Joubert was startled by the intensity of Valentis voice. It was like a radio suddenly switched on, its volume turned up too high.
The Italians voice filled the room. He sang in his own language and often repeated the name Figaro. The music was light and rhythmical, the melody surprisingly pleasant to his ears. And Valenti sang with abandon.
Joubert was fascinated by the mans attitude, his enthusiasm, his self-confidence, his voice, which made the wooden floor under Jouberts feet quiver, the ease with which he sang. But there was something else, something that made him feel guilty, something like an accusation. He tried to identify it, had difficulty in ridding himself of the positive hold the music had on him.
The Italian was enjoying it. This was his profession and he did it well and he enjoyed it without reservation.
How very different from Captain Mat Joubert.
He was suspicious. Was this why Hanna Nortier had brought him here? Was this a secret, sophisticated form of therapy?
The mans voice and the sweet exuberance of the melody invaded him again. It filled Joubert with a curious longing. He concentrated on the music, allowed the longing to grow in his subconscious, nameless and formless.
It struck him just before Valenti completed the aria. He also wanted to get up and sing, stand next to the Italian and roar so that he, too, could feel the euphoria. He wanted life to glow in him like a great burning brand. He wanted to do his work with the disdainful commitment of total efficiency. He longed for enthusiasm, for passion, for those rare moments of intensity when one felt that life was laughing with you. He longed for life. He was tired, and sick of death. He had such a yearning for life. Then the audience applauded. Mat Joubert also clapped. Louder than anyone else.
They had coffee at a restaurant.
Did you like it? she asked.
I know nothing about opera.
One doesnt have to know anything about something to enjoy it.
I . . . er . . . He was very aware of the fact that she was the Psychologist, the Weigher of Words. He dropped his head and shoulders. It was lovely, at the beginning. But later . . .
You felt like a child who had eaten too many sweets?
He didn't understand her immediately. She explained. The first one was delicious, sweet and tasty. But then it became too much.
Yes, he said, surprised that she understood it so well.
Its a sensory overload. You should be pleased that it wasn't Wagner.
The name sounds vaguely familiar, he said. Has he got a criminal record?
He surprised himself with his attempt at humor, the manner in which he handled his own ignorance and her superior knowledge.
She smiled. He caught a glimpse of her personality because the small smile was a mere movement of her pretty, delicate mouth. Her eyes wore the traces of a frown. There was a withdrawn quality about her, as if she was aware of every emotion and the reaction of others to her personality. He wondered whether this was the price she had to pay for the knowledge in her head. Every thought was measured against a paragraph in a textbook.
Ill lend you a CD of
The Barber
. If you listen to it and get used to the music and get to know it youll be able to bear more.
I dont have a CD player. Lara had bought the music center that stood in his living room, on a police salary. It had an unknown name, was a special offer at Lewis Stores, but it was good enough for Laras ABBA records and later BZN. Sometimes she turned up the sound to an ear-splitting volume and danced in the dark room, alone, while he sat in a chair and watched her and knew that when she had finished . . .
And he had wondered if the neighbors werent going to complain about the loud music, but he couldn't wait for the energy in her body, absorbed through the music, to be unleashed on him. Later, after her death, he had wondered about those moments when she, filled with the rhythm of the music, had mounted him on their double bed. Was the man in her head and the one between her thighs the same person? Or was he the means with which she acted out a fantasy, her black hair with the auburn lights over her face, her eyes closed, her breasts shiny with the sweat of love, her hips heaving like the sea, ceaselessly, until deep sounds indicated the moment of orgasm, rhythmic, rhythmic, faster, faster, uhm, uhm, uhm, uhm, and she gasped and she came, unaware that his own climax had already been reached and that he was watching her with his consuming love, and gratitude for his luck, storing each millimeter of her unbelievably lithe body in his memory.
Hanna Nortier had said something he hadn't heard and he blushed at his thoughts and his mouth, which hung slightly open because of the intensity of the memory.
She saw that he hadn't heard. Ill tape it. You have a cassette player?
Yes, he said.
And a television. It wasn't a question.
No. He wasn't going to tell her that he had given the television to his cleaning woman because hed sat in front of it night after night, like a zombie, while one American sitcom after the other rolled across the screen and the canned laughter had rubbed his nerve ends raw, and each stupid story of each stupid program with its own stupid moral had been a rearrangement of his own stupid life.
Then you didn't see yourself on television on Friday night?
No.
He didn't want their meeting to turn into a therapy session. He and a pretty woman together in a restaurant. So different from last night. He wanted to keep up the appearance. What other people were seeing, a couple.
The media are really giving it a run for its money, she said, and he realized that she also wanted to avoid their professional status.
Ja. Seems as if other news is low on the ground.
Did you see yesterdays
Burger
? He could just think that she must be desperate because the man didn't have either a CD player or a television.
Yesterdays, yes.
Do you think its the same person? The murderer and the robber?
He took a deep breath, his uncertainty willing him to close the door in her face, to give her a brief reply, afraid that he might not be able to motivate it, afraid that he might make a fool of himself in front of this small, pretty woman.
I doubt it, he said and began speaking, slowly and carefully. He told her about the murders, one by one, about the suspects and the intrigues and the dead-end streets. He forgot about himself when he explained patterns and criminal behavior and his earlier experiences. His monologue became a proof of himself, an argument for the defense, that he was still worthy of his vocation. That he still had a reason for existence.
She asked questions, dared him in a subtle manner to answer questions, tested the validity of his arguments with slender fingers. His eyes remained on her face, on the cheekbones that seemed so frail beneath the pale skin, on the eyes, the eyebrows, created to frown, the line of her jaw, immeasurably perfectly drawn.