CHAPTER 1

THE 20TH OF ELEL

I’ve been hiding it for almost two weeks now, right here in my pocket, the instrument of my ultimate demise; the slaughtering blade of the Angel of Death: the revolver.

My revolver is smooth and as cold as death itself, and when I gaze into its deep, dark barrel I feel the Angel of Death, eternal and mute, staring back at me with one of its thousand eyes, glaring as only the empty eye sockets of a skull can glare. And I could almost swear that I see—suspended in the air—a set of clenched, dead teeth smiling at me.

Really, though, it’s all quite pathetic; they took one type of metal and mixed it with another, molded it into a specific shape, attached a spring, then added a couple of screws to some oblong strips of lead. And the whole thing weighs only a pound—one measly pound! The device itself is quite small. It’s simple, naïve and cold. But just try it, my dear brother; give the little contraption a squeeze, with one finger in just the right place, and it’ll treat you to a bang, spewing out smoke and fire! You’ll feel how much hatred that bang contains, hatred for you and everything alive. And this mute, little machine will kill people: large people, clever people, jolly people, and stupid people. It will kill happy people and sad people; people who have spent many, many years cultivating their bodies and minds; people who have seen a lot and suffered a lot, who have eaten and drunk a lot; those who have experienced much pain and much joy, and who go to sleep at night secure in the knowledge that they’ll wake up again the next morning, as usual, and continue to live, eat, and tell lies, drinking in the best life has to offer while spitting out the worst. Go ahead, give this finely crafted pound of metal just one small squeeze and—poof! Anyone standing in the path of the round, black hole will collapse, knocked to the ground with paralyzed limbs, the strength fading from their muscles, and everything that they’ve ever seen and read and heard, collected and absorbed over decades with strain and toil, will become irrelevant, lost forever in that one split second.

Personally, I derive sweet pleasure from having such an ingenious little device, a machine that can command death itself, in my pocket. All I have to do is wish for it and my revolver will fire and murder. And should I not wish for it, it will sit there quietly in my back pocket, playing dumb, acting innocent. The little bastard!

I’ve got death itself in my pocket and I am its master, its commander: like clay in a potter’s hand, so death is in mine.

I return to my lodgings in the evening, tired and broken after my hours of teaching, hours that stretch out like years. I search for something to invigorate me, but I find nothing. My books have long been coated in a layer of dust, and the tea stinks of oil. The bread is no longer fresh, and the butter is rancid. Then I lock the door of my room and slowly take out my weapon—my dear, sweet revolver. I lay it down on the table in front of me, and then I carry it over to the pillow. That’s a nice, soft bed for it; it feels more comfortable there. I adore looking at it from every angle. I caress its smooth, polished back, while, on the wall behind me, my large, black shadow does the same thing. I think I hear death itself jumping around inside that hollow instrument like a wicked, mute little ghost trying to break free from its metal prison. It longs to escape, to shoot and kill, to split skulls, and bore holes through hearts and through the sides of people’s heads. With vicious malice it watches me through the dark, narrow hole, and its glare—the glare of an empty eye in a dead skull—talks to me.

“Let me go,” it says. “You should let me go free!”

Then my teeth clench involuntarily; I hiss through them a few broken, unwieldy words, the kind of words you’d speak in a fever, or during a wild, spontaneous celebration: I whisper to my gun, which lies glistening on the pillow:

“Listen, you little bastard, it won’t kill you to wait another week, another two weeks, there’ll be time enough for carnage.”

And fearfully, lest death breaks ranks and starts firing to spite me, in case it loses control of itself from so much built-up malice and does me in before it’s time, I hurry to lock it up in its thick leather holster; like those shirts you put on madmen, this is my revolver’s straitjacket.

It is a strange thing to admit, but it makes me think of my dead father. That tall, thin Jew would turn pale and start trembling at the mere sight of a weapon; he’d be afraid to touch it, as if it were on fire. Whereas here I am—the son of that weak, nervous man—getting along so well with a loaded gun, keeping it always in my pocket, constantly feeling its pleasing weight against my thigh. It feels as if there’s a second, secret heart beating inside it, beating in time with my own. How I love it! With what deep passion I feel its smooth shiny metal in my hand. I’m convinced that this is the same passion with which men caress the soft, smooth arms of their lovers—though that’s something I myself have never experienced.

There are warm nights, full of heavy shadows and nightmares that choke me and keep me from sleeping; on those nights I remove the gun from its sheath and press its cool metal to my burning cheek. In the darkness, my dry lips twist into a strange, quiet smile. Inspired by the movements of my lips, the shadows and nightmares that had been oppressing me duplicate my smile, breaking into a grin as strange and silent as my own. How many nights do I doze off to sleep like this until morning, my cheek pressed fast against the revolver. And when I awaken there it is on my pillow in the pale morning light—warm, smooth, silent. It smiles a shiny metallic smile at me.

But under its honest mask, I feel a dark, hidden life, a wild, hidden desire to shoot and kill … Then I throw it a scornful glance, the scowl of an adult catching a child in a forbidden act. I pout, sternly sticking out my bottom lip, and wag my finger at it.

“Hey now, behave yourself, you little bastard. The Devil won’t carry you off if you have to wait another week … another two weeks.

♦

I believe I’m beginning to understand my unusual mental state of this past year. I’ve been feeling an urge to read both the local and the provincial faits divers in the newspapers, where I often find detailed descriptions of people who have done themselves harm. I lap those stories up quietly, with a secret thirst, locking myself away in my room, as with some perversion that demands privacy. Each of those morbid cases, printed so callously in tiny, uneven letters, fuels my fantasy for a long time. I imagine clearly—picturing with colors so vivid they hurt—the preparations involved in such deaths. Then, the act of killing itself: the bodies of poisoned suicides, flapping about, unable to scream through burning throats and lips; the outstretched legs of the hanged, their long, long necks; ropes swinging in the air after the door has been broken open and the noose has been cut … then, wounded temples, foreheads with dark blue circular holes, brains through which a hot, metal bullet has passed …

And as I read, I always try to conjure up a clear feeling about each of the different kinds of deaths that can transform a living person into a carcass.

Here they are:

(a) Poison: a cold fire in liquid form flows through your esophagus, twists your intestines into convulsions, dries up your stomach juices, and eats its way through the warm walls of your gut. There are needles in your stomach, multiplying with each passing minute until they overpower every drop of blood, every vein and artery, eventually reaching your brain. Each vein screams in fierce, mute pain; a million barbed needles penetrate, burn, and stab …

(b) Hanging: Just one small kick and the stool falls out from under you—the strong, smooth noose, lubricated with soap, instantly grabs your fragile neck like a pair of iron pliers. Your neck muscles soon lose their power and flexibility—they cannot save your outstretched neck, they cannot hold on. Your body becomes seventy-seven times heavier, pulling you down without mercy … the daylight turns cloudy-white as though mixed with milk, then green, then black; the veins in your temples pound as if with pointed hammers; with a terrible anguish your lungs flounder like fish pulled living out of the water; your brain is on the verge of bursting under the strong current of blood which has no means of escape; the tips of your feet twitch ever so slightly, barely noticeable, like a steel spring, winding down—one more moment, and …

(c) Drowning: a sudden fall from an arched bridge so high it makes your head spin; trees, buildings, people, and carriages flip and become blurred as you lose consciousness—the frigid wetness of the water … brrr … in less than a second your lungs are filled up like sacks, right up to your throat. Your body grows heavy, and sinks; your nostrils and mouth instinctively continue to breathe, dragging in more and more water, instead of fresh, sweet air … your eyes swell up, and see only a green, merciless emptiness and void.

There is a muffled roar in your submerged ears. Your lungs shudder, trying to expel the water they’ve swallowed, which presses like cold lead against their delicate, weak walls—they cannot. A wild scream tries to escape, but—instead of air—liquid rushes in, and the scream is stifled amid horrifying torture.

(d) Shooting: The cool, round, metal object presses itself against your warm temple. A signal runs down your spine; your finger touches the right spot—your brain is working normally, fueling the nerves and feelings when suddenly—bang!

Your skull explodes with a wet slap, like an elastic bone; the sharp, oblong “guest” darts through your brain, rending and tearing everything with incomparable agony. The brain, father of all muscles, sensations, veins, and nerves, feels in one short second the hellish pain that all the muscles and nerves together would have felt if they’d been slowly sawed to the point of snapping—all that diabolical suffering in one, all-encompassing spasm … and then it’s over.

That’s how I imagined and reimagined every grisly case. I read about all manner of suicides which the heroes of the daily newspapers had chosen for themselves. I thought about them day and night, embellishing the accounts with details from my own imagination. The constant stream of morbid ideas was making a fatalist of me. Everything around me stoked my macabre fixations: If I happened to walk past a high wall, I would think to myself, that wall could start to wobble at this very moment and collapse, flattening me like a beefsteak. Or I’d be walking across the iron bridge that spans high over the breadth of the river. That water flowing past, so slow and seemingly docile, could drown me! This shiny knife, sharpened to slice bread, could just as well be used to kill, and could quite easily stab me, right here and now; it only needs to know under which rib my heart lies.

Once I stood and craned my neck to look at the inscription on a high monument. Towering proudly over me was the figure in question, a large, fat-bellied general, cast entirely in bronze. Next to him, I looked so small and alone. It occurred to me that the monument could, at any moment, fall and crush me under its hundred-pound weight. A concealed, animalistic instinct of self-preservation, triggered by the mere possibility that it could fall and kill me, impelled me to jump aside out from under the shadow of the statue. But I soon felt that my fear was foolish, if not insane. I stepped forward, out of spite, back into the shadow of the statue, standing even closer to it than before. A wide, foolish smile spread over my lips as I addressed the pot-bellied bronze general.

“Well, come on then … go ahead and fall. Crush me. I’d like to see you try.”

On another occasion, one foggy morning, I heard the news that an old childhood friend of mine, twenty-two years old, had poisoned himself. He had drunk down a bottle of carbolic acid, which he’d bought himself at the pharmacy. I could not sit still the whole day and wandered around in a kind of sweet distress. My imagination dwelled on the idea of a death like that, enlarging it as though under a microscope to many times its actual size.

Indeed, that very evening, as I was wandering pensively through the streets, I suddenly gave my pockets a tap to see if I had a few coins. Finding that I did, I went, not knowing how I got there, to a pharmacy and said, short of breath, “Ten kopecks worth of phenol.”

And as I came out into the street clutching the bottle, wrapped in blotting paper, between my cold fingers, I suddenly looked at it, surprised, and asked myself: “What the Devil do I need this for anyway?”

After some thought, I hurled the bottle against the pavement where it shattered into tiny pieces. A light plume of smoke and several pink bubbles rose from the spot where it had landed. I stared at the smoke from the carbolic acid, and smiled as it dispersed in the air.

And then there was another incident, more pathetic still. One time I was out walking, ruminating for the tenth time on a story I’d read concerning a young man who had hanged himself in his room, on a hook attached to a beam. I suddenly remembered that there was also a hook hanging from the ceiling of my own room that could be used to hang oneself.

I had a moment of doubt; perhaps I was wrong? Maybe there was no such hook in my room? I set off immediately homeward. I arrived and, yes, there it was: a solid, iron hook, curved inward with a tip like an eagle’s beak, like the crooked fang of a Devil, right there in the center of the ceiling. It whispered to me, You could hang yourself on me, yes indeed you could.

“Well I’ll be damned,” I said to myself. “How could I not have noticed it until now? A strong, pointy, iron hook, I’ll be damned!”

It stood out against the whitewashed ceiling, black, hungry, and ready—beckoning. My lips broke into a thin smile, as I addressed the hook in a whisper, “Is that so? Really? You mean it? Someone could hang themselves on you? Very interesting. Let’s see then.”

I immediately sought out the rope I use to tie up my things whenever I move to new lodgings, and, with detached curiosity, I made myself a strong noose. I positioned a stool in the middle of the room and was on the verge of attaching the other end of the rope to the iron hook.

I will soon hang myself, I thought calmly, my head wrapped in a passionate fog. I swear it, I will hang myself.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. My unnatural serenity vanished in an instant and I was bathed in a cold sweat. I was struck by the gravity of what I was about to do, and the danger that it entailed. In the blink of an eye, I hid the rope and hastily returned the stool to its usual spot.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me.”

It was Merl Rivkin, a good-natured girl of my acquaintance. She had come to retrieve a book she’d lent me. When I opened the door, she stared at me with eyes like a pair of question marks. Her face was pale; apparently the sight of my sweaty countenance bore witness to the secret I had been trying to hide. Her gentle woman’s heart sensed the strange deed I had been about to carry out, a deed that still hovered in the stagnant air of my room, ashamed and uncomfortable, like an inept burglar caught in the act.

Once my acquaintance had left, I took a knife and cut the rope into tiny pieces. Cutting that rope gave me a strange feeling of satisfaction: the feeling of a bitter man taking vengeance on his own hatred, catching and destroying his would-be predator.

Nevertheless, I was agitated for days. I would stare up at the bent hook in the ceiling until I was exhausted. At night, once I had put out the lamp, I could no longer see it. But I could sense it there in the dark. It seemed to breathe, expanding and contracting, and it kept me awake. Eventually I rented myself a new room where there was no hook hanging from the ceiling, and I could relax.

But not for long.

I made a new acquaintance: a muscular young man, with a solid, pockmarked face. He worked as a bookkeeper in an ironworks factory. One evening, as I was sitting at his place drinking tea, he put his hand into his wide pocket and produced a beautiful, polished revolver. He pointed its dark barrel directly at me, laughed and said: “Bam! Now I’ll kill you.”

I did not tremble as he had expected. I merely sat there, frozen, and stared ardently at the beautiful weapon. But afterward, as I held it in my hands to look at it, and my fingers touched its cold, smooth nickel surface, a shudder passed through my whole body. At that very second, the riddle that had long been weighing on my mind became clear. I suddenly knew with my whole being that I must possess that shining object—I must use any pretext to make it mine.

Unable to contain myself, I set about trying to convince my acquaintance, speaking feverishly.

“Listen, my friend, sell me your revolver, you’ll be doing me an enormous favor. I’ll pay you in cash, please. I simply must have it, you understand?”

He looked at me skeptically, “What do you need it for, exactly?”

I felt that I’d over-egged it, and was somewhat bewildered. I didn’t yet know what I wanted it for. Nevertheless I composed myself, and I could hear my own voice speaking in a disinterested tone, but the words seemed to come out all wrong.

“Things are happening, all around, you know what I mean? Pogroms, people being attacked, murdered … everyone needs to protect themselves, don’t they?”

My acquaintance’s expression returned to normal. Through one half of his mouth, he muttered a price for the shiny object. Then he grew agitated, practically swearing that he was joking, that he himself had paid a lot more for it, but that either way, he did not want to hang on to it any more, and for a friend, well, long story short: let’s say fifteen rubles!

I knew that he was lying. But I did not try to haggle. In fact, I was grateful. My lips all but shivered with gratitude. I did not have any money on me, so I left, determined to get some. My heart beat wildly as I contemplated the beautiful weapon sitting in a stranger’s pocket. I asked my acquaintance not to sell it to anyone else in the meantime. God forbid. It was mine.

The next day I managed to get an advance for one of the lessons I teach. I still owed money for food and rent, but I did not care. I set off as early as possible to see the young man who had my revolver.

When I arrived with the money I found his door locked. Two long hours I waited for him on the street next to the gate. A wintry drizzle started to fall. The pavement was wet. Iron roof-tiles began glinting with dampness, and I waited, shivering. My throat was dry and bitter. Finally I saw the man approach. I restrained myself from rushing to meet him.

“Ah, you’ve come about the thing? Already? What’s the hurry?”

He set about questioning me in a leisurely fashion, with the smile of one who can sense another man’s weakness and insecurity.

I stared back at him with a mute prayer in my eyes, hoping that all was not ruined. What could I say? Admittedly, I myself was at a loss to explain my eagerness to have the gun, or why it had so aroused me. I understood that during such a transaction, one should remain calm. But I could not.

After he took the money, he did not hand over the weapon immediately. He gave me the pleasure of showing me how to use it, how to load the bullets, and how to take it apart, piece by piece, with each hidden screw.

My heart raced as he handled the revolver, as if I were witnessing an operation being performed on my own child before my eyes.

I was afraid, what if, God forbid, he damages something, or drops a screw? But nothing happened. Oh, he was quite a fellow all right, he knew how to handle a gun.

Finally he passed it to me, with warning after warning: “Treat it with care, don’t let anyone know you have it; that’s all I need is the police to come knocking on my door …” and so on.

With an impatience that could have aroused suspicion, I set off at once, alone, to a spot just outside the city. The whole way I fingered and caressed my lovely new revolver until it became warm. It seemed as if I had roused an unseen life inside its cold, dead metal.

Drops of rain still hung on the grass, wetting my shoes. The day was coming to an end, wrapped in bloody clouds of various shapes and in every shade of red. The field was large, green, and empty.

Then, eagerly, I slowly slid my revolver out of its sheath and began to commune with it.

I regarded it with deep grateful passion, unable to believe my own eyes: looks as though it’s mine! mine …

I got ready to fire it into the air, as a test. The whole field seemed to be waiting in breathless expectation. Distant trees leaned forward, curious to see: what will happen? what will happen?

I fired.

On the face of it, not much happened A small thunderclap tore out along with a puff of bluish smoke, which gradually dispersed in the damp, brisk evening air. And yet … the Devil take it! No thunderclap had ever shaken me as much as that shot. I heard several muffled echoes coming at me from all sides, the whole field seemed to shake, and stare at me in fear. I imagined I heard in that bang a dark, terrible laughter, a distant echo from the next world.

Wet blades of grass licked my shoes and a giant, cold, red sun went down behind the blood-red mist, seemingly outraged that the sudden gunfire had disturbed its final moments of glorious, stately peace.