Female Bat

Female Bat

In this story a murder is committed. Not that you think it is an account of a murder. No, right in this story, between these very lines which are to come, a murder is committed.
Be prepared for a murder committed in front of you. I want to see you suffering from the maximum fear and anxiety. I will now create a murderer, a victim, and a detective. All are part of my existence. Let me tell you now not to hope to discover the murder, because I am the murderer. Also, don't expect to face two layers of time, as in other detective stories. You have always read: "a woman was murdered at midnight on the fifth street of Yousef Abaad ."
You always start to read stories when the most interesting part has already finished. The murder has been committed and you, like a mole, have to chase the detective to chain the events together.
No, relax, this is not going to happen here. In this story a murder will be committed in front of your eyes. I promise you will not be able to take your eyes off these lines until the end of this story. You may even hiccup from the intense anxiety. And promise me too, promise to lose me between the lines.
Tomorrow, around six o'clock in the afternoon near Narmak Street a dark blue Peugeot will stop next to the feet of a man who is walking slowly. The driver of the Peugeot is a woman wearing heavy make-up and big sunglasses, which hide her face as much as possible. It’s me. The woman will ask the man, who is walking, for an address. The man will bend down next to the car's window and begin to give her directions. At this moment, a flare of fire will glitter from behind the woman's sunglasses and a sense of insatiable desire will flow in the man's veins like a narcotic drug.
The woman will dumbly pretend not to understand the directions. The man will get into the car to give the woman directions. He, the victim, is any man who will be walking near Narmak Street at around six o'clock in the afternoon.
Half an hour later the victim and I will be moving towards the suburbs on Abali Road. My victim is wearing jeans and a cotton checkered shirt. A nebulous smile is stamped on my lips and a dizzy one on his. My victim is talking continually: about his work, his home, his favorite sport, his favorite music . . . and will be asking me stupid questions. Rather than answer, I will only smile, and his smile will get dizzier. At that moment, I will put my hand slowly behind the seat and give him an injection in his neck, like a female bat. Half an hour later, the dark blue Peugeot will still be moving along the road. Conversing with the victim is certainly enjoyable. The syringe contains substance that will have turned the man to stone. He will be staring forward with the same mild smile and satisfied eyes, and I will confide in him. The victim will listen to me quite calmly. He is the best listener in the world. The sun must be setting now when I begin a very picturesque detour. There must be a detour near Abali Road that might lead to a deserted canning factory, a detour which is wooded with poplar trees. I will say, "What a beautiful place!" and will inhale the fragrant summer evening air into my lungs. How sensuous it is when I come to know that this air is mine. The man sitting next to me will never take any air into his lungs. How marvelous it is to joyride with a corpse on the outskirts of the city. To each sentence I utter he will offer the same smile, his lips indicating his satisfaction, as if the smile on his lips is only the result of my last sentence. There is no listener better than a dead one, especially when he has such a smile on his lips.
I pull over and stop in the shade of a poplar tree. I get out of the car. What nice weather! I will wave at him: "why don't you get out?"
I will open the car's door for him. He will fall out of the car like a stone statue, seated and bent towards one side. If the victim is not too heavy, I can use a little force to persuade him to lean against the door of the car. Then I can sit on a rock in front of him. If I remember to take a flask of tea with me, we can also drink tea. Then I start to talk again. Men can never listen to all my words, unless they are dead--like this one. When I talk to a person, I always want them to keep looking me straight in the eye, without any distraction. Women usually do this quite calmly, but men often steal their look. In the middle of a very important sentence, their look is diverted towards something else, or they start to look for their pack of cigarettes. In this condition it is almost impossible for me to continue talking. But this one is staring straight into my eyes and there is a beautiful nebulous smile on his lips. I am sure that he is listening to my words with all his heart. He is the best listener in the world. On this summer afternoon how sensuous it is to confide in my petrified victim with that unique smile on his lips.
Tomorrow I will tell my victim not to worry, because I am a murderer-author and will fade away a few seconds later. The detective, no matter how intelligent he is, cannot guess who I am because I have impunity. In this story nothing will ever happen to the murderer, nor to the victim. Don’t worry, (you,) my poor randomly chosen victim, you can sit here in complete serenity and listen to my words. The detective, with that paunch, raincoat and trilby can search for the murderer-author’s randomly chosen victim forever.
I would like to sit there forever and talk to the statue man. Tomorrow I will tell him how much I like the way he walked near the square, in that free and comfortable state, a kind of thoughtless state which tempted me to give him a ride. And how enjoyable it is for me to turn a beautiful man with such freedom to behave as he wishes into stone. I should also talk to him about how to bury him. He may prefer to be cremated. This is easier for me too. I can finish him off with a four-liter jerry-can of petrol.
I would like to chat with him once more, forever. He is the best listener in the world because tomorrow I will tell him that the murder was not committed today in the afternoon at six o'clock but rather last night around eleven o'clock, while you were reading the story of my randomly chosen victim's murder, and as your attention was completely drawn to finding out the secret of the murder between the lines, I, the murderer-author, committed the real murder while writing the story of my randomly chosen victim's murder, a real murder for reasons that are entirely personal. My poor randomly chosen victim of tomorrow was just a mask for the main and personal murder that I committed while writing about tomorrow’s murder.
The personal Midnight murder of yesterday was committed exactly at the moment when I was writing the story of tomorrow’s six o’clock murder. At my desk in my room, busy writing, the real victim sipped his poisoned tea.
It was a sensuous murder, very sensuous because it was committed for entirely personal reasons. It was a personal settlement. He was a man whose death I had desired for a long time. I wanted him to die in an ugly and nauseating way. My dream has almost come true. My real victim, having drunk his poisoned tea exactly at the moment when I was writing the last words of this story, fell down on the floor in the next room. His face had turned dark violet, almost the color of his dark blue shirt, and his tongue had jutted through his locked teeth for nearly five centimeters, and he had, wow, two beautiful, stricken, glassy, eyes.
What a sensuous murder it was, no doubt about it; a murder whose reasons are all hidden under the lines of that other murder and nobody will ever find out its secret, neither the detective nor you who lost me in the middle of the story.