African Psycho Read online

  The second reason was the most painful one for me because it stirred my emotions and showed me that I was but mere refuse, incapable of charm. As it happened, Master Quiroga paid regular visits to one of his mistresses in He-Who-Drinks-Water-Is-An-Idiot. She was a light-skinned girl, tall, barely escaped from adolescence. Grownups said she was the most beautiful in He-Who-Drinks-Water-Is-An-Idiot, and even in our city. I don’t know about that, but I had loving feelings for her, sort of, and felt something swell in my underpants whenever I caught sight of her. At the time, I masturbated four to five times a day while imagining the girl’s silhouette. Might she ever set her beauty-queen gaze on my hideous, rectangular-headed person? I had no illusions on that subject. This girl lived on the other side of the district, in the area where families were not too comfortable but still ate their fill. Their plot of land was located across from where I was doing my last apprenticeship as an auto-body and sheet-iron worker. I arrived at work the moment she stepped out with a basket of woven creepers, headed for the Great Market. When she opened the fence to their plot, I stopped at the garage entrance and pretended to be looking for something in my pockets. She walked on, ignoring my presence. I stayed on, contemplating her proud bearing and the heavy bosom that made her white t-shirt ride up so you could catch a glimpse of her tiny belly button, which you couldn’t miss for the ring she had hung there, I don’t know how. Powerless, like a statue made of salt, I watched her disappear into the horizon. Coming to, I rushed to the shop’s sheet-iron toilets. I closed the door, secured it well with three big bricks for fear my apprenticeship master would turn up unexpectedly—he never knocked. Then I lowered my overalls and started playing with my sexual organ. I held my breath to avoid letting out a growl when I emptied myself. One day, the other apprentices discovered what I was up to. Lucky for me, the boss was away. I was touching my private parts with greater fervor that day. And because it had been a few weeks since I’d played with myself, I came with the intensity of an electrical discharge. I found myself on the floor, like a cassava bag dropped by a clumsy warehouse handler. The toilets’ sheet-iron plates collapsed, and my colleagues discovered me half-naked, my pubic area saturated with Monganga soap bubbles. For a long time after I was the object of their derision…

  I was more or less aware of Fernandes Quiroga’s mistress’s schedule. She would be standing in the street toward the end of the day. Our leading citizen would park his Mercedes and eventually come out of the luxurious vehicle, well dressed, with suits like those I had seen that time at the Duo movie theater, in a film titled Les tontons flingueurs, if memory serves me correctly. With a studied gesture, Fernandes Quiroga would open the car’s back door and grab a large bouquet of roses. The young girl would chirp with happiness. Meanwhile, contorted by a sudden, suffocating burst of rancor, I bit my tongue.

  And so it was that one afternoon, unable to stand it anymore, I followed Master Quiroga in an old car entrusted to us for repair, which my apprenticeship master, who was also teaching me a bit of mechanics, had allowed me to try out in the neighborhood. Ordinarily, Fernandes Quiroga came to his mistress in the evening. What had gotten into him to show up in this afternoon that day? From what I could gather, he didn’t find the girl at home and was beside himself. That wasn’t my problem. I drove slowly. There were two cars between the notary–real estate agent’s Mercedes and mine. I had transgressed my apprenticeship master’s orders by wandering away from He-Who-Drinks-Water-Is-An-Idiot’s alleys and going into the center of town. On that day, I was finally able to find out where Fernandes Quiroga’s office was located.

  When I returned to the garage, my master was livid because I’d taken too much time and he’d feared an accident. I explained to him that the car needed to be put to the test outside He-Who-Drinks-Water-Is-An-Idiot’s thoroughfares…

  A third reason led me to go after this notary–real estate agent: I thought he kept money in a safe in his office. This presented me the opportunity to get my hands on a hoard, a nice change from the crumbs I stole from the neighborhood’s defenseless old people. Quiroga was likely to hide his savings in his study. You don’t trust banks in our country. In fact, it’s not unusual to arrive at a teller’s window and hear him tell you that there is no money left and that you should come back tomorrow, although he cannot be certain his coffers will be replenished. As a result, the population wonders what bankers do with their clients’ deposits. It is for this reason, the neighborhood’s gray beards say, that it is more prudent to keep your money under the mattress or in pillowcases…

  Finally one evening, after much hesitation, I decided to proceed. I took a bus and arrived in front of the building where Master Quiroga had his office, a hammer in the back pocket of my jeans. I was wearing a long beige overcoat that concealed this tool.

  The building was well kept, surrounded by greenery that must have been cut every other day. There was also an immense garden with impressive fountains that rose almost as high as the building. The caretaker opened the door for me after I showed him my hammer with the broad smile of a man who knew what apartment he was going to. He thought I was a workman called in a rush by one of the tenants.

  I didn’t take the elevator but climbed up the stairs in the dark.

  On the third floor, I took a breather for a few minutes so as to appear serene. When the light came back on, I saw a little silver plaque on one of the three doors, the middle one:

  FERNANDES QUIROGA NOTARY–REAL ESTATE AGENT

  I rang, and after a moment’s wait the door opened. I found myself in front of a man of about forty, of mixed race, tall, his hair cut short and parted in the middle, and with round glasses. He was wearing a white shirt with an Italian collar and a black silk tie with a knot as impeccable as that of a young colonel proud of his lightning rise through the ranks. His pants, also black with thin white stripes, showed how attached he was to wearing matching colors, even if this ensemble made him look rather like an undertaker who fancied he could brighten up his trade via sartorial means.

  His eyes widened with amazement when he saw me at the door to his office. He was Master Fernandes Quiroga alright, such as I had always seen him in my neighborhood’s alleys when he came to visit his mistress.

  He stood in the middle of the doorway, his hands blocking the entrance to his office.

  “You are mistaken, young man,” he said.

  “No,” I insisted. “I have come to see you.”

  He reminded me that his office was closed and that he saw people by appointment only.

  I don’t know where it came from, my sudden idea to tell him that it was urgent, that I had to talk to him about my plan to sell two plots of land that I had just inherited from my grandmother, that the entire city had praised his services and his effectiveness.

  “But your parents are the ones who should be making an appointment with me, young man!”

  “I don’t have any parents.”

  “Fine, but you surely have a guardian?”

  “Yes, but that was my grandmother, who just died.”

  He looked at me from head to toe, as if marvelling that there were still people on Earth crazy enough to will their possessions to the worst kinds of degenerates like me. Nevertheless, he beckoned me in and pointed to an armchair of the kind that rich people have in their houses, maybe one of those Louis something or other.

  “The office is closed, I am about to step out, but I will listen to you for a few minutes, just for my information, and we will make an appointment to look at all this more closely. So you have just inherited two plots of land?”

  “Yes,” I replied, my voice calm and convincing.

  “Where are they located?”

  “Right here in the fancy neighborhood.”

  “Interesting! Interesting! And what proves you are the only heir?”

  “My grandmother had only one child, my mother. My mother is already dead; she had only one child, and that’s me…”

  “That’s all fine, but I need a written do
cument testifying to the fact that the decujus’ last wishes were entirely in your favor! Do you realize what would happen if someday another individual showed up here and said he is also an heir to the same plots?”

  “What does decujus mean?” I interrupted the notary–realtor, hoping to lengthen the conversation and find the opportune moment for my deed.

  “You’re right, young man, forgive me: it’s force of habit. Let’s talk simply: the decujus is the deceased person. But let’s come back to where we were. There could be issues of joint possession behind all this; why should I believe you? Did your grandmother leave a will? You know, the document people draft to allocate their possessions after their death and…”

  “Yes,” I interrupted once again. “I will bring it on the day of our appointment. I just wanted to gather some information before…”

  “Good. In this case, let me get the appointment book. On that day, I will need to see a real document testifying to your quality as heir: I am thinking, most notably, and above all, about the will, about some proof of your identity, as well as of your relation with the decujus, and also—wait, I might as well give you the standard document list…”

  He stood up, turned his back to me to grab a file above his head. I told myself that I only had a few seconds to act.

  I pushed back the Louis-something chair, pulled the hammer out of my pocket and with a quick movement, hit him on the nape of his neck…

  I felt like I had broken a dinosaur egg. Fernandes Quiroga jerked about, first falling on his desk and ending up on the floor, completely knocked out, with blood squirting on his white shirt.

  In spite of my sudden fear, I started ransacking the room. The drawers were littered with papers, but there were no bank notes. I even discovered a gun, which caused me more anguish. Fernandes Quiroga could have shot me, I told myself. It was the first time I saw a firearm up close.

  I broke a large vase and a wooden box, no luck. I took several frames off the wall because, in the movies and in Blek le Roc comic strips, wealthy people always hid their safes behind paintings. Yet I found no safe like in the movies or Blek le Roc comic strips.

  Then I opened a door that led to another, smaller room. I switched on the light and noticed a sofa-bed in a corner. I imagined Master Quiroga made love to his mistress from He-Who-Drinks-Water-Is-An-Idiot on it. There were a fridge and a hot plate there too. After that I happened upon a pile of folders, all well sealed; trembling, I toppled them. Finally I gave up and left the office at high speed, without glancing at the notary, who was hiccupping and regurgitating blood. I took my hammer, which had ended up near the front door, and ran down the stairs four steps at a time, still in the dark.

  The caretaker was no longer in his room. Just then, a taxi parked in front of the building. The notary’s young mistress stepped out of it. She might very well have caught me, had I not fallen flat on my face on the garden grass. She paid her fare and headed toward the building’s main door.

  That day, I walked from the fancy neighborhood back to my dwelling, a hut made out of planks I had built without proper authorization at the time, not far from the stream that cuts our city in two.

  Master Fernandes Quiroga survived this assault. I no longer saw him in the streets of He-Who-Drinks-Water-Is-An-Idiot. Mindful of his reputation like all those from the center of town, he did not file a complaint. A few radio stations and newspapers in our country and the country over there mentioned my act, but at the time it was attributed to my idol and Great Master, Angoualima…

  Footnote

  * Translator’s note: As an officer of the law, a notary is charged with executing authentic deeds, most commonly ensuring that sales of real estate, estate dispersals and wedding contracts are fairly and properly drafted and executed.

  4.

  It’s always struck me that my large hands were made to kill, to wind individuals whose mugs I didn’t like, those whose social position I envied and especially those who, in my book, were sullying the peace and quiet of my native corner with their dealings. I am convinced that Angoualima also carried this ideal deep inside him: to restore honor to He-Who-Drinks-Water-Is-An-Idiot…

  I have my doubts about theories claiming to explain the behavior of people like me as the result of a disturbed past, a corrupted youth. Could it really be that my willpower has no part in what I undertake? That my entire life has been drawn in advance so that I am only following a path established by a force above me? Let me just laugh for a moment! People talk and have no clue how far they are from reality! Am I going to listen to them—me? Am I going to give credit to these ratiocinations?

  They claim to be analyzing crimes, but have they committed even one? What kind of nonsense is that?

  Me, I’m not under the influence of these theories, which I’ve heard several times in our city’s criminal hearings—hearings during which I became certain that public prosecutors were only after their own success. I know what I’m talking about. Inside my rectangular head is grey matter, not straw to burn.

  As soon as I turned eighteen, then, I attended trials that featured blood and loss of life. I felt I was going to the movies because we had to stand in line, except that at the courthouse the shows were free and the actors stood a few feet away from us, just like at the theater. This passion had not occurred to me by chance. I wanted to familiarize myself with the faces of the criminals in our urban area. I wanted to know what was special about them, whether I could be like them, and whether I could recognize myself in the acts they had perpetrated. I considered them my brothers or sisters and shed tears—not at the evocation of their childhoods, but mostly because I was convinced that I was the one at the defendant’s table.

  I strolled around the courthouse, closely reading the dates of upcoming hearings, admiring lawyers’ robes and decrying those worn by prosecutors because I told myself they were always the ones who decided everything—not judges or juries, whom you didn’t even hear. Except, that is, for the president of the court. In my opinion, he rang his hand-bell much too long, asking for silence after the criminal and his escort of stone-faced policemen entered the room and created a stir.

  Our city’s big courthouse had thus become the site of my wanderings, my laboratory of human feelings. I lost myself in sinister, barely lit corridors. I strained to hear a family quarrel, a widow or an orphan cry. In general I noticed that anxiety could be read on the faces of people who were appearing in court even if they were certain to prevail. The victim’s family always felt that the culprit had not been heavily condemned, while the perpetrator’s clan cried foul, promising to take the case as far as it would go by getting “a relative who works in the President of the Republic’s office” to intervene.

  Just as a good Christian was supposed to go to church, I was convinced that this courthouse was my place of worship, the only place where I would cross paths with beings from my world, who were hounded by Destiny and trapped by the judgment of men, but ready to break free of their chains to better “shit on society,” as the Great Master said in his time…

  Several cases come to mind. That of Ted Louko, the man who had murdered his spouse with the help of an electrical screwdriver after a fit of jealousy, is the one that impressed me most. This man inspired pity in me because he was a poor workman. I had just then finished my apprenticeship in the sheet-iron and auto-body trade, and thought I might one day be the workman he was. A year had passed since my assault on the notary–real estate agent Fernandes Quiroga, and it had been forgotten quickly, due to the increasingly regular and sadistic crimes committed by the Great Master Angoualima.

  Because Ted Louko suspected his wife to be the lover of one of his apprentices, he lost his head and did the deed at five in the morning while his spouse was asleep, a victim of the sleeping pill the cuckolded workman had slipped in her beer.

  With an eloquence that mesmerized the audience, the public prosecutor, one of the most feared in our city, led the jury to believe that Ted Louko had been programmed to kill
since his childhood and that he was a perpetual menace to society. The last words of this defender of the law’s address echoed in the chamber for a long time. These remarks, and the timbre of his voice, hoarse and self-assured, have remained with me:

  Yes, ladies and gentlemen of the court, in a moment you will hear arguments for the defense. But can they lull us into sleep and, with a magic wand, erase the horror and aggravation felt by all of this country’s citizens? Does eloquence render a crime null and void? Here lies the question, ladies and gentlemen of the court! What are words worth in the face of the cruelty of facts? As far as I am concerned, I do not trust lawyers’ flamboyant gestures. What we have here, let me remind you, is a sordid crime committed by the individual who is in front of you. Let no one try to tickle our ears with lyrical poetry…

  What more is there to say, ladies and gentlemen of the court? This man is a stain on society, and as I demonstrated by going back into his muddy past, this man is fundamentally asocial. He resents each and every one of us for our normal childhoods. All the same, although he knows how to distinguish what is humane from what is barbarian, he has nonetheless, and with full knowledge of the facts, chosen his side—that of the paleolithic age. As someone once wrote, as far as he’s concerned, “Man does not descend from the ape, he is turning into one!”

  Yes, ladies and gentlemen of the court, you all know that if I vowed to serve this country’s justice, it was in part to rid our society of all its riff-raff, of which the man who is being prosecuted today is the most fully realized incarnation.

  At the end of the day, ladies and gentlemen of the court, given that our country does not, alas, have any punishment beyond the death penalty, I can only request this sentence, and am doing it with a feeling of great frustration. I thank you…