Hallo, Jacob, he said, so you're here at last, are you? You have to see what I bought this morning. He held out an old saxophone. I've already polished it three times, and it still works, listen! He put the sax to his lips and blew it, eyes closed and cheeks bulging. A blaring screech rolled from the instrument.
I stood as if nailed to the spot. Marc was dressed in faded jeans and a baggy white T-shirt. He was a little taller than I, his skin was a chocolate brown. In his lips, pressed tight to the saxophone mouthpiece, the brown gave way to violet. I wanted to touch him but my arm wouldn't move. The music transfixed me like a spear.
Well, he asked, his eyes open again, what do you think of it? I was at a loss for words. He laughed. Just say it, he said, it's awful. Bound to be with all these dents. And the reed is as good as knackered. But it's still a lovely instrument, I love the tone of it. Anyway, he said, holding up his right hand, with this here I'll never be able to play the saxophone decently.
I looked at his hand. The index finger and middle finger were missing two joints. Taken aback, I looked into his eyes. He was grinning. The funny thing is, he said, as he pushed the sax into my hands, 'the funny thing is I can play the piano perfectly.
He sauntered across the room, sat at the grand piano and began to strike some cords. He stamped time with one of his feet, his upper body swaying along. And then, as he turned his head and looked at me slyly, he began to sing. You should have heard him singing. The best things in life are free, but you can give them to the birds and bees... Hot and imploring, as rough as sandpaper. And I just stood there with that sax in my hands. I was still at a loss for words. Then he interrupted the song, came up to me and kissed me passionately. His smell was intoxicating, sweet and pungent.
And so began the week that was to become fatal for us. We hardly slept. I simply couldn't get enough of the boy.
Perhaps, over the years, I've ruminated the events of that week too much in my head, chewing them over again and again as a cow chews the cud; or perhaps it is normal that the memories of the last days you spend with someone seem fresher than the rest; whatever the case, the way Marc was that week, that's etched in my soul. But it is impossible to talk about it. Whatever I say, the words fall short. I fear it would even sound ridiculous. You destroy some things by uttering them... It's...' (Click.)
(...)
(Click.) 'I'm sorry. I get tired so quickly lately. I'll try not to wind myself up so much.
That week with Marc... I stumbled around as if I was drunk. All I could think of was pleasure. To gain more time, we didn't even cook any meals ourselves but went to the chicest restaurants. I was earning decent money even then. Not that I could paper my bedroom with thousand franc banknotes, but still... The apartment was almost paid for, I already owned the office, and I had a six figure sum in my bank account. And not in the red. This is the early Sixties I'm talking about. In those days, a franc was still a franc.
Then came that week with Marc. We went through half our savings in a couple of days. We did whatever we felt like, without a thought. I didn't give a damn. Marc wanted clothes? In all the colours of the rainbow? And caps and hats and shoes you couldn't look at without hurting your eyes? He got them. We rented a convertible and drove to Paris and back for a night on the town. Another night, we slept in a luxury suite at the Century Hotel. You should have seen us. Champagne, oysters, breakfast in bed. If I so much as saw a member of staff, I gave them a tip of a hundred francs. Just for the hell of it. To see their face.
What I didn't do was work. For all I cared, the whole diamond sector could go fuck itself. My office remained closed, and at home the telephone was off the hook. I remember it clearly, how the bell rang, it was Thursday afternoon. That short, chubby diamond dealer from 52nd Street appeared in the doorway. A shady character. He was foaming with rage. He had flown over all the way from the States, with a shipment of uncut diamonds, been hassled by the customs at Zaventem airport, but had nevertheless, after a death-defying trip in a taxi, arrived at my office at the hour I had arranged with him a week before. He had waited a half an hour, had then begun to curse and pace around, had called my fucking home number and didn't get a fucking answer, and so on and so forth. Anyway, here he was goddammit, who the fuck did I think I was? He practically threw the diamonds in my face.
I listened with an open mouth. I had completely forgotten our appointment. It was all I could do to keep from laughing. Marc didn't even try. He was pissing himself. I saw how the chubby New Yorker looked him up and down, and then at me. He rolled his eyes and cursed vehemently. This annoyed me. I wrote a receipt for his diamonds, slammed the door in his face, stowed the stones in the wall safe, and forgot the whole affair.
I found Marc in the bathroom, on the point of taking his umpteenth bath. He had been washing and scrubbing as if he had to wash the brown away. He was still wearing his white underpants, his jewels hung in them ponderously. He bent over and held his hand to the tap to feel if the water was already warm enough. Then he turned his head and saw me. He grinned. I saw his desire resurfacing in the white cotton...
The next day, the Friday morning, it is me who is standing in the bathroom. I am shaving, I'll never forget it, I look in the mirror, and whether it was because of the shaving cream, which made my face a semi death mask, or because of the razor I was holding to my throat, just above the thumb with which I was stretching my skin, or perhaps it was just exhaustion, I don't know, but I look at my face and stand there trembling. I had to steady myself on the edge of the washbasin. Jacob! I cry, Jacob, what is happening? And for the first time that week, I begin to think. It was as if I had been sleepwalking for four days and had suddenly woken up.
With the shaving cream still on my face and the razor still in my hand, I walked to the bedroom. Marc was lying on his belly, groaning and sighing, his arms beneath the pillow. He needed a while to get going in the morning. A good diesel has to be well warmed up, he always said. He had turned his face away from the window, of which I had opened the curtains. His muscular back was gleaming, black and vulnerable.
I sit beside him and start to shake his arm. Marc, I shout, Marc! He lifts his head towards me and opens one eye. Huh? What? he groans. Marc, I say, I've been thinking. Congratulations, he sighs, and lets his head fall back on the pillow. No, I say, listen. I can't live without you, I feel it. I can't even bear to think of losing you. Sadist, leave me in peace, says Marc and pulls the pillow over his head. But no! I cry, as I tear the pillow away and drag him upright. After a lot of grumbling, he is finally sitting. He scratches his elbows and looks around with squinting eyes. Marc, I say, listen, I want you to stay the way you are now, you mustn't change. You've got soap on your face, he says. Listen to me for once! The day after tomorrow it's Sunday, but I don't want you to change! You have to stay as you are! Is that all? he growls. No problem. Now let me sleep for five more minutes. He lets himself fall backwards, but I begin to shout and scream and suddenly I raise my hand to strike him. It is the hand with the razor. I manage to stop myself just in time. I fall silent.
That silence alarms him more than all the preceding clamour. He opens his dusky eyes, looks at the razor and then at my face, which no longer needs shaving cream to look completely white. He is awake in an instant. What is the matter? he asks. I repeat what I had said a moment before. I see from his face that he almost bursts out laughing, but he manages to control himself. Well, well, he says, this is the first time you've wanted to fuck the same person for more than a week. No, I say, my own voice surprising me, it is not that, well, yes it is, but it is more than that. It is about you, I don't want you to change, the way you are now, it can't just disappear. His mouth falls open. But Jacob, he says, that is impossible, quite impossible. I turn away from him without answering. I flick the razor closed. Besides, he says, why in God's name do you want me to look like this? Hey, Jacob, look at me!
I didn't look because I knew what he was going to do: he wanted to cheer me up, as if I was a child. Hey, Jacob, he called from behind my back, you ought to see my nose, as flat as a fig, doesn't bear looking at, and that frizzy hair, who the fuck has pubic hair on his head? and look here, I'm missing a couple of fingers, and look at those lips, you know why a negro's car has its windscreen wipers on the inside?
He just kept on going. I tried to resist him, didn't reply, but in the end I had to give in. I've got bad breath, he was shouting, get a wiff of that! Anyone who sleeps that long gets that, I said. The ice was broken. He threw his arms around my neck and blew his bedroom breath in my face. I managed to struggle free and fled to the bathroom. Laughing loudly, he hurled the pillows after me.
But I didn't shave that day, nor the day after, and on that fateful Sunday I also left the razor in its case. And even after that, after my escape to Spain and during all the years I've lived here, I've never shaved again. Although I do get my beard and moustache trimmed occasionally by one of the dozens of barbers you find in Madrid.
But back to that Friday morning. At the breakfast table, the incident seemed completely forgotten. But as the stubble on my chin and cheeks grew, I would become increasingly ill at ease. The Friday itself was not too bad. We threw ourselves into the life we had built up in those three or four days. We shopped, we spent a fortune on expensive things we didn't really need. We bought up all the tickets on a tourist boat, so we could have a private tour of the Port of Antwerp, we took champagne along and together with the crew made a toast to the Boerentoren, Europe's first 20th century skyscraper, which rose in the distance, above the warehouses, cranes and seagulls. Because of its shape, we declared the tower the personification of Antwerp and all its citizens. Clumsy and crude! Clumsy and crude! shouted Marc, I'll never forget it. The steward, who had fought in the Congo, almost punched him in the face. You want to feel what crude is, jungle bunny! roared the ex-paracommando and threw his champagne, glass and all, in the River Scheldt. We couldn't get off his boat quick enough. On then to the Zoo, to a film, to a jazz club, and so on and so forth.
But in the early hours, when we are drinking a final glass in the Caf‚ Den Engel, I rub my chin, feel the rasp of the stubble, and it hits me again. I don't say a word about it, I just sit there, staring at my glass of genever and stamping little circles with its foot on the table top, one after the other, like five franc pieces. Marc sees it and understands. I know that he has seen and understood. But neither of us mention it.
And so our day comes to an end in despondency, at half past five in the morning. The chairs of Den Engel are already standing on the tables, the ashtrays have disappeared, we pay our bill and close the door behind us. We stand on the cobbles of the Great Market Square, it is almost light. I get into the car immediately, Marc takes a leak against the boulders which form the base of the statue of Brabo. And as he stands there pissing, I see him look up at the enormous bronze severed hand, which Brabo, the vanquisher of the giant, will be hurling into the River Scheldt like a discus forever and a day, and he shakes his beautiful head, Marc, as if he wants to say: go ahead, mock the giant if you have to. I sympathise with the fellow. I've lost a couple of fingers too, I know what it's like. He gets in the car without saying a word and we drive back home in silence.
The following day, the Saturday, we act as if nothing is wrong. We get up late and sing and dance and whistle as if our lives depend upon it. Overly cheerful, you know the sort of thing: A little more coffee, Marc? Shall I heat the milk up? Here, Jacob, you take the last croissant. No, no, Marc, I've had enough, you take it. Go on, don't be silly, you're still hungry. No, I'm not, really, you have it, I want you to. No, really. No, no. No, no... A sorry affair. You're better off then with somebody who shows when there is something bothering him.
But that is not the way I am, and that is not the way I was. I buried my head in the sand, and sang and laughed and whistled myself silly. We went back into the city again, and how we shopped and partied, and threw money around and played cards for big stakes, until finally we ended up in the disco The Shark. There I went to the toilet, Marc followed me angrily and began to give me a good shaking. It was already around eleven at night. I had lost track of the time, for all I knew it could have been four in the afternoon. What's the matter with you? he hissed. The matter? Yes, the matter! He pushed me back against the wall. The female toilet attendant edged outside. Tipping the doorman three thousand francs! are you out of your mind, do you want to get us mugged? I didn't know what to answer, I didn't even remember giving such a big tip. And all that drinking, shouted Marc, shaking me again, why do you do it? it's no joke anymore, look here, look in the mirror, a tramp looks healthier. He pushed me in front of the mirror which hung above the filthy sink. He was right. The stubble made my face look grey and haggard, my eyes were bloodshot. I've been trying to slow you down for a couple of hours already, said Marc swallowing painfully, but you won't even listen, what the fuck is the matter with you? I'm sick of it, I'm leaving, are you coming or staying?
At that moment the toilet door bursts open. The doorman, a hulk of at least a metre ninety, fills the doorway. He tilts his head to one side, sticks his thumbs in his trouser pockets, puffs out his belly and spits on the ground. The bog lady says you're planning to fight here, lads? Do you really think you ought to? He steps forward, lays his massive arm around my shoulders and grins broadly. Pretty little face, he says pointing with his chin at Marc. Well, for the time being anyway. I want to say something, but the doorman stops me. Listen, mate, he says to Marc, this gentleman here is an old friend of mine. Anyone who bothers him bothers me, and I don't like that. So what do you say we come to a little agreement, just the two of us. You apologise to this gentleman, and then piss off out of here. Marc doesn't say a word. The doorman takes him by the ear, pardon? he says. Marc remains silent. Perhaps I'd better help you, says the doorman, repeat after me, "I am sorry, bwana," go on, say it. Marc is still silent. Say it, says the doorman. Marc stares at his shoes and says it. Louder! Marc says it louder. There we are, says the doorman, easy wasn't it. Now piss off out of here, before I change my mind. Marc shuffles outside. I want to follow him, but the doorman holds me back. I don't want to interfere, he says, but let him go, sir. Before you know it, you'll end up with a knife in your guts, I know what I'm talking about, I have been working here for more than a year. That sir is on the look out for a cunt with a handle, fair enough, but then at least choose a local boy, lord knows there are plenty of them. And so on, blablabla, until I take out my wallet and give him another healthy tip. Much obliged, sir, he taps his cap with his finger and opens the door for me. I elbow my way through the dancing mass, cross the street and see the taxi with Marc in it disappearing round the corner.
I found Marc back at the apartment. He was sitting on a chair in the kitchen, playing his saxophone. I wanted to apologise but I didn't know where to begin, so I just stood there stammering and stuttering. At first Marc carried on playing and behaved as if I wasn't there. Then he laid his sax on his knees. What does it matter to me, he said wearily, this time tomorrow I'll look completely different. I glanced at the kitchen clock. It was half past twelve. I'm sick of it, said Marc, lucky I've got the sax, otherwise it would be a complete cock-up, I want to switch as soon as possible.
How can you say that? I asked, the way you've been this week, that's the most beautiful thing that's ever happened to me. Take no notice of what other people say. Who's talking about other people, said Marc, I don't give a damn about the doorman of The Shark. It's you I'm talking about, you are acting strangely and the longer it lasts the worse it gets. You are making me nervous.
I didn't know what to answer to that. Marc sighed. For a start, let's drop the subject and go to sleep. I want to go to the fleamarket early tomorrow, to buy some reeds for my saxophone, do you think they have reeds at the fleamarket?
The next day, the Sunday, the last day we would spend together, we were already at the fleamarket by nine in the morning. It was gorgeous weather. Marc was looking even more handsome than in the days before. The prospect that he would be released that same evening gave him wings. He glided sinuously through the crowd, his walking almost dancing, everyone was watching us. I tried to keep in step with him, rubbed my chin and felt nothing but stubble.
Marc found his reeds, we ate a waffle, bought some flowers and a couple of rolls, and by the time we got back home it was already after twelve. He tried the new reeds immediately. I made coffee. We ate the rolls and Marc straightaway began to play the sax again.
Half past two arrived. We discussed the various ways of spending the afternoon, walking in the City Park or on Sint-Anneken, a concert on the Groenplaats or perhaps another film, but it was too late for the one, too sunny for the other, and besides, we couldn't be bothered, so finally we decided simply to stay at home. Marc played saxophone and piano alternately. I sat in the armchair, I listened and watched and rubbed my chin.
Over the course of the week, Marc had made a lot of progress on his saxophone. He was still stronger on piano, but now his sax playing was also rhythmic, mellow and joyous. How he managed to accomplish that with those two fingers, I'll never know. He often interrupted his playing to go to the kitchen, supposedly to get a drink. But I knew he was really going to look at the kitchen clock. For him the hours were ticking slowly, for me they were racing by. We spoke very little.
And we, who in the days before had eaten in the best restaurants, who had alternated ris de veau with lobster and caviare, that evening we opened a tin of cassoulet, toasted a couple of slices of stale bread and drank Nescaf‚.
Then we went to bed. It was as if we had to rediscover each other, that's how awkward we were at first. Then we got back into the swing of it. Marc was more attentive than usual. Was it because he was glad that the week was drawing to an end, or because I was behaving normally again, or did he want to comfort me? I don't know, but the way he made love to me then was something really special. I'd give everything I own to experience that again. Everything. I don't have to keep up appearances anymore, I am old and decrepit.
Marc lay half asleep in my arm enjoying the after-glow. It was already after eleven. I pulled the sheet away carefully, to take a final proper look at him. He woke up. Why are you staring like that? he said, don't do it, it scares me. I kept on looking. Please, he said, stop it, what are you so worried about? Soon I'll be a student, a young recruit, a singer, who can tell?... It's always been all right in the past, what are you making such a fuss about this time? I shrugged my shoulders. Goddammit, Jacob, he said, by tomorrow you'll have long forgotten the way I'm looking now. I wanted to argue with him, but he kept on kissing and stroking me. By ten to twelve, he had got me so excited that I once again took the lubricating jelly out of the bedside cabinet. He was lying on his back. Propped on his elbows, he watched how I prepared myself. When I slid inside him, he tilted back his head, closed his eyes and trembled even more. Kiss me, he asked. I bent forward and found his mouth. Meanwhile I moved slowly back and forth inside him. I'll never forget the way you're looking now, I said between two kisses. Don't babble, grunted Marc, get on with it.
Then the clock struck twelve. I felt Marc transforming underneath me. I opened my eyes and looked into the face of a pallid, flabby man of fifty-two. I recognised him immediately. Marc had become myself.
I am not looking for excuses, but the shock was overwhelming. I struggled free of him who was lying there on the bed. I screamed, but no sound came. I felt betrayed and humiliated, I walked to the built-in cupboard, took my shotgun, loaded it and shot Marc at point-blank range in the chest. I remember it perfectly, my only thought was: I should have done this long ago.
When the echo of the shots had died away, I came to my senses and saw what I had done. I remember very little of the hours that followed. I vomited, yes, I kept vigil at the foot of the bed. But I can't remember a single thought. I probably didn't have any.
But when it began to get light outside, I thought about life imprisonment. A cage, bars, always the same faces, or no faces, or only your own face... I threw the gun on the bed next to Marc, I crammed some clothes in a case and stuffed a few valuable statuettes and family jewels in a bag. I took all my cheques, my cash money and the shipment of diamonds from that bastard from 52nd street out of the wall safe, and left for France.
Finally, a good year later, after wandering from city to city, job to job, disaster to disaster I ended up in Spain. Real estate and international tourism. I had the necessary language and commercial skills, I knew my way around all the world's great cities thanks to my work in the diamond sector, and I got more than my share of the dose of luck you need to succeed in business. This is no exaggeration, if it hadn't been for me, the Costa del Sol would look completely different. In exchange for all of this, I was granted Spanish citizenship, and since then I have been living under a false name and with a false past. You'd be amazed if you knew what was possible in the land of the Generalissimo, on condition one had the right contacts, and was obedient and successful.
I am now a respectable, prosperous Spanish citizen, living in Madrid. Maybe that jars with your feeling of justice. After all, I did commit a murder. Perhaps you feel I should have been punished. Why? I regret what I did. But it can't be undone. It haunts me, that is true. As I already said, I see Marc everywhere. Even yesterday, the liftboy in his scarlet uniform. I recognised him so clearly I wanted to kiss him. The temptation was unbearable. Thank God I was going to the fifth floor and not the fiftieth. I can just picture it, a man of 76 trying to kiss a boy of 18 in the lift, and then asking him where he has been all this time.
All I have left of Marc is a newspaper clipping. I tore it out of The Antwerp Gazette, while sitting on a terrace opposite Marseille station a good week after the incident. You could buy foreign newspapers there, in the station I mean. I have kept that newspaper clipping all these years. It is yellowed, and ragged at the edges. "Brutal Robbery and Murder in Antwerp", that's printed in large bold type at the top. And underneath, in smaller bold type, "Diamond dealer shot dead by young negro. From on-scene reporter. Antwerp detectives announced yesterday that 52 year old diamond dealer Jacob Sch"nfeld had been found dead at his home in the Lange Leemstraat. His body was discovered by a colleague, who had become suspicious following non-delivery of a shipment of diamonds.
The murder appears to have taken place during the night of Sunday-Monday last. The victim was shot twice through the heart at close range with his own shotgun. His wallet was missing as were a number of valuables, all cash money and the above mentioned diamonds. Mr. Sch"nfeld's safe was open, but it is not known whether its contents were highly valuable. The perpetrator, who seems to have known where the weapon and valuables were stored, and apparently also knew the combination of the safe, is on the run. He is believed to be a young negro, approximately 1 metre 75, with a dark complexion and eyes, black curly hair, and athletic build, aged between 25 and 30. He is missing two fingers from his right hand. A Photofit picture has been assembled, based on descriptions from several witnesses. In the days preceding the drama, Mr. Sch"nfeld was seen in the company of the youth at various locations in the city. On Saturday evening, the day before the murder, a disagreement between the two, which almost ended in violence, is reported to have taken place at the discotheque The Shark. Asked if there was any reason to continue the investigation in discotheques such as The Shark, which are frequented by a 'particular' public, detectives said the autopsy had revealed that Mr. Sch"nfeld had probably had intimate contact with the suspected perpetrator. Detectives believe the coloured youth used this intimacy to gain access to the dwelling of Mr. Sch"nfeld. After the deed, he tried to make the murder appear to be a suicide: the victim's fingerprints were found on the weapon. Further investigation revealed, however, that suicide was out of the question. The perpetrator must have cold-bloodedly removed his own fingerprints, and then pressed the weapon into the hands of the victim. Those who can offer more information about the suspect are asked to contact their closest police station as soon as possible."
That is what is written in the article. Below the text there is a small photo of me and a Photofit picture of Marc. It is not a very good likeness that Photofit, too angular. And naturally it tells you nothing about his hard little nipples, his tensed loins, or the deep pink of his member. The way it stood out against his flat, black belly, I can't bear to think about it.
But no matter how untrue to life, I guard that photo like a jewel. It is all I have left of Marc. I could hit myself when I think that I left his sax behind.
So. I think that is all... You have no need to worry. There is no reason why I am telling this to you and not to somebody else. It is all a matter of coincidence. I was a guest at the Belgian embassy, I have a couple of juicy clients there, and I picked out a name and address from the telephone book at random, yours. It must be strange, receiving a tape from Spain, from a total stranger, who only asks that you listen. I am counting on your curiosity. Perhaps mistakenly. There is a chance you'll throw the tape away unlistened to. That won't make a lot of difference. As long as I have the illusion someone is listening.
I have to confess, at this moment, I am still not one hundred percent sure I'll send the tape. I think I will. Anyway, supposing I send the tape, and that you listen to it... I hope it won't cause too much trouble. I don't know, perhaps it will shock you, and you'll even feel obliged to inform the police. It makes no odds to me. As far as I know, there's no statute of limitation for murder. But you should be aware that the police - in as far as they are still pursuing the case - are now looking for a negro of around fifty years old, and that as far as they are concerned I am dead. And that you'll have to ask them to trace a respectable Spanish national, with a family tree going back to the Conquistadors. My beard and my tanned skin help make the lie even more convincing. Here in Madrid, I have negotiated building contracts with former Antwerp business acquaintances. They didn't recognise me. How could the police recognise me after twenty-four years. And something else, the doctors have given me another six months or so. The way I've been feeling lately, I'd put it closer to three. So tell the police that they'd better not put off solving the case until they come here on holiday with their families.
Anyhow. Detectives or no detectives... Do what you think you ought to. The world won't come to a standstill. Thank you for listening.' (Click.)
Translated by Stephen Smith
|
Fiction
from The Literary Review
