Auto-Da-Fé

  Cases of apparent, but not actual, death are on record; no scholar would deny this. But I know of no occasion where apparent, but not actual death has been proved in the case of a skeleton. From the remotest times popular superstition has represented ghosts in the form of skeletons. This conception is at once profound and significant; it is also important evidence. Why is a ghost to be feared? Because it is an apparition of the dead, the undeniably dead, the decayed and buried. Would the same apprehensions be experienced if the apparition were to materialize in its old and familiar bodily shape? No! For such a sight would call up no thoughts of death; the living person, nothing else, would stand revealed. But if the ghost takes the form of a skeleton, two things are at once brought to the spectator's mind: the living person as he once was, and the dead, as he now is. The skeleton, as the conception of the ghost, became for countless peoples the symbol of death. The evidence is therefore overwhelming; the skeleton is the most irrecoverably dead of all the forms we know. Ancient burial places suffuse us with a shudder of disgust if they contain skeletons; when they are empty, we hardly think of them as burial places. And if we apply the term 'skeleton' to a living being, we mean no less than that he is near to death.

  She, however, was completely dead; all the tenants of the block had convinced themselves of that and a huge disgust at her avaricious end spread among them. They feared her still. She was very dangerous. The only one masterful enough for her, the caretaker, flung her into her coffin. Immediately afterwards he washed his hands, but I greatly fear they will be stained for ever. Nevertheless, I take this occasion publicly to express my thanks to him for his brave deed. He was not afraid to accompany her on her last journey. Out of loyalty to me he called on some of the tenants to assist him in this hateful office. Not one was willing to do so. For these simple and decent pepple the mere sight of her corpse had sufficed to reveal her character. But I had lived for months on end at her side. When the coffin — far too white and glossy — trundled through the streets on a decrepit handcart, everyone guessed what was concealed within it. The few street urchins, whom my faithful servant had engaged to protect the procession from the onslaught of an enraged populace, ran away; trembling with terror and wailing loudly they spread the news through the whole town. There arose in the streets a wild howling. Indignant men left their work, women had hysterics, schools spewed forth their children, thousands streamed together, demanding the right to kill the corpse. Not since the Revolution of 1848 had there been such a riot. Clenched fists, curses, the streets themselves seemed to sob and pant, and from a great chorus of voices came the cry: Death to the corpse! Death to the corpse! I understand it all too well. Humanity is fickle. In general, I do not love it. Yet how gladly at that moment would I have joined with them. The mob brooks no jesting. Fearful is its vengeance — give it the right object and it will act justly. When they tore off the coffin lid they saw not a real corpse, but a repulsive skeleton. At that their frenzy evaporated. No man can harm a skeleton; the mob dispersed. Only a bloodhound would not let go. He sought for flesh, but found none. Enraged, he tore the coffin to the ground and bit the blue skirt into small fragments. These he devoured, without pity, to the last morsel. Thus it is that the skirt no longer exists. You will seek it in vain. So as to lessen your labours, I am informing you of all the details. You must seek out the remains on a rubbish dump outside the town. Bones, wretched bones; I doubt whether you will now be able to distinguish them from other refuse. Perhaps you will be lucky. So vile a beast deserved no honourable grave. Since she is now, on reliable evidence, dead I will not speak ill of her. The blue peril is at an end. Only fools would be afraid of a yellow one. China is the land of all lands, the Holiest Land. We must believe in death! From my earliest childhood I have doubted the existence of the soul. I regard the doctrine of transmigration as a mere impertinence and am ready to cast it in the teeth of any Indian. When they found her, on the floor before the writing desk, she was a skeleton; not a soul.

  Kien controlled his speech. Now and again his thoughts wandered towards knowledge. He seemed so near to it; how passionately he longed to spread himself on it. This was his home. But each time he recollected himself — pleasure later, he told himself; the books will wait until you go home, the thesis will wait; you have wasted much time. Each path his will forced back towards his writing desk. Whenever he saw it, his face lightened, he smiled at the deceased; it was a vision, but not a mirage. Lovingly, he lingered by the body. He was not observant of the details of living beings; his memory worked only in relation to books. Otherwise he would willingly luve described her in detail. Her decease was no ordinary matter; it was an event. It was the final redemption of a hideously persecuted humanity. Little by little Kien began to be amazed at his own hatred. She had not been worth that. How could he hate a pitiable skeleton? How quickly did she perish! Only the odour, which since that time, had hung about his books, disturbed him. We have to make sacrifices. He would know how to get rid of it.

  The police had long grown restive. They were only listening out of deference to the Inspector; he, however, found it difficult to return to the sober business of the interrogation. With the prize of victory already in his experienced hands, he cared nothing for prose. He would have liked to riot among new ties — innumerable patterns, guaranteed pure silk — and choose himself out the most beautiful of all, for he was a man of taste. Every Gents Outfitter knew him. He could wander among the counters for hours; he knew how to look at ties without creasing them. That was why they trusted their goods in his hands. Many would even send them on approval. But he didn't care for that. He could stand in a shop all day conversing with the proprietor. When he entered they left the other customers standing. His profession gave him a fund of interesting stories, and he recounted them. People always liked to listen to that kind of thing. Time, he only wanted time to be a smart fellow. To-morrow he'd take a walk. A pity today wasn't to-morrow. He was expected to listen to every interrogation. On principle he didn't because he knew it all. He'd trapped this one all right; there was no getting round him. His nerves were all to pieces, from too much work. All the same he had a right to feel satisfied. He'd achieved something; and could look forward to a new tie.

  The caretaker pricked up his ears. He had not been mistaken in the Professor. He was telling them what kind of a man he was. He wasn't a servant. True; that was right; if he wanted to he could call up all the tenants of all the flats; they'd have come running. He could bellow loud enough for all the town to hear. He didn't know what fear was; he was a policeman. He could break into any flat. Not a lock would hold him up; he could smash the door in; with one fist. He didn't wear out shoe-leather; he didn't need to kick. Others would start kicking right away. He had strength — at his fingers' ends.

  Thérèse kept close by Kien. Painstakingly she swallowed each one of his words. Under her skirt she described a circle first with one foot then with the other, without moving from her place. Such meaningless movements, with her, indicated fear. She was afraid of this man. For eight years she had lived with him in the flat. From moment to moment he grew more like a murderer. Earlier, he never used to utter a word. Now he talked nothing but murders. A dangerous man ! When he spoke of the skeleton before the writing desk, she said quickly to herself: he means his first wife. She too had wanted a will; she was a sensible woman, but the cowardly creature grudged every penny. The skirt was an insult. Do bloodhounds eat skirts? He'd murder anyone. The more you beat him the better he was, but he didn't get enough of it. Thinking up stories! He gave her the three rooms all on his own. What should she want with manuscripts? She wants his bankbook. The books smell of corpses? That was the first she'd heard of it. Eight years, day in, day out, she dusted those books. People screamed at the coffin in the streets. The very idea, screaming at a corpse. First he married for love, then he did you in. Hanging was too good for him. She wouldn't do anyone in. She didn't marry for love either. Let him try coming back to her at the flat ! She was afraid. He think
s of money because he grudges every penny. It's not true about the blue skirt. He's doing it to annoy her. There won't be any more murders. The police are here. She could cry with rage. The creature thinks women are just animals. He has her on his conscience. From six to seven he was all alone. That was when he did his murders. He'd better leave the writing desk alone. Had she found anything in it? The caretaker is such a masterful man. She wants a beautiful hearse. A coffin must be black. Horses go with it.

  Quicker and quicker came Therese's fears. Sometimes he had murdered his first wife, sometimes he had murdered her. She thought the skirt away from the corpse; the skirt confused her more than anything; she was sorry for the first wife, because he'd treated her skirt so badly. She was ashamed of the wretched funeral. She hated the bloodhound. People have no manners and school children don't get the cane often enough. Men ought to work more and woman can't cook these days. She could give them a piece of her mind. What's it got to do with the tenants? They all come and peep.

  She devoured his words: a starving man with a piece of bread. She listened so as not to be afraid. In a twinkling she fitted her own ideas to his sentences. So much thinking made her giddy. She wasn't used to such haste. She'd be proud of her cleverness, if she weren't half dead with fear. Ten times she nearly spoke out and said what he was: her fear of his thoughts forced her to remain silent. She tried to guess what was coming next: he took her by surprise. He was strangling her. She defended herself, she wasn't such a fool, was she, to wait till he'd choked the breath out of her? No, she'd got plenty of time; not till she was eighty she wouldn't die, in fifty years' time. Not before, Mr. Brute wanted it that way.

  With a magniloquent gesture Kien concluded die peroration. He flung his arm aloft, a flagstaff without a flag. His body stretched itself, his joints jingled; sharp and clear he gathered his voice for the finale: 'Long live death!'

  At this cry the Inspector woke up. Unwillingly he pushed the ties to one side, a whole trayful; he had selected the best. When would he find time to hoard them? He let them vanish, for happier hours.

  'My friend,' he said, 'if I understand you rightly, you have got to death already. Would you mind repeating your story?'

  The policemen nudged each other. He was in one of his moods. Thérèse s foot overstepped her circle. She must say something. The man with a memory saw his goal in sight. Not one word had he forgotten. He intended to repeat the whole story in place of the accused. 'He's tired already,' he said and shrugged a contemptuous shoulder at Kien, TU tell you quicker!' Thérèse burst out: 'I ask you, he's murdering me.' In her fear, she spoke low. Kien heard her; he disallowed her. He would not turn round. Never! for what purpose? She was dead. Thérèse shouted: 'I ask you, I'm afraid!' The man with a memory, annoyed at the interruption, challenged her: 'What's biting you?' The father spoke soothingly: 'Nature has created women the weaker sex,' a motto he had derived from his son's last German composition. The Inspector drew out his mirror, gaped at himself and sighed: 'I'm tired too.' His nose eluded him; nothing interested him any longer. Thérèse screamed: 'I ask you, he must be put away!' Once again Kien resisted her voice; he would not turn round. But he groaned loud. The caretaker was sick of all the fuss. 'Professor!' he bellowed from behind, 'It's not so bad. We're all still alive. And no bones broken!' He couldn't relish death. That's how he was. With ponderous steps he strode forward. He intervened.

  The Professor was a clever man. He had got it all out of those books. He knew how to string sentences. A famous man and a heart of gold, what's more; but don't you believe a word he says. He's got no murder on no conscience. Where would he have the strength for it? He only says it because his wife's not up to him. Things like that are in books. He knows everything. He's frightened of a darning needle. His wife had soured him. She s a wicked old soul, the filthy bitch. She'd go with anyone. Fall on her back before you can say knife. He'll take his oath on it. The Professor hadn't been gone a week when she seduced him. He was a policeman, a caretaker as well, and retired. Name: Benedikt Pfaff. As long as he can remember, his house has been No. 24 Ehrlich Strasse. As for stealing, that woman had better shut her trap. The Professor married her out of pity, because she was the maid. Another man would have bashed her head in. Her mother died in the gutter. She'd been cautioned for begging. She hadn't a crust to her name. He knows because her daughter said so. Told him in bed. Talks enough for fifty. The Professor is innocent, as true as he's a retired policeman. He'll take it on himself. An organ of the law can take responsibility. At home in his little lodge he's got a real police station; his colleagues would be surprised: canaries and a peep-hole. Everyone ought to work; those who don't work come on the rates.

  Astounded, they listened. His bellowing penetrated every brain. Even the proud father understood him. This was his own language, however much he admired his son's German composition. In the Inspector, too, the ashes of interest were rekindled. He conceded that the redhead might once have been in the police. No ordinary man would have stood forth, loud-voiced and unabashed, in this place. Again and again Thérèse sought to protest. Her words sounded feeble. She glided now to the left, now to the right, until she managed to lay hold of Kien's jacket. She tugged at it; he must turn round; he must tell them, was she a maid, or a housekeeper? She sought his help, she relied on him to indemnify her for her other man's abuse. He'd married her for love. Where was his love now? He may be a murderer, but at least he can speak. She won't be a maid. Thirty-four years she'd been a housekeeper. For a whole year she's been a respectable housewife. He must say something! He must be quick! Or she'll tell them his secret between six and seven!

  Privately she had determined to tell on him, as soon as he had paid her her due, his love. He was the only one who heard her words. Against the colossal din, he heard her voice behind him, low, but as ever indignant. He felt her horny hand on his coat. Cautiously, he hardly knew how, he drew in his backbone, twisted and turned his shoulders, slipped out of the sleeves, tweaked them softly down with his fingers and suddenly, after one last jerk, stood there without either his coat or Thérèse. Now he felt her no longer. If she clutched at his waistcoat he would do the same. In his thoughts he named neither Thérèse nor her mirage. He avoided her name and avoided the vision of her; but he knew what he was defending himself against.

  The caretaker had finished his address. Without waiting for its effect, as there was no answer to it, he stepped between Thérèse and Kien, bellowed: 'Hold your tongue!' tore the jacket out of her hand and reinserted the Professor, as if he had been an infant. The Inspector mutely handed back the money and the papers. His eyes expressed regret at the misunderstanding, but he took back not a word of the successful examination. The man with a memory noticed numerous dubious details; in case of accidents, he took careful note of the redhead's story and counted up the various points it raised on his fingers. The policemen were all talking together. Each one vented his own opinion. One, who liked to deal in proverbs, said: 'Crimes come home to roost,' and the sentence was echoed in every heart. Therese's thirty-four years of housekeeping were lost in the babble of voices. She stamped her foot. The proud father, whom she reminded of one of his sisters-in-law — forbidden fruit — at length got her a hearing. Red as a turkey and in a shrieking voice, she vindicated herself in figures. Her husband would witness for her, and if he wouldn't, she'd fetch Mr. Brute of the furniture and upholstery firm of Brute & Wife. He'd only recently married. At 'married' her voice broke. But no one believed her. She stayed a common maid, and the proud father tried to make an assignation for that very night. The caretaker overheard and, before she could answer, confirmed it. 'She'd run to Brazil for a bit of fun,' he told his colleague jovially. America didn't sound far enough for him. Purring and radiant, he looked round the sub-station and discovered on die walls enlarged photographs of movements in Jiu-jitsu, 'In my time,' he bellowed, 'this was enough!' He clenched his massive fists and held them under the admiring noses of several colleagues at once. 'Ah, those were the days,' said t
he father, and tickled Thérèse under the chin. His boy would live to see better times. The Inspector looked Kien up and down. So this was a Professor, he had a feeling for the well-connected, they went round with money stuffed into their pockets like hay. Another man would have known how to dress himself properly. Instead of going about like a beggar. The world was unjust. Thérèse said to the father: 'If you please, but first I'm a housewife!' She knew, not a day over thirty, but she was deeply offended. Kien stared motionless at the Inspector and listened for the nearness or distance of her voice.

  When the caretaker decided it was time to get a move on and affectionately took the Professor by the arm, he shook his head and clutched with astonishing strength at the table. They sought to disengage him, but the table came too. Then Benedikt Pfaff bellowed at Thcrese: 'Clear out, you filthy bitch! He can't relish that woman!' he added, turning to his colleagues. The father seized Thérèse, and pushed her out amid a shower of jokes. She was furious and whispered: ater on he shouldn't give her a moment's rest. On the threshold she gathered what remained of her voice and shouted: 'A murder's nothing, I suppose! A murder's nothing!' Someone fetched her one on the mouth and she glided home at top speed. She would let in no murderer. Quickly she bolted the door, two bolts below, two bolts above, two in the middle; then she looked carefully to see if there were any burglars.