The opening of the door, the rotation left, right, the click of the lock, the first steps, objects bumped in passing: chairs, piano keys, glasses — eventually silence. Suddenly, the shot — one, two, three — three tenderly doleful hisses, the fall of a heavy body, the overturned chair. The dull, uncertain recording followed by the rotation of the door — opening, closing — the race down the stairs, the clank of the metal gate. Left behind: the audio imprint, a souvenir attesting to the skill of a professional, the precise, clean, elegant job — executed with gloved hands and rubberized gestures. The supple flight, evenly paced, without a hitch, without haste, without fear. Or: the opening of the door; the rotation — first left, then right — the lock turning, the first steps through the space, dropping the little satchel on the chair, the rolling of a jar, the sliding of a raincoat. Objects bumped: chairs, piano keys, glasses, the rustle of newspapers, the voice of the radio, the creak of a chair, the clink of the spoon in the jam jar. Suddenly: the fall. The brief twitch, rigor mortis. The assassin will have foreseen everything in detail, without shots, without running up and down the steps, without opening and closing doors, just the opportune drop of poison slipped into a glass, in a jar, on bread — anything at all in the victim’s path. Or: the opening of the door, the rotation left, right: the click. Closed. Stepping through the space, clothes tossed, chair bumped, the curtain pulled. Suddenly: the leap. The last gasp, suffocation, the body tumbled on the rug. The assassin timidly opening and closing the door, cautiously climbing down the stairs. The swinging of the metal gate. Vanished. Calm, precise, efficient.
The tapes document — not only the shooting, the fall of the poisoned resident, the assassin’s leap from behind the curtain, but also the ritual of suicide.
The sonorous voice of the black woman coming from the radio: Summertime. Summertime. The painful saxophone: beside it, the voice entering its monotonous lament, then the shot — one, two, three — no, just a single shot fired, efficient, tender: the body pacified, the desperate serenade of the saxophone, the tapes rotating obediently, the requiem. Or: the saxophone’s hot, metallic notes lifting the singer’s low-down murmur through her torrid gullet; the laceration of a summer afternoon — pure agony, the end of the Captain’s daughter on a summer afternoon inside the singer’s thick whisper, inside the mouth of the saxophone — suddenly, the overturned chair, the dangling lamp cord briefly strained, once, twice; in the mouth of the saxophone is the dying breath of the man at one with the woman’s groan, recasting the Captain’s departure with a dripping voice: evenly, monotonously, thickly; the song, sad as the waning of a summer afternoon, sad as the agony, the dusk, and the slow laceration of summer, its rotations in the huge celluloid tapes. Or: the leap over the balcony into empty space, or the knife, or the poison, or the pyre. Requiem for the suicide caught on celluloid tapes that rotate moans, songs, whimpers, shots, whispers, rustles, blows, embraces, steps, slammed gates. Or: the click of the gun. . rehearsed from the middle, the beginning, the end of a doleful radio broadcast. “Good Evening, Kids!” “Good Night, Kids.” The voice: comforting, soothing, disturbingly sexy. “Good Night, Kids,” “Sleep Tight, Kids.”
The tape deck — docile witness, efficient, promptly distributing memories, recording live: the last sigh, the shot, the celebrated woman’s moan, pink and orange ribbons, the howl of the wolf, the hissing of the cats, anything, anywhere, anytime. Even when the resident is not at home because of the good will of a histrion, some theatrical actor, ready to transcribe songs, explosions, slender bedtime stories. Authenticity guaranteed, allowing memories, unaltered sentiments. Authenticity guaranteed: fresh memories, genuine feelings, all live, all the time — life, death, joy: you name it.
The chairs are covered with old clothes. Draped over the back of a chair, a white towel touches the edge of the piano. A plastic trashcan nearby: full of crumpled and stained papers. The bookshelf. The terracotta stove. Nightgowns, dirty rags, a green thermos. Boxes, jars, bottles, a flashlight, a jar of Nescafé, an empty cognac bottle, boxes marked Fruit Cocktail, a jar of salt, cans of liver paté, cans of pork kidneys, cans of green beans, jars of fruit compote. The objects perched, ready to topple onto the intruder.
The armoire. The wooden door creaks. The interior mirror: covered with fly spots. Dirty sheets, laundry wrinkled and mixed in with the clothes. Under the sheets, shirts, pullovers. The slipcover with black and yellow checks that opens with a zipper running along three edges. A tug at the heavy metallic handle. Things fall into a heap at the bottom of the wardrobe. The mirror disappears. The canvas-covered metal box with a green border, too heavy to lift. The black, twine-wrapped microphone is taken out, and then put back. Tested — it works. Two spools of tape. Buttons. It must be handled with care, with attention; it can’t be bumped or damaged: the preparations must be precisely coordinated, the operation must begin several minutes before H Hour and finish several seconds before the end of the hour. The recording must capture everything, must envelop the entire auditory dimension. Discretion, attention, surveillance, skill.
But for now, the lid has to be closed. On the chair, the black microphone. Discretion, control, order, skill, attention.
• • •
Schooclass="underline" panic fills the last minutes of recess. Sound effects added to the eighth or ninth minute of the recording will add to the terror weighing on the poor teacher’s thick shoulders and overwhelm her prattle among acerbic smiles and obliquely suspicious looks. Terror pulses under the warm layers of bloated flesh. Her hands mechanically leafing through the pages of a book or hurrying into her purse, scalp rising, shoulders trembling, salivating, her hands moving toward the window — air! — or toward her throat, fearfully trying to free herself from the collar of her blouse or sweater: minute eight or nine signals the sound of a coming bell, the annulment of the truce. After the bell, two more minutes remain, an empty space, in which time continues to carve away at the frozen gaze, now devoid of humanity, blind until the alarm rings. Suddenly: small, savage rings — this is not the worst of it. Pavlovian salivations at the sound of the bell. Purse closed, hand at throat, moving to the buttons of the blouse. The roll book glued to blunt fingers, becoming an extension of the hand. Noiseless steps, as if crushing cotton. The gleam of the teachers’ lounge door. The door closing behind. . and then consciousness begins to surge: electricity passing through her body like voltaic current. The corridor ahead: long and cold. This will be the hardest moment. The teachers’ lounge door will be closed. The corridor will be as cold as sleeplessness: ashen walls, almost black, the chill of footsteps on the white cement. The faint body no longer supporting the pressures of the white flesh; numb and paralyzed by fear, moving one foot in front of the other like a somnambulist all the way to the first door on the left: the exhausted entry into the classroom, mind adrift from fear — but not before one final hesitation in front of the door. The big roll book with blue-cardboard covers glues itself to her sweaty hip.
Blitzkrieg of bread pellets, or a long mouse-like squeak from the corner, or subdued chanting and a cruel choir of whispers erupting in a frenetically murmured chorus. . big Moni-pig, little Moni-big, moldy Moni-fig, Moni-wig, here comes Moni-big, here comes Moni-pig, here comes Moni-frigg, little Moni-pig. Another round of bread pellets, mouse squeaks, and a chorus of hooting owls.