“The double break in his leg could be the result of an unfortunate fall from the second floor,” the doctor told the policeman, who had spent all evening bored in an office at the precinct station and was pissed off that they had stuck him here, in surgery, to keep his eye on a guy who couldn’t run away anyway. He couldn’t have cared less about the description of a double fracture, and after the doctor had repeated it to him twice, he realized there was nothing else wrong with the suspect and made a mental note to himself: leg broken in two places — not going anywhere! Once the detainee had been examined, the officer entered the room. The man with the broken leg was lying in bed with several large pillows under his head. A smile spread across his face on seeing the officer. There were two other male patients in the room, one of whom kept trying to roll over in bed and the other whose otherwise peaceful breathing was interrupted by an occasional snore.
“I’ll tell you everything,” the man said to the officer. “Thank you so much, really. Have you caught him yet? He must be out there somewhere.” The policeman shook his head, pulled up a chair to the bed, and sat down.
The smiling man in bed was named Karel Souček. He was a thief and had confessed to trying to rob the apartment on the second floor. He had accessed the pastry shop by way of a side street, walked through it, and jimmied the door that led up to the second-floor apartment belonging to the pastry chef and his wife. The thief also stated that he had caused minimal damage, as he had jimmied only one lock; the skeleton keys he had worked on the other doors. In the course of his conversation with the officer who took his statement, he emphasized several times that he had never met the owner of the apartment, one Marek Svoboda, pastry chef. The thief asked whether the policeman could lend him a typewriter, they must have one in the hospital somewhere, and who else would need it at this time of night — or was it morning by now? Just give him a typewriter and he’d tell the officer everything, a complete confession, get it off his chest. He said he didn’t want to have anything to do with that nut. Never seen him in his life. Been in jail twice before, so he’s what you’d call a repeat offender, but just stealing, nothing worse than that. All the officer had to do was write up a preliminary report, he didn’t expect a confession, nobody had even reported a theft yet. But he couldn’t fail to notice that despite the occasional smile he kept flashing so bizarrely, the thief seemed nervous. So the officer told him they would wait till morning to take the rest of his statement, since otherwise it would disturb the two sleeping patients. The thief agreed that he had a point but still suggested the officer at least take down some notes so he would have something to sign and later on he could prove that he had cooperated from the start of the investigation, right from the very start, he emphasized, again, several times.
Karel Souček had gained entrance to the pastry shop from a side street called Hlavsa. There were only three buildings on Hlavsa Street, the rest of it consisting of a six-foot-high wall around the garden of the building he had broken into. There too, according to his statement, he’d had to jimmy the door; that was the property damage he’d caused. He had walked through the pastry shop, sampled two or three cakes, but didn’t find any money in the cash register. But that didn’t surprise him, he had figured on that. He found the door leading to the second-floor apartment and opened it with a skeleton key. He walked up the stairs, and as he was looking around the apartment, Mr. Svoboda had surprised him coming out of the kitchen. At first the thief had been startled, but then to his amazement the pastry chef said hello, walked past him, went to the toilet, and took a leak without even closing the door. Then he went into the bathroom, carefully washed his hands, walked past him again, nodding hello, and went back to the kitchen. The thief was stunned, and being concerned, as he said, that something wasn’t quite right, he followed Mr. Svoboda into the kitchen, afraid he was going to call the police. While the thief was weighing what he should do, the pastry chef came out a third time and asked whether he had eaten anything yet and whether he would like a snack. He apologized that ever since his wife had been gone all he had around was cheese; he hadn’t had a chance to buy any salami or anything else for breakfast. The thief said this had surprised him so much he asked the pastry chef how come he wasn’t afraid of him.
“Why should I be afraid of you?” the pastry chef had replied. “We are all brothers in suffering, you the thief, me the pastry chef. The sun shines on all alike.”
“But the sun isn’t shining now. It’s nighttime,” the thief managed to say.
“You’re right there, brother,” the pastry chef said. “It’s nighttime in my soul, too.” Pausing a moment, he added: “Help yourself, brother. Take whatever you need, or whatever you think you need.” Then he just asked the thief to leave the radio in the living room, since listening to the misfortunes of the world helped him concentrate. And he needed to concentrate to be able to do his work. So the thief took some money and a few small items, but he was still nervous, seeing that nothing like this had ever happened to him before. He decided the pastry chef must be a wacko, so he’d just take what he came for and get lost. That’s what he should have done, he should have hit him over the head and made a run for it. Then he wouldn’t be lying here in the hospital with his leg broken in two places and all these other problems.
“What other problems?” the policeman asked.
“That’s just it,” the thief replied.
Before he left, he took all the money that was there, but as he was walking down to the ground floor he had a feeling there was something wrong about the whole thing, so he decided to go back and take another look around. He tried the door to the kitchen, the one room he hadn’t been in yet, opening it as quietly as he could, but the pastry chef heard the hinges squeak and, back turned toward the door, bent over the table, where he was busy working on something, he said to the thief, “Come in, brother. Come into my workshop, where the vanity of the world is echoed and reflected. Come into my shell, my sanctuary. Come in, let me embrace you before your departure.”
The thief had no idea what the pastry chef was talking about or why he wanted to hug him, and he definitely didn’t know why he was calling the kitchen a workshop and a shell.
“I think I’ll go now,” he said, scanning the room with the quick, precise, experienced gaze of a thief. At first he thought he didn’t fully grasp what he was seeing. There were human body parts spread all over the kitchen. Hands, feet, breasts … As he opened his mouth to gasp for breath, the pastry chef slowly turned toward him, still sitting in his chair, holding a woman’s head in his hand.
“This used to be my wife, brother,” he said. “She isn’t here anymore, so I have to re-create her. That way at least the memory of her will still remain. You see?” As the thief suddenly realized what was going on, the pastry chef stood from the chair, the woman’s head in his hand, and started walking toward him. Oh my God! the thief screamed in his head. Oh my God! No! He wanted to run but couldn’t move, as if his heel, his Achilles tendon, had sprouted roots that were anchoring him to the ground. He couldn’t take his eyes off the ghastly sight of the kitchen morgue.
Until finally, when the pastry chef was almost right on top of him, he screamed: “Stop where you are, dammit! Not one step closer!”
“Why not, dear brother?” the pastry chef asked. The thief couldn’t even think anymore. Edging backward as the pastry chef came closer, he suddenly spun around and ran through the nearest door, spotting a window that overlooked the garden, a way out of that gloomy apartment of horrors. Imagining he could feel the pastry chef’s breath on his neck, although in reality it was just his hairs standing up in fright, he shielded his head with his hands and leaped out the window, shattering the glass, flying … down.