Fatal Lies

32

“Whereare you taking me?”

Wolf punched Perger as hard as he could. His knuckles sank into the soft area of the lower back, just to the right of the spinal column. The boy cried out in agony-and Wolf punched him again. The force of the second blow pushed the boy forward, and he fell to his knees. Wolf's hand closed around his victim's mouth.

“Just shut up! Not another sound. Ask me again-and I swear I'll… I'll…” Nothing came to mind, and once again Wolf resorted to violence. He brought his knee up into the space between Perger's shoulder blades, which produced simultaneously a sharp crack and a sickening dull thud.

“Now get up!” Wolf grabbed Perger's collar and pulled him to his feet. “And keep going.”

They followed the landing until they reached the pitch-black space beneath an ascending staircase. Wolf pushed Perger away and crouched down, feeling for the ridge of the trapdoor.

“Wait here. If you try to run away you'll regret it. Do you understand?” Perger didn't reply. “Do you understand?” repeated Wolf, emphatically.

“Y-y-yes,” stuttered Perger.

Wolf lowered himself into the lost room, lit the paraffin lamp, and hung it on the nearest beam.

“Perger?”

A terrified face appeared in the square aperture.

“Get down here-No. Not like that, you fool. Sit on the edge and push yourself off.”

The younger boy dropped onto the crate but immediately lost his balance and toppled off. He did not attempt to get up but remained very still, sprawled out on the floor.

“You clumsy idiot.”

Wolf trod on Pergers buttocks, using the springiness of the flesh to add lift to his step. He got back onto the crate, reached upward, and pulled the trapdoor closed.

“Now… get up.”

Perger tried to stand, but before he could get to his feet, Wolf jumped off the crate and delivered a kick to his ribs. Perger rolled over, groaning.

“I said, get up.”

Perger looked at his tormentor, his eyes wide with fear.

“W-W-Wolf… I can't get up. I c-c-can't-not if you won't let me.”

“I swear to God, Perger…”

The boy scrambled to his feet while Wolf strolled over to the suitcase and rummaged through the contents. He returned, smoking a cigarette.

“Stand beneath the lamp.”

The boy obeyed, and Wolf slumped back in the old wicker chair. He said nothing, but simply watched-and smoked. The thin line of his mouth and the enamel glaze of his stare betrayed no emotion. Only the sound of Perger's heavy breathing broke the cruel and protracted silence.

“Take your clothes off.”

“W-what?”

“You heard.”

Wolf leaped up and jabbed the burning end of his cigarette at Perger's face. The younger boy jerked back to avoid contact and immediately began to fumble with the buttons of his shirt. When he had finished, he stood naked, his body trembling and his gaze lowered to the floor.

Returning to the wicker chair, Wolf sat down and stubbed out his cigarette beneath the heel of his boot. Without pause, he lit another and resumed his relaxed but attentive attitude. The point at which his foot had made contact with Perger's chest was now marked on the boy's skin by a red circle, which promised to mature into a livid bruise. Wolf found the injury curiously satisfying-not merely because it represented the exercise of power, the making of his own morality, but also because of an elusive aesthetic quality. The expected transformation of hue (through scarlet, yellow, purple, and black) was comparable, in Wolf's estimation, to the seasonal transformation of leaves between summer and autumn-only more exciting. Why did poets make so much of one but not the other? A thought came into his mind, an abridgement of the aphorism from Beyond Good and Evil that had made such a deep impression on him: Perhaps there are no phenomena, only interpretations of phenomena.

Wolf sucked on his cigarette and blew out a steady stream of smoke.

“What did you tell him?” he asked.

Perger looked up, his features blending confusion with fear.

“Who?”

“The fat policeman-the detective.”

Perger shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Oh, but you did,” said Wolf. “I know you did.”

“I didn't,” cried Perger. “I didn't tell him anything… not the first time. I didn't say a thing. And the s-s-second time, he came with a doctor… He played chess with me-and showed me p-p-patterns… inkblots… and asked me what I could see in them… and he asked me about the bakery… and t-t-ticks… and… and…”

“Enough,” shouted Wolf, stamping his foot. “Talk sense! You're gibbering like a lunatic!”

Perger emitted an odd whimpering sound, and pulled frantically at his short hair.

“I didn't s-s-say anything, Wolf. I swear… I swear on my mother's life.”

“Ha!” said Wolf. “Swearing on the life of a Galician whore is hardly a warrant of honor. That won't save you.”

“I s-s-swear… I didn't say anything.”

“Then why did the fat policeman want to speak to me-after he had spoken to you?”

“He didn't speak to me. It was the doctor. He spoke to me, but about chess, and his seeing game… He showed me p-p-patterns, inkblots, and asked me if I could see anything in them… and he asked me about Zelenka… I said Thomas was my friend, and that Thomas liked Frau Becker… but nothing else.”

“That's it. I've had quite enough of your slippery answers, Perger!”

Wolf flicked his cigarette across the floor. It rolled away, trailing orange sparks. Then he stood up and marched over to his victim. He was carrying a revolver. The younger boy cringed as Wolf pressed the gun's barrel against his temple.

“What… did… you… say?”

Wolf pronounced each word emphatically, and underscored each syllable by pushing the gun hard against Perger s head.

“I don't think you understand the gravity of your situation,” said Wolf. Then, letting his tongue moisten his upper lip, he added: “Kneel.” He angled the revolver so that it exerted a downward pressure, and pushed Perger to his knees.

“Please… I beg you,” sobbed Perger. “I'll do anything… anything you want… Please don't kill me.”

The thrill of prepotency coursed through Wolf's veins, swelling his heart and galvanizing his loins.

I'll do anything… anything you want.

Wolf stared down the length of Perger's back, at the pale, unblemished planes of skin sloping away and curving out of sight. His gaze followed the descending vertebrae, and lingered on Perger's tense calf muscles. The soles of the boy's small feet were slightly wrinkled. To his great embarrassment, Wolf found that it was not only his victim who was shaking-he himself had begun to shake too.

“I know what you used to do for Zelenka,” he said softly. “He told me. And now… now you'll do it for me.”

With his free hand, Wolf began to loosen his belt.