A fierce pain in his leg brought him back to consciousness. For a moment the pain yanked his instinct for self-preservation out of the drawer of his consciousness. But then his fear of the madman returned and the thief realized he was now in the garden, bordered by a wall at least six feet high, at a great disadvantage, with his unworthy life about to come to an end. He realized that he should repent. Being a nonbeliever, an atheist, he didn’t know the word penance, but my God, he now knew its measure. As best he could — atheistically, unbelievingly, hopelessly — ending his wretched, accursed, unhappy life with some semblance of prayer or godless appeal for the resurrection of his soul. He remembered a movie about a revolution he had seen recently in which the condemned men were executed by a firing squad. Arms thrown wide, singing a song, racked by bullets. He was sure a terrible death awaited him, maybe torture, which was why his soul now had to prepare, it was the only thing certain, there was no doubt in his mind. He had no weapon, and the moment he tried to stand, the pain was so great he nearly lost consciousness. So he slowly, gradually, crawled over to the wall, where at least he couldn’t be seen. He had to drag his leg behind him, making an effort not to cry out in pain. He tried but he knew that his wheezing resounded in every direction. He wouldn’t be anywhere in sight when that monster came to do to him what he had done to his wife! He had to be prepared, he knew it. He didn’t know exactly how, but he knew he had to be ready.
The officer who had overheard the thief’s confession was both dismayed and pleased. It was horrible, sure, but it could also mean a substantial bonus, or maybe … just maybe … even a promotion. He got up from the chair, mindlessly ordered the thief not to leave the room, and went out to the hallway. There he grabbed the hand of the first nurse who walked by, pulled her into the room, instructed her to stay there and keep an eye on the injured man, and notified his commanding officer by telephone.
Another police car pulled up to the building, and the officers energetically leaped out. They surrounded the house and garden and secured all the openings through which the suspect might escape. In contrast to the original squad’s investigation of a disturbance of the peace, the mood was completely different now. The deputy chief of the precinct was also present, having already woken the chief, his immediate superior, who had instructed him to secure the area, detain the suspect or suspects, and file a report with the Criminal Investigation Department afterward. Time marched onward before that could happen. In an hour it would start getting light. The police found the address they were looking for, turned off their safeties, one covering the other, and quietly stepped into the side entrance of the pastry shop. Quietly they searched it, two members of the squad remaining on the ground floor while the rest of the team crept up the stairs. The door was locked. After a moment of uneasiness they decided to force it open. On the second attempt they were successful. Several policemen rushed in and flashlights shining and pistols in hand proceeded to search the apartment. The apartment was quiet. All of the rooms were quiet, except in the living room, where a voice on the radio was discussing the nuances of international politics. After a moment’s hesitation the policeman standing nearest the receiver switched it off. The house and its occupants were still asleep. The doors had been either fully or partially open in all the rooms they had searched so far. The only room with the door closed, a wafer-thin light emanating from under the threshold, was the kitchen. Two officers, safeties off, took up positions on either side of the door. The first policeman, who stood on the right, opened the door and the two policemen from the left rushed into the room, shouting, “Hands up and nothing will happen to you!” In an instant the pastry chef was flat on the ground. His hands were twisted behind his back and he was put in handcuffs. Nobody else was in the room. As the police led him away to the squad car, which drove him straight to the police station, the officers charged with securing the building until the CSI arrived began searching through everything they found in the kitchen. The thief was right: There was a woman’s head on the kitchen table. A pair of breasts rested on top of the refrigerator, and part of the sole of a foot was on a small shelf over the stove. But when they turned on the lights, they got a surprise. They looked at each other, stunned. “Can you believe it, guys?” one of them said. “It’s all made out of marzipan.”
He was right. Only under the harsh light of the kitchen bulb did it become clear that the mess of human arms, breasts, feet, and head had all been perfectly sculpted from marzipan and other ingredients. The realism of even the tiniest detail was stunning, some of them even said terrifying. For instance, the hairs on the left arm were created from tinted caramel fibers. There was a birthmark on the forearm, and the ankle of the left leg had a little lizard tattooed on it and a strip with Indian motifs. The most remarkable thing of all, though, was the woman’s head. It was wrapped in a scarf with thick black hair poking out from underneath. Her lips were curled into a smile and her eyes looked straight at you. Shining and alive, the only thing they didn’t do was blink. The officers walked awkwardly around the kitchen, unsure what procedure to use in this situation. Just then, the deputy chief of the local precinct walked into the room.
“Good god,” he said as he opened the door and stopped in his tracks. “So it’s true. We’ve got a maniac here.” Then he noticed the three faces looking at him and caught sight of the fourth member of the crew, who hadn’t yet noticed his arrival and was absorbed in licking a human hand.
“You must be out of your mind,” crowed the deputy chief. “You’re suspended effective immediately.” At which point the officers standing in the middle of the kitchen snapped back to their senses and started explaining to the deputy chief that what he saw was just an illusion. He wasn’t seeing what he saw; he only thought he saw what he was seeing. We don’t see; we expect, thereby filling our lives with undue disappointment; in short, it’s all just one great big confection. Given this explanation, after a thorough search of the apartment failed to unearth anything out of the ordinary, apart from the lock the thief pried open, the presence of the police was left groundless and unjustifiable. Inhabitant of the apartment detained, thief in hospital, theft unreported, dead body absent.
“So what do we do now?” one of the officers asked. “There isn’t anything here, so there’s really nothing we can do.”
That thought had occurred to the deputy chief a while ago, but he was hoping either they would turn something up or the chief himself would put in an appearance. He reached a decision.
“I want everything photographed. Call off CSI or we’ll be the laughingstock of the precinct. Secure the premises temporarily and clear the hell out.” As he left, he peeked into the kitchen for one last look at the marzipan breasts, the tattooed ankle, and especially the woman’s head, the pupils of her eyes fixed on whoever happened to step through the door.
“That is one fine-looking woman,” he said. But even before the last word was out of his mouth, he knew he shouldn’t have said it. It was somehow … inappropriate. The whole thing was inappropriate somehow.
The pastry chef’s name was Marek Svoboda. Medium build, average height, hair vague in color, manners unremarkable if pleasant. The kind of man who was difficult to remember. This indefinable fuzziness, however, disappeared the moment he spoke. For one thing, he didn’t act naturally, the precinct chief observed. Anyone else in his place would have been intimidated at first, and then angry. Anyone else, after the police broke into his apartment, slammed him to the ground, handcuffed him, and locked him in a preliminary detention cell, would have wanted a lawyer, asked to file a complaint, demanded a written or verbal apology. Not him. He just smiled when they removed the handcuffs and said he didn’t hold it against his brother policemen. They were all just brothers in suffering, he said. Calling them brother wasn’t a violation or an offense, or anything else they could keep him in custody for. Nevertheless, the precinct chief knew the pastry chef wasn’t normal, and there was something fishy about it. When he asked him why he had decided to make a woman out of candy, he said because his wife had left. When he asked why he hadn’t reported his wife as missing, he said he didn’t miss her because she had left with someone or left him for someone else. When he asked whether he could see her farewell letter, the pastry chef just sighed and said he couldn’t because he had eaten it. When he asked him why he had eaten it, the pastry chef said he wanted to have at least part of his wife inside him. When asked whether he had killed her and wanted to admit to it, the pastry chef just grinned and said he hadn’t killed his wife, he loved her, and asked the chief whether he had committed any crime that he should confess to. And that was the problem the chief of the precinct was now trying to solve. The man was definitely not all right. His wife had either left him for her lover or run away with him, but either way she was missing. He was making a version of her out of marzipan and calling everyone brother. None of which was a violation or a criminal offense. But then the chief got an idea. There was a law that said that a person who was a danger to himself could — even against his will — be committed to an insane asylum. Usually it was applied in cases of suicide, but why not this weirdo?