The Avignon Quintet (148 page)

The knives, spotless as the rest, were there!

With the current of joy and affirmation flowing through his body he contemplated, giving thanks to his creator; he even joined his hands before his breast and shook them in thanksgiving, like a Christian. Then with a sneaking, smiling air of happiness, he took up first one and then the other of the knives and felt its exquisite balance in the palm of his hand; it was as pregnant with futurity as an egg. At this moment the swing-doors at the end of the kitchen opened and in swayed the monumental form of Pierre, looking puzzled, for this had never happened to him before and he found it surprising. Moreover with Mnemidis now stripped there was no sleeve to grab in order to tame and pivot him. The big man was suddenly realising that much of his mastery over things, over people, was due to familiar routines; the lack of that basic sleeve troubled and disoriented him. Nor had he seen Mnemidis ever look quite like this – blithe and exuberant, his whole bearing suffused with a glory from on high. He proposed to play cat and mouse with Pierre, but jovially, with kindliness, for he really loved and esteemed this companion of his solitary hours. He put the hand with the knife behind his back and beckoned Pierre to approach with the other, playfully, teasingly; and when the “Malabar” obeyed he dodged back and round, in and out among the sinks and cupboards. They performed a slow and somewhat elaborate ballet in this way, passing across the great kitchens in a sort of gruesome two-step for Pierre was fully aware of the knife and of the danger he was in from a sudden change of mood. It would have been wise for him to pick a weapon for himself and try to despatch the madman with a lucky blow on the head – a saucepan, perhaps: but he preferred to be patient and not provoke a flare-up of aggressiveness. He was calm and confident of the outcome and only concerned lest he might obtain a wound while trying to disarm Mnemidis. Moreover, dancing about like this they were killing time and it could not be long before somebody came into the kitchens and then Pierre could shout for help in surrounding his man. Where were the sisters? Where was the staff of the place? There was no sign of a soul. They continued on their appointed courses like two ill-omened planets in orbit – planets engaged in a gravitational flirtation which could only end one way, in a collision!

Neither was the least out of breath as yet, and watching the intense concentration with which they danced an observer might have thought their synchronised and stylised motion the result of long rehearsal. But there was method in Mnemidis’ madness – to coin a phrase; he had seen a half-open door which gave on to a sort of clothes-closet which housed a quantity of aprons and gowns, of buckets and pails and sundries. He was working his slow way round until his jailor had his back to it – it was like putting a billiard ball over a pocket. This done, he attacked the “Malabar” with almost inconceivable force, giving a pious grunt which echoed throughout the kitchen. Under the impetus of this rush the “Malabar”, attentive to the threat of the knife, backed away and before he knew where he was found himself pinned into the closet against the hanging clothes, against the wall, with a hand firmly clutching his throat, his own arms vaguely encircling the shorter man with force but without design. And now Mnemidis with thoughtful and considered strokes, like an experienced cook, started to lard him with the knife he held in his hand. All this seemed to the “Malabar” to pass in a kind of languorous slow motion, but in fact the blows were swift and tellingly aimed. Meanwhile Mnemidis gazed into his face with attention, almost lecherously, as if he were looking into a gauge which might tell him how successful his assault was. Negroes do not turn pale but rosy in this kind of fatal situation. Mnemidis felt his man give a crooning sound and lean forward upon him. It would be like tearing down a high curtain, he thought to himself. Both were breathing heavily now, but Pierre was blowing out his cheeks with exhaustion, and his lungs were filling and emptying very quickly all of a sudden. It was as if he had run the 100 metres in record time.

With loving penetration Mnemidis continued to hold him and gaze up into his face, now bloodless and somehow serene despite the exhaustion – a serenity which perhaps counterfeited and anticipated the inevitable death which must follow such an exchange. It was a crucial sweetness, and the pallor was highly satisfying to the audior of the assault who stood, holding him upright and scrutinising him so tenderly. At last Mnemidis stepped back and gently posed the teetering giant more snugly in the mass of hanging coats. He must be losing blood rapidly, Pierre, but he remained upright in a pose at once fragile and authoritative, his arms out and his fingers crooked, but no longer on the body of his adversary. His expression suggested that he was all of a sudden deeply introspective, investigating his inmost feelings; to try and determine perhaps the extent of the leak, the volume of blood which was now flowing – he could feel it, soft and quite insidious – flowing down. Losing blood, yes, he was losing
blood
. He groaned, and as if upon a signal Mnemidis stepped back and shut the closet door, leaving him to stand trembling among the clothes.

By the grace of the Creator the kitchens were still empty, he had them to himself; he was very thirsty, so he gave himself a long drink from the sink and tenderly wiped the blade of his knife. Then, squaring his shoulders, he went in search of a garment which might hide his nakedness above the waist, or indeed disguise him, for as yet his journey had only begun, there was much to be done. Vaguely stirring in the back of his mind was the idea of perhaps a chef’s cape or a baker’s white coat, or a doctor’s regalia, but what he indeed hit upon was even more impenetrable as a disguise. Some of the nuns engaged in heavy manual labour like washing clothes or swabbing floors, had the habit of hanging up their robes and coifs in one of the adjacent changing-rooms which was open. He could hardly hide his glowing self-satisfaction as he found three or four of these costumes from which to choose; and most particularly the starched and all but spotless coifs. What a disguise! This huge headpiece was shaped like a lily and he slipped one on just to see how such an affair would look. He was amazed by his own face, it looked quite terrifyingly composed with just a trace of human light in the eye, and just a trace of a smile at the corners of the mouth. But he had never noticed before that he had dimples, and the better to study them he allowed his smile to broaden, to overflow as it were; the dimples belonged to someone’s early childhood, as did the face now, whose contours were demarcated by the white helm of the nun. But this one was a trifle too big; he went along the line and out of the three or four available picked one which he snugged down over his head to make a perfect fit. Then he sought out the curtain-like nun’s robes and picked a suitable one. All this happened in a flash; he consciously hurried things along because he could hear, somewhere in the depths of the building, a muffled bumping as if Pierre, half-foundered by the stabbing, had started to react, to fall about among the hanging coats.

The mirror gave back an elderly nun with a face full of unhealthy confessional secrets, expressions both perverted and hypocritical, but with an uncanny brilliance of eye. A nun of great experience, yet not disabused. A nun ready for anything. He almost chuckled with delight as he crept out of the closet and into the main hall, walking with bent head, as if deep in thought, and very slowly so as not to excite curiosity. He examined the notice-boards, passed them in review, and then just as self-confidently directed himself towards the wood which he traversed every day with Pierre. At once when he was under cover his pace increased, and he arrived at the little villa which housed the psychological unit almost at a run. By great good luck the office of Schwarz was empty, as also was the consulting-room of the woman doctor – the one he was most anxious to see. He sat down suddenly to reflect. Perhaps if he waited they might come, the one or the other? But the woman was more important.

He sat down in Schwarz’s swivel chair for a long moment and reflected; in his mind he went back along the chain of past events – those of the last hour – in order to evolve a line of action suitable to his case and his intentions. He had retained the addresses of his two Egyptian friends, and once he had finished his scheduled business he intended to call at their hotel and give himself up, put himself in their charge, hoping that it was not too late for them to put the escape plan into operation and waft him back home to Cairo. So he sat, taking stock of himself and fingering the heavy handles of the kitchen knives – for he could not resist taking both. It was somewhat awkward having them, but each had a stout leather sheath and a scabbard, and each was attached by a tough thong so that he could loop it into the belt which held up his trousers. The long cassock-type garment of the nun was most voluminous, and obliterated all contours; it amused and excited him for it brought him back old memories of the carnivals in Alexandria. It was like a black domino. But … he sprang to his feet and chided himself for wasting valuable time here instead of moving on into town to further his plans. The nun’s habit had two great inner pockets, one of which contained a rosary and the other tickets to a
fête votive
in a lake village. Not to mention a cambric handkerchief, with which he might cover part of his face if necessary. But it was a pity to have missed both the doctors like this. He felt a twinge of regret to leave the consulting-room without having, so to speak, made his mark, left a message of some sort. Yet what? On Schwarz’s desk he saw an apple on a plate – it constituted the modest lunch of the analyst who was dieting and trying to lose weight. With his knife Mnemidis cut it in half, giving a little chuckle of pure mischief.

Then he set off at a trot through the wood, only slowing his pace when he came to open spaces bordering the main entrance, or trim gardens rich in flowerbeds where he adopted a loitering, contemplative gait, snail-like in fact, most suitable for a nun who tells her beads as she walks, rapt in prayerful union with her Saviour. He had expected by now some sort of spirited pursuit, cries of surprise, running footsteps; it was disappointing, but nevertheless. He was usually chased and pounced upon in such circumstances. But he recognised in all this the hand of fate – for he had as yet not accomplished his mission. He frowned as he walked thoughtfully towards the car park and the main entrance. There was a risk that the alarm had been given, that they had telephoned the front gate to stop all people trying to leave. But apparently not, all was quiet. It would be more than an hour before Pierre fell out of his cupboard on to the floor – under which the pool of blood had traced a path which someone would notice. No, all was normal in the office of the gate warden. Moreover, a further stroke of luck awaited the newly canonised nun, for parked outside the gate and obviously ready to move off was the baker’s van which brought the establishment its daily bread. The driver, a fresh-faced youth, was just shutting down the motor hood after checking the oil. The sight of one of the sisters walking through the gate was not calculated to arouse any particular interest in the guardians of the gate who simply gave Mnemedis a cursory glance as he passed under their window. He held his handkerchief to his mouth as if he had a cold and spoke in a hoarse whisper as he asked the young driver whether he was going into town, and whether he would give him a lift to the lakeside village to the
féte votive
for which he had now two tickets. The boy agreed most respectfully to take the sister aboard, and Mnemidis climbed in beside him and snuggled down, delighted by the ease with which he had hoodwinked the authorities and broken prison. It was in the best tradition – he had never done a cleverer, smoother break-out in his whole life. He restrained a temptation to whistle a tune, and asked the young man in a hoarse whisper whether he went to church, and if so to which. “Catholic” was the reply.

Mnemidis was emboldened by the manifest impenetrability of his disguise – he looked every inch an elderly sister with a slightly waggish disposition. He took the wise precaution, however, of talking in a hoarse whisper, as if he had lost his voice, due to a heavy cold. As the nervous youth went on in
naïf
fashion to outline his religious convictions the sister of mercy put her arm about his shoulders in sacerdotal sympathy. Then she asked if during the night he was not troubled sometimes by unworthy thoughts or dreams or … wishes? And her hand slid softly down to caress the young man’s thigh. He could not forbear to flush up and draw in his breath – it was sexually exciting to feel this apparently innocent advance. He did not quite know what to make of it. Meanwhile Mnemidis went on talking in his hoarse whisper about the difficulty of sleeping when one was young and pursued by chimeras of experiences one had not as yet tasted. Did not the young man sometimes … But the young man was manifestly excited now and blushing furiously. He had never had an experience of this order, and he had lost all his composure. After all, what could one say to a nun? He too felt that he had lost his voice, while the stealthy advance of the nun’s hand now made clear her intention – of making free with him sexually. But the steady flow of language did not cease as the caresses became more pointed and deliberate. Finally, in a more authoritative fashion, the sister told him to pull his vehicle off the road and into a copse which obligingly presented itself, and here the seduction was consummated. The young man mixed confusion, sexual excitement and shame in equal parts. Then he conducted his passenger to the lakeside road and set her down at the gates of the park in which the
fête votive
was being held, and for which she held tickets, it would seem. The nun said goodbye with a ghoulish demureness and the young man drove off in something of a hurry, glad to be shot of so strange a customer.

But this encounter was most valuable to Mnemidis in that it gave him confidence in his disguise. It provoked no curiosity and much respect. He even tested it by going up to the policeman on the park gate and asking the time. The man drew back and saluted respectfully as he conveyed the information. No, it was completely foolproof. With a sigh of relief Mnemidis now abandoned himself to pure pleasure. He walked about the spacious gardens, visited the flower show in the conservatories and helped judge the competition by putting his judgement on to a slip of paper and sliding it into the box at the gate. Then he walked into the other corner and saw a Punch and Judy show which he found completely absorbing. He had forgotten how marvellous the facial expressions of children can be when they are absorbed by a theatrical performance. You can see the adult lodged in the youthful body; if you gaze into the eyes and let your intelligence flow into the child’s face you can divine very clearly what sort of adult it will become in due course. He was delighted by this exercise, involving a thesaurus of young faces in all their moods. And then he went into a concert where gross romantic music was the keynote, and he throbbed and almost swooned to the strains of Strauss and Delibes. Emotion is permitted in a nun. He moved his head from side to side and closed his eyes with each wave of delight. At the same time his fingers caressed the forms of the knives which lay so quietly obedient upon his thighs.