Once I recovered consciousness and found myself squatting over Guillaume’s motionless body, I wept bitterly, scarcely believing that I had actually killed him, and wondering to myself how I had managed to do it — me, the feeble coward! My hands were stained with his blood and shaking wildly, while the bloodied knife lay close to the body, its task complete.
Blood everywhere — on my hands and shirt, on the floor, on the pajamas that were almost completely off Guillaume’s body. Once I realized exactly what had happened, I nearly died as well. For a moment my heart stopped beating. My mind packed up, and all my senses went numb, but then a flood of images and sounds came surging back to the surface of my consciousness like a roaring river. I heard Guillaume screaming in pain; I saw him collide with the wardrobe and stagger around after that first treacherous thrust. He tried to fight back, falling down, then staggering to his feet again. Eventually he collapsed, and his hulking body lay still in the space between the bed and wardrobe. On his pursed lips was the burning question: Why? All at once I felt a terrible pain over my entire body. Not knowing which of my limbs to check to see if I was hurt, I found it extremely difficult to bend over. At least two ribs must be broken, and I could not see out of my left eye; the whole thing was completely swollen, and it felt as huge as a zucchini. Guillaume had obviously put up a fierce fight, but his efforts had come too late.
The bedsheets had fallen to the floor and were spattered with dark-red blood, our moments of pleasure now a distant memory. The small suitcase was open, having fallen near the table; its contents were scattered at the foot of the bed: a plastic dildo, lube, and bottles of oils. Guillaume had had no time to arrange them all carefully as he usually did before putting them back in the suitcase and shoving it all deep inside the wardrobe like hidden treasure.
Oh, my dear Guillaume, how I’m going to miss you! In fact, I was only a hundred extra euros away, or slightly more, from actually loving you. That’s why I really can’t answer that burning question which you yourself were unable to put into words, and which stayed on your lips like an extra Adam’s apple: Why? Yes indeed, I too don’t know why I killed you. I have no idea where I got the power and courage to pick up that dreadful knife and thrust it into your hulking body, still fresh from the shower.
True enough, my dear, you’re dead now. There’s no way I can bring you back to life. But I owe it to you to at least respond to that last unanswered question of yours. I have the feeling that your spirit is going to linger around here, refusing to leave until it knows what particular curse made me pierce your body. Maybe then it will be able to relax a little before turning away to meet its maker.
I’ll not conceal from you, my dear, that, like anyone who finds himself suddenly involved in a murder, I thought of getting away and leaving the place as quickly as possible; either that or throwing myself out the window as a means of escape. But I couldn’t do it. My entire body was shattered; it was covered in welts and bruises. The very thought of moving was extremely painful. At the same time, I decided not to leave this place because I needed to understand.
What do you say, my dear, to us having a chat while we’re waiting?
I’m well aware that you disliked delving into personal matters; you always kept a veil of secrecy over your personal life. I realize that and understand your motives. I also admit that you never tried to get me to reveal any details about my own life. But who were you really, Guillaume?
Were you a sexual idealist, someone who subsumed all life’s pleasures in those of the body? Or maybe you were married and lived a perfectly pleasant life on the other side of the Mediterranean. Once in a while you managed to smuggle out a small part of your family budget and come over here or to other spots across the globe. There you could spend lavishly on your passion before returning to your life as a straight man who loved women, someone who worked hard and waited for the weekend so that he could relax a bit and enjoy a drink with friends.
What harm will it do, Guillaume, if we talk frankly about this final encounter of ours?
Personally, I suddenly have a burning desire to tell you a bit about myself. So, will you listen to me, my dear? You are under no obligation to reciprocate. I won’t take long because the police will arrive at any moment; that will terminate all possibilities of such frankness and put an end to all this suffering. By now the stench of death has probably permeated the entire building through the gaps in the doors and windows; it has probably reached all the public spaces. At this point, I can almost see the crowds gathered by the entrance and in the interior courtyard, all of them struck by the electric lightning of curiosity and indulging in all kinds of gossip until the police get here.
Long ago, when I was just a child, I had no interest in rolling a soccer ball around in the dust or clambering up palm trees in the wilderness outside the city to pick dates. My feet much preferred to play hopscotch or jump rope with the girls in the humid alleyways. When I got involved in typical boy fights, with a good deal of insults and even punching, my voice always let me down. When I yelled at my enemy and really needed to sound vicious and harsh to compensate for my puny stature, it always came out lame and meek; it was as though I wanted to flirt with my enemy, not beat him up!
My father sold cigarettes and was permanently drunk. He only emerged from prison in order to bash in someone’s head or get arrested for selling his foul hashish to other poor addicts. Then he would return to his favorite spot outside the city walls. My mother made good use of his absences to liberate herself from his violent behavior. She even managed to forget the pain that his cowardly fist would inflict when he drunkenly left terrible bruises on her stomach. Forgetting about me was not something that caused her the slightest distress or hardship. That explains how the proprietor of the games hall in our quarter had no trouble gradually bringing me into his open arms. He kept me a prisoner inside the dark hall when he first groped me in the quiet of that afternoon that I have never forgotten. Once he’d had enough, he pointed a knife at me, with the blade shining straight into my eyes. Rubbing the point slowly over my face, he used his other hand to grab my cheek and plant on it the final kiss. Then he invited me to come and play whenever I wanted, and without charge.
He was a bit weird and kept himself apart from the others in the area. He disappeared soon after my childhood was over — a taciturn old man who spent all day in the games hall, which was always packed with unemployed men and children cutting school. He used to sit by the door, smoking and sipping cups of tea. Once in a while he would disappear inside with a group of young men; they would smoke some hashish and get drunk on wine. But I still remember... oh, the sheer horror of it, my dear! Can you even begin to imagine? That man, the one from my childhood, who fiddled with my young body to his heart’s content. It went on that whole summer inside the hall. And he had green eyes too.
Those eyes were sultry and slimy green. I could hardly bear to look at them. Whenever our gazes met, I immediately looked at the floor and kept my head down; I had a strange feeling, a mixture of shame, surrender, and other feelings I did not understand. My own footsteps led me inexorably toward him because I was mostly on my own and had no idea what to do with my spare time. With just a brief gesture from those green eyes, I would slink inside the hall.