The Theatre - Kellerman, Jonathan

"I spoke to a psychologist this morning, trying to get a profile."

"What'd he tell you?" asked Gene. He lay back and put his hands behind his head, looked up at the black Jerusalem sky, and blew smoke rings at the moon.

Daniel gave him a summary of the consultation with Ben David.

"He's right about one thing," said Gene. "The psych stuffs darned close to worthless. I've worked Lord knows how many homicides, gotten bushel-basketfuls of psych profiles, never solved a case with one of them yet. And that includes the nut-case serials."

"How do you solve them?" On the surface a foolish question, far too artless. But he felt comfortable with Gene, able to speak openly. More open than he could be with his own family. It bothered him.

Gene sat up, edged his chair closer to Daniel's.

"From where I sit, sounds like you're doing everything right. Truth is, lots of times we don't solve them. They stop killing or die and that's that. When we do catch them, nine times out of ten it's because of something stupid-they park their car near the murder scenes, get a couple of parking tickets which show up on the computer. A records check, just like you're doing. Some angry girlfriend or wife turns them in. Or the killer starts playing games, letting us know who he is, which means he's basically catching himself. We've done nothing but cut along the dotted line."

The black man sucked on his cigar and blew out a jet-stream of smoke. "These cases are hell on the ego, Danny Boy. The public gets hold of them and wants instant cure."

Keep pounding the pavement and wait for the killer to give himself away. The same thing Ben David had told him.

He could have done without hearing it twice in one day.

He got into bed, hugged and kissed Laura. "Ooh, your breath-have you been smoking?"

"One cigar. I brushed my teeth. Want me to brush again?"

"No, that's all right. I just won't kiss you." But moments later, her legs wrapped around him, the fingers of one hand languidly caressing his scrotum, the other entangled in his hair, she opened her mouth and relented.

He woke up in the middle of the night, his mind still going like a dieseling engine. Thinking of death camps and hypodermics and long-bladed knives that could sever a neck without sawing. Blood flowing in gutters, disappearing down sewer drains. A city drenched in blood, the golden stone turned to crimson. Headless dolls crying out for salvation. Himself suspended in mid-air, like one of Chagall's birds. Frozen in space, unable to swoop. Helpless.

The first time the war between the grown-ups ended differently, he'd been caught by surprise.

Usually they'd shout themselves into exhaustion, the vi-ciousness defused by alcohol and fatigue, trailing off in a mumble of last words.

Usually she would outlast Doctor, spitting out the final curse, then lurching upstairs, woozily, the boy anticipating her retreat and running ahead of her, safe in bed, hidden under the covers, as her footsteps grew faint, her dirty talk faded to silence.

Doctor usually stayed in the library for a while, walking back and forth, drinking and reading. Sometimes he fell asleep on the tufted leather sofa, still in his clothes. When he came upstairs, he, too, trudged heavily. Leaving the door open in a final act of generosity, so that the boy could share his nightmares.

The time it was different, he'd been six years old.

He knew this with certainty because his sixth birthday had been three days before, a non-event marked by gaily wrapped gifts from the most expensive toy store in town, a cutting-of-the-cake ceremony grudgingly attended by both parents. Then a double-bill monster movie accompanied by one of the maids, the one with the horse face, who had no use for children and hated him in particular.

During intermission he went to the theater bathroom and peed all over the wall, then bought so much popcorn and candy that twenty minutes later he was back in the bathroom, throwing up into his pee puddles.

So he was sure he was six.

On the night it ended differently, he wore pale-blue pajamas with a monkey and parrot pattern, sat curled on the sixth stair, massaging a polished wood baluster. Hearing the usual bad-machine sounds, happy because it was something he was used to.

Then a surprise: no dirty talk. Silence.

The tearing and ripping ended so suddenly that for a moment the boy thought they'd actually destroyed each other. Blam.

Then he heard the sound of heavy breathing, a moan-was someone being hurt?

Another moan, more breathing. Fear wrapped itself around him, cold, icy fingers squeezing his chest.

Could this be it? Was this the end?

Cautiously, like one of the robot monsters he'd seen in the movie, he made his way down the remaining seven stairs. The heavy double doors to the library were partially open. Through the opening came a narrow triangle of yellow light. Ugly yellow, like the pee puddles.

He heard more moans, tasted something sweet and bitter, and was seized with an urge to throw up. He held his breath, put his hand on his tummy, and pressed in hard to make the feeling go away. Telling himself: Go away.

"Oh!"

His mother's voice, but she sounded different. Scared. The breathing continued without her, huffing, not stopping, like a toy train: Doctor.

"Oh!"

What was happening?

"Oh, Charles!"

He gathered up his courage, tiptoed to the door. Peeked through the yellow space and saw them.

Doctor was sitting on the couch, still wearing his white shirt and tie, but with his pants and underpants down around his ankles. His legs looked gross, all hairy and thick, like a gorilla's.

She was naked, white as her nightgown, her back to the door, her white-yellow hair loose and shiny.

Her head was on Doctor's shoulder, her chin kind of squeezing into his neck. Like she was trying to vampire-bite him.

She was sitting on Doctor. Her hands were in his hair. She was rubbing his hair, trying to pull it out.

Oh, no, look at her butt!

It was hanging down like two giant eggs and there was something between it. Something going into it. A pole with black hair-fuzz around it, like a pink grapefruit popsicle. No, a pole, a wet, pink pole-his father's thing!

Oh, no. He wanted to throw up again, gagged, swallowed the bad taste, and felt it burn him down to him tummy.

The thing was a weapon. An egg masher.

You could use it as a weapon!

He stared, unable to breathe, chewing on his fingers.

It was in her. In and out. Oh, no it was stabbing her, hurting her-that's what was making her cry and moan. She was being stabbed by Doctor's thing!

He could see Doctor's face rolling back and forth over her shoulder, liked someone had cut it off but it was still alive, all sweaty. A sweaty zombie head, with a mean smile. All scrunched up and pink and wet, just like his thing.

Doctor was forcing her-both of his big hairy hands were on her butt, squeezing, the fingers disappearing into soft white skin. Squeezing her until she cried, and the neck-biting and hair-pulling couldn't stop him-he was a monster who didn't feel pain and he was forcing her, forcing his thing into her, and it was hurting her and she was crying!

"Oh… oh, Charles…"

Pink and white, pink into white. He thought of a glass of milk with blood dripping into it; when the blood hit the surface of the milk it swirled and turned all pink.

"Oh, God!" she called out. Now she was praying-it was really hurting her bad. She started moving faster, bouncing, trying to bounce off of him, to get away from him and his egg stabber, but he held on to her-he was forcing her!

"Oh, God!"

She was praying for help. Should he help her? His feet felt glued to the floor. His chest was all tight and it hurt. What could he do…?

" Yes," said Doctor, grinning and clenching his teeth and grinning again, a wet monster grin. "Oh, yes. Yes."

"Oh, God! Harder, you bastard! Harder!"

What was this?

"Give it to me, you bastard!"

Bounce, bounce.

Bounce, bounce, moan.

She was smiling, kind of.

"Harder, damn you!"

She was telling Doctor to stab her. She was telling him to hurt her!

She liked being hurt!

Doctor was monster-growling and monster-grinning, pushing the words out in between breaths that sounded like a steam engine puffing: "Here, look at it, take it."

"Oh, I hate… you."

"You love it."

"I hate you."

"Want me to stop, bitch?"

"No, oh, no."

"Say it!" Growling.

"No-don't stop, damn-"

"Say it!" Grinning.

"I love it."

"That's better. Again."

"I love it Uoveit!"

"Here, look, I'm fucking you. Feelit."

"Oh. Oh, oh. Jew… bastard… oh, oh."

"Take it."

"… goddamned kike… cock. OH!"

All of a sudden Doctor was thrusting himself up, raising his hairy butt off the couch, lifting her with him. Stabbing fast and hard and yelling "Damn!"

She flopped like a rag doll. She yelled, "I hate you!" Made a noise that sounded like she was choking. Then her fingers came loose from Doctor's hair and started to wiggle around like white worms, the kind the boy sometimes found under wet rocks in the garden.

"Oh."

"Bitch."

Then, all of a sudden, she stopped moving and Doctor was slapping her butt and laughing and grinning and the boy was running upstairs gasping and tripping, his heart fighting to burst out of his chest.

He threw up on the floor, got into the bed and wet it.

He spent an eternity under the covers, shaking and biting his lips, scratching his arms and his face until he bled. Tasting his blood. Squeezing his thing. Hard.

Hurting himself, to see if you could like it.

You could, kind of.

It wasn't until later, when he heard her come up the stairs, sobbing, that he realized she was still alive.

When the woman opened the door, Shmeltzer was surprised. He'd expected someone older, the same age as the Hagah man, maybe just a little younger. But this one was much younger, in her early fifties, younger than him. A round, girlish face, plump and pretty, though the gray eyes seemed grim. A little makeup applied well, thick dark hair pulled back in a bun, just beginning to streak with gray. A heavy, sagging bosom that took up most of the space between neck and waistline. The waistline well-padded, as were the hips. Small ankles for a heavy woman. Just like Leah. No doubt she fretted over her weight.

"Yes?" she said, sounding wary and unfriendly.

Then he realized he was being stupid, a fine detective. The fact that she'd opened the door didn't make her the wife. A niece, maybe, or a guest.

But when he introduced himself, showed his badge and asked for Schlesinger, she said, "He's not here now. I'm Eva-Mrs. Schlesinger. What do you want?"

"When do you expect him back?"

The woman stared at him and bit her lip. Her hands were small and soft; they started kneading one another.

"Never," she said.

"What's that?"

She started to say something, clamped her lips shut, and turned her back on him, retreating into the apartment. But she'd left the door open and Shmeltzer followed her inside.

The place was simple, bright, immaculately maintained. Lean Danish furniture that had probably been purchased as an ensemble from Hamashbir. Bowls of nuts and candies and dried fruits on the coffee table. Crystal animals and porcelain miniatures, all female stuff-the Hagah man probably didn't give a hoot about decorating. A teak bookcase filled with volumes on history and philosophy. Landscape prints on the walls, but no photos of children or grandchildren.

A second marriage, he told himself: the old guy hot for a young one, may be divorcing the first one, maybe waiting for widowhood. Then he remembered that Schlesinger had been in Dachau and the age difference took on a different context: Wife number one murdered by the Germans, perhaps a couple of kids gone too. Come to Palestine, fight for your life, and start anew-a familiar story; plenty of his moshav neighbors had gone through the same thing.