These penetrating insights aside, perhaps it would have been fitting to have had a minute's silence in honor of all the tormented and dead whose memory only Preterius's musty old journal, in a grotesque way, kept alive. But I couldn't. I chose to play the terribly clever sleuth rather than ponder the meaning of that hell on earth, which, though it had taken place in the past, was by no means a thing of the past. Nothing gets lost in this world; everything lives on. Unfortunately—or fortunately?—I should have wasted a thought or two on Claudandus, on that wretched creature who probably died when the drama came to an end. Tears should have filled my eyes in view of his immeasurably sad fate, what had been made of his life, and what living beings do to other living beings once they have attained a certain body size, a certain brain capacity, and a certain degree of self-awareness. I should have been bent over with sorrow in memory not only of the victims, but of the victimizer, because, well, because it demonstrated to me the everlasting desperation of the world and the imperfection of those who live in it. In short, I should have just understood it, and contributed my little bit of sadness.
Instead, I only felt hatred, an indescribably immense hatred for Preterius and for the execrable members of his race. Preterius, however, had vanished, and was a much too miserable, much too fantastic figure for me to be able to hate with all my heart. And even the other human beings, those who went about their own human business, pursued their absurd activities, who acted as if they were clever, informed, contemporary, compassionate, funny, talented, who acted as if they were really human and really humane, were too anonymous and too insignificant to be worth my precious hate. I therefore focused—not very consciously—the entire energy of my hate on the perpetrator of the beastly murders. He was nearer to hand and nearer to being seized, and with a little thinking, I might very well have a chance to put him behind bars.
There were three ways to solve the mystery, but they all had stumbling blocks the size of the World Trade Center. I mentally reviewed every line of the journal, and every significant and insignificant event of the past few days, considering them forward and backward like a film strip, forcing my brain cells to establish connections among them. But it was no use. At the moment, I couldn't come up with any further possible solutions. But maybe they had become superfluous anyway, because I suddenly started to get the feeling that I was being watched. I didn't know exactly how much time I had spent reading the journal and thinking about it, but I was absolutely sure that the eyes that now had me under observation could only have turned up a few minutes ago.
Was my time up? Was I about to be number seven, about to meet the killer?
It sprang, no, it shot at me like a guided missile that had gone awry. It had been lurking in the hatch above the wall that separated the basement from the low-lying garden. A bloodcurdling shriek rent the air. My insidious assailant whizzed in flight, his shark's mouth very likely wide, wide open.
Before fear could paralyze me, I reacted. Springing as swift as an arrow, I catapulted myself to the side as if I had been thrown onto a trampoline and bounced up in the air again.
Kong's face smacked down on the rat, which by now had bled to death, splattering the gleaming white fur on his chest with claret. But Kong did full honor to his name, for the embarrassing mishap seemed to diminish neither his pride nor his devilish aggression. No sooner had he hit the floor than he rose up again like a demon from hell, glaring at me with cold finality, like a cobra staring down a rabbit. And he laughed his laugh, which was actually an earsplitting roar.
"Didn't I promise you that just the two of us would have a little chat one day?" he joked, while the rat's blood dripped down from his chest onto the journal.
"I have a dim recollection of it," I said. "What do you want to talk to me about? The art of noiseless stalking? I guess I could give you a tip or two about that."
Well, I could be a comedian, too.
"That's really funny." He had the gentle smile of a hangman. We began circling around each other very slowly.
"Yeah, seems to me like you're one really funny bird. Or maybe I ought to say fine-feathered bird? I took one look at you and knew you thought you were something special, knew you were an arrogant fancy pants. Is that what they say, fancy pants? You know this highfalutin talk better than me. Me, I tend to go for the crude stuff."
"I would have thought so," I said. He started to close the invisible circle, his stare becoming more and more mesmerizing, while we both waited for the other to spring. He was watching for the moment when I showed the slightest hint of weakness, and turned my gaze from him. Then, as quick as lightning, he would pounce on me and puncture my neck with his fangs. But instead of weakness I showed him my dazzling "conceited fop" smile, an ingenious combination of condescending irony and implicit threat. I had to keep this beefcake on slippery ground—that was the only effective tactic.
"Well, well," I continued, taunting, "so you're the one who's been doing the dirty work around here, right? Of course someone has to sacrifice themselves for a good cause and tidy up the community.
