Poisonous Kiss (36 page)

     "What are you doing here? Why aren't you in Indonesia?"

     "Steve, I've been waiting for Vic. He didn't come. I've been calling him at home, he doesn't answer the phone. I was going crazy in that hotel. I couldn't take it anymore. I know Vic must be with another woman. He said we would meet in Jakarta and get married. Stupid me, I waited for him. I couldn't sleep, I was just lying, waiting for him to come and…"

     "OK, OK, I know you love him. Did you do what he asked you to?"

     "I did."

     "Did you take the money?"

     "I didn't take it, I just went into the bank and told them what to do with it. The things Vic wrote down for me."

     "OK, OK. You went into the bank, the money was there and you transferred it. Where?"

     "I don't know. To Europe, and Japan, and Switzerland and places like that. Steve, what should I do now?"

     "OK, hold on a second…"

     Arany hears the bell ring outside. There are steps approaching in the other room. He doesn't bother. He leans forward, paying attention tensely.

     "Listen, do you still have the slip of paper where Vic wrote you down what to do?"

     "Sure."

     There is a knock on the door. Arany clenches his fist.

     "OK. I'll tell you then what to do. There's a post office at the airport. You put the slip into an envelope and mail it to my address immediately. By registered mail. And then you get on the first plane and disappear from here."

     "But Vic…"

     "He's going to follow you. We're in trouble here now. It's risky. Look, sweetie, there's no time for whining now. You have to help us—me and Vic. Then get on the first plane and go as far away as you can. Go to some nice place with palm trees and a nice beach. Do you have money? Hell, where would you get money from? I'll send you some, just call me and let me know where you are. But you have to get out of here, now! And before you go, mail that damned slip to me. As soon as you hang up. Do you understand?"

     "Sure, I understand, but…" she hesitates.

     "Good, then do what I told you to. You know I want to do good by you, don't you? I'm your brother, right? I'm the only man who never tried to fuck you over. Trust me, please! Mail that slip and go away!"

     Silence, the indicator light goes off. Celia stands by the door. She's pale, her expression is full of tension. It's hard to recognize her. Arany stares at her with an empty look. As if he really didn't recognize her. He lies in bed, opposite the door, the pieces of the puzzle are beginning to fit together in his brain. Celia doesn't have a place in this picture.

     "I'm sorry," she says.

     Arany gets up slowly, goes to her. Celia waits without making a move. Arany reaches out, touches her shoulders, his fingers run up on her neck, her face, her eyebrows, up to her forehead and then back to her neck. As if his hand was an eraser, the tension gradually disappears from her face. Her features soften, the worried wrinkles are ironed out. At the same time, Arany forgets his doubts, his anger. He forgets about the pimp hiding in the house across the way with the broken knee. He forgets about the pimp's sister, who transferred the fifty million somewhere on Victor Delacroix's orders. He even forgets about Frost, who will soon show up here to pressure the pimp into telling where the money is.

     He pulls Celia close. She cuddles up to him, her body is flexibly obeying, it nearly melts together with his. That's what Celia was waiting for, she can finally relax, her strength can leave her. Arany runs his fingers through her hair. He strokes and kisses the fine, soft face and the wet parted lips that turn up towards him. The kisses get more frequent and longer, Arany is already fiddling with the buttons on her blouse. Celia pulls away. She's embarrassed. Her hands tremble as she buttons her shirt back, the white lace disappears from Arany's eyes.

     "Last night when I got home, Martin hit me," she whispers.

     Arany doesn't move.

     "Are you all right?" he asks finally.

     "I was afraid of him," she continues, without really hearing the question, "You understand? Me afraid of him. He was capable of hitting me. I thought he was going to beat me to death."

     "You'll stay here!" Arany says determined. He looks around. The room is very small. It wouldn't be too comfortable. "We'll move in a couple of days," he adds.

     "Don't you understand?" Celia is so upset she raises her voice, and Arany unconsciously looks towards the door. But over there, a boxing match provides a sonic barrier. "Martin would never hurt me."

     "You had never cheated on him," Arany's tone of voice is cruel. I'm jealous, he thinks. It might turn out that I'm wrong. She might have cheated on him other times too, I'm not the only one, just one in a long line of men.

     Celia nods.

     "That's true. I never had." She comes further in, tosses her handbag on the table, fishing in it for a cigarette. "Do you think all husbands beat their wives when they cheat? Couldn't someone, who loves and understands his wife, just accept the situation?"

     Arany turns his back towards her. What would he do if he was Celia's husband? Would he be able to hurt her? One second he feels he would forgive everything, the other he thinks he would choke her.

     "He hit you, didn't he?" he asks in a rough voice. "What else do you want? Should he beat you to death so you believe that this is what's happening? Maybe you misjudged him. He was a pussycat for years, and then one day he explodes. Maybe because his wife has a lover, the poor guy."

     Celia finally finds her cigarette. She lights up. Arany doesn't offer her a light, he watches her with his hands clasped. He doesn't really understand why he's so upset. Why does he feel sympathy towards Baruch? He's the lover, not the cheated party.

     Celia suddenly becomes her old self. A confident woman. A clever, analytical psychologist.

     "Martin's behavior last night wasn't just unusual, it was extraordinary. After he hit me, he ran away somewhere and took my car. He got back hours later, exhausted, smelling of alcohol. He lay down on the bed with his clothes and shoes on and fell asleep. Earlier that afternoon, he felt sick. Dizziness and nausea were alternating."

     "No," Arany says, "That's impossible! Why would he do that?"

     Celia smiles sadly.

     "Familiar symptoms? The afternoon when that woman Pat was shot—when you were shot at, Martin wasn't in the institute. He's always there until late at night, but that afternoon he rushed out for some reason, even though he was feeling badly before that."

     "No," Arany repeats, "You're wrong! They were trying to shoot Patricia so she didn't rat them out and…" he stops and shakes his head. Suddenly he looks straight ahead and starts to pace the small room. "It was a single shot and then a car started on the other side…" he recalls. " It always bothered me that the gunman didn't try to get closer, or at least shoot twice to be sure. And why didn't he use a rifle instead of the small caliber pistol? It just doesn't make sense."

     "Unless it wasn't the girl he was aiming at…" Celia continues the thought.

     "Unless he was aiming at me." Arany shrugs. "I guess your husband is no sharpshooter."

     "No," Celia looks into his eyes. "And he's not a cold-blooded killer either." She puts the cigarette out nervously. "Don't you understand what all this is about? Martin is the kindest person I've ever met. He's got a big heart and he's really loveable. He doesn't have a single wicked thought. He's not vengeful, and he wouldn't hurt anyone consciously."

     "He only shot at me, and set my apartment on fire. He almost killed a girl that he didn't even know. And if I hadn't been awake, the whole building would have burned down. How many would have died?"

     "The virus," she mumbles. "That damned virus! Can't you see the signs? Nausea, aggression. The ability to ignore the consequences of his actions. A complete lack of empathy. He's only interested in his own goals. The number of people who will die in the burning building means nothing. Accidentally shooting a young woman doesn't bother him. And what amateurish execution! A badly aimed shot with an unsuitable gun, fired from too far away. Then arson, when you are awake. Poor thing! Poor miserable Martin!"

     "You feel sorry for him?"

     "I do." Celia stands up and stops in front of him. "I love you, John. I didn't lie when I said I loved you. But I love Martin too, and I respect him no matter what he does. Even hitting me. I know this isn't him. It's the damned virus that changed him. That murderous virus."

     "It didn't make me like this."

     "Probably because you got less of it. I was careful because I didn't really want you to change. I only wanted to make you a little less vulnerable. Still, it seems that the virus was stronger than I had anticipated. When I realized how strong it was, I worried for your life. Martin worried with me. He wasn't pretending. And still you became more insensitive than I had planned."

     Arany loses his patience. He grabs Celia, and shakes her. She doesn't resist. She shakes like a rag doll in his hands.

     "Why the hell would he give himself the shot if he is such a damned good person? He was obviously upset about you cheating on him, but he didn't have what it took to give you the slap you deserved. He couldn't even tell you to be ashamed, because he was so mild mannered. So he gives himself the shot, to give himself courage. That's why he did it."

     He lets go of Celia, steps to the window and looks outside. The doorway across the street is empty.

     "He did it because he wants to die," Celia says. Arany turns around to look at her. She's fiddling with her lighter again. "That's why he's giving himself bigger and bigger doses. He has a lot more empathy than the average person. His whole body resisted the Q-virus. And he started increasing the dosage at a rate I didn't dare to try with you. Then there came the nausea, the attacks of aggression. First he killed all the mice. It wasn't an experiment. He simply beat the little creatures to death. He crushed them. Then he got scared. He didn't want me to find out what had happened, so he cleared the traces."

     "How do you know?"

     "I searched the garbage container at the institute and found them. A shopping bag full of crushed, slaughtered white mice. Do you believe me now?"

     "But why?" Arany shakes his head. He doesn't want to believe this. It all comes too suddenly. It's too much. What the hell should he do if this is true? He loves Celia, and would marry her happily if her husband dies. But what can he do until then? And what if Baruch kills someone else during one of his attacks?

     "You read his book, right?" Celia sits down again. "The human race is threatened by the Q-virus the same way individuals are. Martin thinks of humanity as a huge living body, the cells of which are individual people. The more diseased cells there are, the less chance there is to recover. According to Martin's theory, the virus can overwhelm and kill a society the same way it kills individuals. He wanted to find the cure before it's too late. Before the end comes for us all in the form of a series of senseless and bloody civil wars where you won't know who's shooting at whom and why. Gangs would invade the streets, dictators would recruit private armies and kill without thinking. Years ago, shortly after we were married, he told me he wouldn't want to live to see this horrible ending. If he felt the time was coming, he would kill himself."

     "And that's what he can see now?" Arany's voice is subdued. He's afraid of the answer. He doesn't want to believe her. He's fed up with all of this. Back to tangible things! A fifty million dollar transfer. The pimp's sister is mailing the slip. It'll get here tomorrow. By then Frost might show up to beat the information out of his buddy.

     "Yes, that's what he can see." Celia's eyes are filled with urgency. "I found his diary. Martin has analyzed the different political crises, crimes and UN reports at length. Confidential reports that he got from the Pentagon. He's calculated and decided that the end is coming. So he quietly kills himself before things get really bad."

     "But why with that damned virus?" Arany yells. He's louder than the television next door, but he doesn't care. He feels ready to explode.

     "That's his style, isn't it?" Celia smiles.

     Silence. They have suddenly turned off the television next door. Silence throbs around them. And then the equipment next to the bed starts to buzz softly. The display light goes on. They turn in that direction as if in a trance.

     "Who's that?" a male voice growls.

     A woman answers, but they can't make out what she says. Tapping. Someone is limping on one foot with crutches. The lock rattles, the door opens. Then a thud. A huge body drops onto the floor helplessly. The tiny amplifiers carry the sound perfectly.

     "Hello friend. You weren't expecting me?" asks a mocking voice. And Arany is running.

He forgets everything. He doesn't care. He doesn't find out until later that he pushed Celia out of the way, dashed across the room and out the door.

     He sprints. He couldn't say what makes him run, he simply has the feeling that he's being chased, driven by something. He has to get there. Period. He doesn't feel pain anymore, he forgets Baruch and his murderous rage. He has to concentrate on this narrow stairway. He slips on the worn-out steps and stumbles forward. He tries to avoid falling by jumping four, five steps at a time.