The Execution of Justice Read online

  Second, Matters Psychological: A momentous meeting not only demands a detailed physical space but also requires that its reporter be in an appropriate frame of mind. Therefore drank and whored prodigiously. For starters I drank several liters of applejack, bad style, I know (question of price), but I was just drinking to get rolling, and when the girl showed up, I switched to cognac. Not to worry, I’ve always had a cast-iron stomach. By the way, the girl was not Giselle (the one with the remarkable figure), but Monika (or Marie or Marianne, her name began with M at any rate), we had a high time, later she started singing a lot of folk songs from German films, I fell asleep; later still, she had disappeared with my cash. I had moved on to pear brandy in the meantime and I found her near the Bellevue in a café that doesn’t serve alcohol. When I stumbled on her, she was with Giselle and her protector (the previously mentioned Lucky), who turned out to be her protector as well. I confronted her, and he was decent enough to set financial matters right, Marlene (or Monika or Magdalena) had to fork it over. We all got along decently for the most part. Grandly, in fact, the waitress overlooked the bottle of Williamine I had brought along, all four of us drank it. Then Hélène arrived, quite unexpectedly, out of the blue, like a vision from another world. From a worse world. Since seeing her with Stüssi-Leupin—when was that, two months ago, three, maybe six?—I hadn’t thought of her, or just once, one night when Giselle was enthroned naked above me like a swaying Buddha, but never after that, I’m sure not—or only fleetingly, as I was crossing the rain-drenched street near the Bellevue, but that doesn’t count, was simply the effect of the sudden change in weather on my general mood—and now there she stood, she had to have been looking for me in the café, I’m certain. I had to laugh, everybody laughed. Hélène remained calm, friendly, lofty, serene, all the flawless comportment you could ask for, that was the hell of it, that she was always in command of herself, remained calm, friendly, lofty, serene, I could have killed, murdered, strangled, raped her, turned her into a whore, that’s what I would have loved to do.

  “May I have a word with you, Herr Spät?” she said and gave me an imploring look.

  “What kind of a girl is that?” Giselle asked.

  “A refined girl,” I declared, “a girl from a good family, the precious daughter of a murderer.”

  “Who does she sleep with?” Marianne (or Magdalena or Madeleine) wanted to know.

  “She goes to bed with a top lawyer,” I explained, “with the juridical star of stars, with an educated gallows bird, with the grand champion attorney, Stüssi-Leupin, every fuck is an act of jurisprudence.”

  “Herr Spät,” Hélène said.

  “Have a seat,” I replied. “Would you like to sit on the lap of the famous Lucky, the gentleman who protects these two ladies and whose lawyer I have the honor to be, or would you prefer a chair?”

  “A chair,” Hélène answered softly.

  Lucky shoved a chair her way, politely, stylishly, our perfect man-of-the-world Lucky, with his black moustache, his palmolive face, and apostolical brown eyes, even bowed to her, you could smell his perfume and Camels a mile away. She sat down tentatively. “Actually I wanted to speak with you alone,” she said.

  “Not necessary.” I laughed. “We have no secrets here. I’ve been sleeping with Miss Giselle for weeks now, and just tonight I slept with our doughty Monika here, or Marianne, or whatever the hell her name is. You see, things are all out in the open. So then, shoot.”

  Hélène had tears in her eyes.

  “You once asked me a question.”

  “I know.”

  “As I was having coffee with Herr Stüssi-Leupin—”

  “It’s perfectly evident what you mean,” I interrupted, “you don’t have to add a Herr to the bastard’s name.”

  “At the time, I didn’t understand the meaning of your question,” she said softly.

  All at once it had turned quiet. Giselle had slid off my lap, was fixing her makeup. I was furious, guzzled my Williamine, suddenly noticed that my hair was sticking to my head, my face sweaty, my eyes burning, that I hadn’t shaved, that I stank, the sudden embarrassment of the two girls annoyed me no end, it was as if they felt ashamed in Hélène’s presence, as if a Salvation Army ambience was taking over, I could have smashed the whole place up, the world had gone topsy-turvy. Hélène should have been the one to crawl before these girls, and crawl she would. I kept drinking more Williamine, without saying a word, simply staring into the big dark eyes of the quiet face in front of me.

  “Fräulein Hélène Kohler,” I said thickly, standing up, ceremoniously, swaying, but I managed it. “Fräulein Hélène Kohler, I would like to file a general statement—yes indeed, file it, that’s the right word. I met you, Hélène Kohler, in the company of your bedfellow—quiet, ladies—your bedfellow Stüssi-Leupin. Correct. I asked you whether on the day of the murder you had been the stewardess on the very same flight that was to return the English minister to his wretched little island. Correct, correct, correct. You replied in the affirmative. And now for the decisive point, which I would like to fling in your face—yes, fling it, with all my might, Hélène Kohler. There was a revolver in the Englishman’s coat. You took possession of that revolver, easy enough for a stewardess to do, and that revolver was the weapon of your esteemed papa, the murder weapon that was never found, of which you are well aware. You are an accomplice, Hélène Kohler, not just the daughter of a murderer, but a murderer yourself. I loathe you, Hélène Kohler, I can’t stand the smell of you, because you stink of murder just like your bastard of a father and not just of schnapps and whores like me. May your body slowly rot away, may cancer devour your esteemed womb, because if you were ever to give birth to a little Stüssi-Leupin, it’d be all over with this world of ours, it’s too fragile to handle a monster like that. What a pity that would be for this world, despite all its sins, a pity for these beautiful whores, whom you can’t hold a candle to, madame, who ply an honest trade and not a murderous one, my own dear darling, and now would you kindly beat it, scram. Go stretch out under your star lawyer…”

  She left. I’m not all that clear about what happened next. I stumbled, I think, at any rate I found myself lying tummy-down on the floor, I think maybe a table was turned over, the bottle of Williamine was emptied (that I’m sure of), a guest with an egghead brow and glasses complained, the woman who ran the place came sailing over, a regular mama to her whores, the noble Lucky helped me to the toilet, I suddenly didn’t like his moustache, started hitting him, he had once been an amateur boxer, there was blood, I ended up lying in the urinal, it was unpleasant, especially because it came so thickly smeared with symbolism, like some B movie, all at once the police arrived, Sergeant Stuber and two of his men. They took me down to the precinct for a couple of hours. Interrogation, statement, etc.

  Postscript: Let it be noted that, in a purely technical sense, my attempt to describe my first meeting with Hélène has failed. I described my last meeting with her. Therefore, in the future certain precautions are to be taken. Writing in an alcoholic stupor requires a cautious style. Short sentences. Subordinate clauses can prove dangerous. Syntax sows confusion. Plus there is an epilogue for the record (just received another postcard from Kohler, this time from Rio de Janeiro, best wishes, says he’s flying from there to San Francisco, then on to Hawaii, then Samoa, so I’ve got time). To wit: the commandant of the canton police paid me a visit. The visit was important. Of that I am sure. It’s probably also the reason for my being completely sober now. There is no proof of it, but my hunch is that the commandant suspects what I’m up to. That would make things difficult. Arguing against it is the fact that he left the revolver with me. He came quite unexpectedly, around ten, two days after the unfortunate scene in the café. The streets were slushy. Suddenly he was standing in my garret. Down below the sect exulted: “Good Christian man, prepare thy soul, for on the Judgment Day, be sure you’ve kept it pure and whole, His bolts shall light His way.” The commandant was somewhat ill
at ease. He glanced in embarrassment across to my desk with its pile of paper full of scribbles.

  “Let’s hope you don’t want to be a writer, too,” he growled.

  “Why not, Commandant, when you’ve got something to write about?” I answered.

  “Sounds like a threat.”

  “Take it however you like.”

  He looked around him, a bottle under his arm. On my couch lay some girl or other. I didn’t know her, she had just tagged along, maybe a present from Lucky, had apparently undressed and stretched out, out of some misconception of professionalism (the work ethic makes itself evident everywhere in our country). It had made no difference to me whatever, I had set myself to work; pulled out my papers.

  “Get dressed,” he ordered. “You’ll catch cold if you don’t. And then I want to have a word with the lawyer here.”

  He put the bottle on the table.

  “Cognac,” he said. “Adet. A rare brand. From a friend in western Switzerland. Wanted to give it a try. Get us two glasses, Spät. She’s not drinking any more today.”

  “Yes sir, Herr Commandant,” said the girl.

  “Go on home. Your workday is over.”

  “Yes sir, Herr Commandant.”

  She was almost dressed now. He looked at her calmly.

  “Good night.”

  “Good night, Herr Commandant.”

  The girl left. We heard her hurrying down the stairs.

  “You know her?” I asked.

  “I know her,” the commandant replied.

  Downstairs the sect was still singing its end-of-the-world chorale: “The sun explodes with dreadful might, the earth doth pass away. Oh, cling in such a dreadful plight, to Jesus Christ, thy stay.”

  The commandant poured. “To your health.”

  “To your health.”

  “Do you own a revolver?” he asked.

  There was no point in lying. I took it out of the desk drawer. He examined it, gave it back to me. “You still think Kohler is guilty, don’t you?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Maybe,” he answered and sat down on the couch.

  “Then why are you giving up the game?” I asked him.

  He looked at me.

  “So you still intend to win it?”

  “In my own way.”

  He looked at the revolver. I took care of it.

  “That’s your business,” he said, poured another round. “Well, how do you like the Adet?”

  “Splendid.”

  “I’ll leave the bottle here with you?”

  “Kind of you.”

  From below a sermon or maybe a prayer could now be heard. “You see, Spät,” the commandant said, “you’ve got yourself in a somewhat unfortunate situation. I don’t want to say anything against the honorable Mr. Lucky, still less against that poor thing that just left, on the whole it’s not the fault of those two that these things exist, but how far you’re going to get as a lawyer for whores is another matter. The review board is going to have to initiate proceedings against you soon, that ought to be clear to you. They have nothing against a lawyer for lowlifes if he makes money, but no use at all for one who doesn’t. Their professional honor rebels at that.”

  “So what?”

  “You just asked me a moment ago why I’ve given up the game, Spät,” the commandant continued, lighting one of his fat Bahianos, carefully, without the least tremble. “I’ll admit to you that I also consider Kohler guilty and everything that’s happened is a farce I would gladly have prevented. But I have no evidence. Have you gotten any further in the matter?”

  “No,” I said.

  “You really haven’t?” he asked again.

  I said no a second time.

  “You don’t trust me, do you?” he asked.

  “I don’t trust anyone.”

  “Fine,” he said. “As you please. The Kohler affair is finished, as far as I’m concerned, it ended with my defeat. Lots of affairs have ended that way for me. Sad to say, but in my profession a man has to be able to swallow defeat. And in yours too, I think. You should pull yourself together, Spät, start fresh.”

  “That’s no longer possible,” I replied.

  Down below the exultation continued: “The gates of hell shall slam behind, the flames still burning high, ’twill be too late, O humankind, this world is gone for aye.”

  All at once I was suspicious: “Are you perhaps keeping something from me, Commandant?”

  He smoked, looked at me, smoked some more, got up.

  “What a pity,” he replied and held his hand out to me. “Farewell. Perhaps I’ll still have to issue you a professional summons someday.”

  “Farewell, Herr Commandant,” I said.

  The Beginning of Love: Here I am at a standstill again. I know there can be no further evasions. I have to find a way to talk about my first meeting with Hélène. I have to admit that I loved Hélène. And, I must add, from the start. Which means since our first meeting. It’s hard to confess this, and only now do I feel capable of it. And yet, that love has become impossible. I must therefore give an account of a love that I did not admit to myself when I might possibly have made it work, and that can no longer be made to work. That isn’t easy. Of course now I know that Hélène was not what I first saw in her. Only now do I see her as she is. She shares the guilt. Of course I understand her. It’s only human for her to cover for her inhuman father. It’s unthinkable to demand that she betray her father. Her confession alone could destroy the canton deputy. But she will never make that confession. I am enough of a lawyer, after all, not to exact such a demand. I have to go my own way, she may go hers, but I cannot deny the image I once formed of her. That she does not fit that image, never fitted it, is not her fault. I am sorry for my impetuous words. I know the way I acted was childish. Likewise my catting around and my drinking. She has every right to be what she is, and I have assumed the right to murder her father at some point. Had I got to her father at the airport that night, he would be dead now and so would I. The affair would now be put right, and the world would long since have moved on to its agenda. My life has only one purpose: to settle accounts with Kohler. That settlement will be easy. One shot will suffice. But for now I have to wait. I hadn’t included that in my calculations. Nor what it costs me in nerves. Executing justice is something different from having to live in the expectation of executing it. I feel like some frenzied madman. My drinking like this is simply an expression of my absurd position; it’s as if I were drunk on justice. The feeling of being in the right is destroying me. Nothing is more horrifying than this feeling. I am executing myself, because I cannot execute old man Kohler. In my frenzy, I can see me and Hélène, I look back at our first meeting. I know that I’ve lost everything. Nothing can replace happiness. Even when that happiness turns out to be madness, and my madness today is, in reality, sobriety. Unmerciful awareness of the real world. So I think back with sadness. I would like to forget and am incapable of it. It all sticks so clearly in my memory, as if it had just happened. I still hear the tone of her voice, still see her glances, her movements, her dress. And I see myself as well. We were both young. Brand-new. It was less than a year and a half ago. Now I am old, ancient. We showed each other our trust. When it would have been perfectly natural for her to have distrusted me. She must have seen in me nothing but a lawyer who wanted money. But she trusted me from the start. I sensed it that day, and I trusted her as well. I was ready to help her. It was lovely. Even when we were just sitting across from each other, even when we were just talking about practical matters. Naturally I know it was not that way, that it was all a sham, a dream, an illusion, or even worse, a rotten trick that Hélène was playing on me, me of all people, but back then, back then, when I still didn’t know, didn’t have the faintest suspicion, I was happy.

  “Do sit down, Herr Spät,” she said. I thanked her. She had taken her seat in a deep leather armchair. I sat down across from her. In another deep leather armchair. It was all somehow
remarkable, the girl, maybe twenty-two, tanned, smiling, relaxed and yet hesitant, all the books, the heavy desk, the billiard table and its balls in the background, the rays of sun streaming in, the park behind the half-open glass doors through which Hélène had come. With an elderly gentleman by the name of Förder. He was impeccably dressed, was introduced as Kohler’s private secretary, had mutely, almost menacingly, taken my measure. Then he left, without saying goodbye, without having said so much as a single word. Now that we were alone, Hélène was ill at ease. So was I. The vision of her father had lamed me, left me unable to speak. I felt sorry for her. I realized that she would never understand her father, that she suffered because his actions were so incomprehensible.