“I do owe her one thing: the killings. You see, I can acknowledge them openly. The murders. Daniel, I love you! I know what I have done, and will do, and I feel no guilt. It is not someone else doing them. It is I, Daniel Blank, and I do not deny them, apologize or regret. Any more than when I stand naked before a dim mirror and once again touch myself. To deny your secret, island life and die unfulfilled-that is the worst.
“I need, most of all, to go deeper and deeper into myself, peeling layers away-the human onion. I am in full possession of my faculties. I know most people would think me vicious or deranged. But is that of any importance? I don’t think so. I think the important thing is to fulfill yourself. If you can do that, you come to some kind of completion where both of you, the two you’s, become one, and that one merges and becomes part of and adds to the Cosmic One. What that might be, I do not know-yet. But I am beginning to glimpse its outlines, the glory it is, and I think, if I continue on my course, I will know it finally.
“With all this introspection, all this intent searching for the eternal verity, which may make you laugh-do you have the courage to try it? — the incredible thing, the amazing thing is that I have been able to keep intact the image I present to the world. That is, I function: I awake each morning, bathe and dress, in a fashion of careless elegance, take a cab to my place of work, and there, I believe, I do my job in an efficient and useful manner. It is a charade, of course, but I perform well. In all honesty, perhaps not as I did before…Am I going through the movements, marching out the drill? It’s probably my imagination but, a few times, I thought members of my X-1 computer team looked at me a bit queerly.
“And one day my secretary, Mrs. Cleek, was wearing a pants suit-it’s allowed at Javis-Bircham-and I complimented her on how well it looked. Actually, it was much too snug for her. But later in the day, while she was standing by me, waiting while I signed some letters, I suddenly reached to stroke her pudendum, obvious beneath the crotch of her pants. I didn’t grab or squeeze; I just stroked. She drew away, making a small cry. I went back to signing letters; neither of us spoke of what had happened.
“There was one other thing, but since nothing came of it, it hardly seems worth mentioning. I had a dream, a nighttime dream that merged into a daytime fantasy, of doing something to the computer, AMROK II. That is, I wanted to-well, I suppose in some way I wanted to destroy it. How, I didn’t know. It was just a vagrant thought. I didn’t even consider it. But the thought did come to me. I think I was searching for more humanity, not less. For more humanness, with all its terrible mystery.
“Now we must consider why I killed those men and why (Sigh! Sob! Groan!) I suppose I will kill again. Well…again, it’s human-ness, isn’t it? To come close, as close as you can possibly come. Because love-I mean physical love (sex) or romantic love-isn’t the answer, is it? It’s a poor, cheap substitute, and never quite satisfactory. Because, no matter how good physical love or romantic love may seem, the partners still have, each, their secret, island life.
“But when you kill, the gap disappears, the division is gone, you are one with the victim. I don’t suppose you will believe me, but it is so. I assure you it is. The act of killing is an act of love, ultimate love, and though there is no orgasm, no sexual feeling at all-at least in my case-you do, you really do, enter into another human being, and through that violent conjunction-painful perhaps, but just for a split-second-you enter into all humans, all animals, all vegetables, all minerals. In fact, you become one with everything: stars, planets, galaxies, the great darkness beyond, and…
“Oh. Well. What this is, the final mystery, is what I’m searching for, isn’t it? I’m convinced it is not in books or beds or conversation or churches or sudden flashes of inspiration or revelation. It must be worked for, and it will be, in me.
“What I’m saying is that I want to go into myself, penetrate myself, as deeply as I possibly can. I know it will be a long and painful process. It may prove, eventually, to be impossible-but I don’t believe that. I think that I can go deep within myself-I mean deep! — and there I’ll find it.
“Sometimes I wonder if it’s a kind of masturbation, as when I stand naked before my full-length mirror, golden chains about wrist and waist, and look at my own body and touch myself. The wonder! But then I come back, always come back, to what I seek. And it has nothing to do with Celia or Tony or the Mortons or my job or anything else but me. Me! That’s where the answer lies. And who can uncover it but me? So I keep trying, and it is not too difficult, too painful or exhausting. Except, in all truth, I must tell you this: If I had my life to live over again, I would want to lie naked in the sun and watch women oil their bodies. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
He should have stopped there; it was a logical end to his musings. But he would not, could not. He thought of Tony Montfort, what they had done, what they might do. But the dream was fleeting, flicking away a mosquito or something else that might bite. He thought of Valenter, and of a professor in his college who had smelled of earth, and of going into a women’s lingerie shop to buy white bikini panties for himself. Because they fit better? Once a man on a Fifth Avenue bus had smiled at him.
He still had the nighttime dreams, the daytime fantasies, but he was aware that the images were becoming shorter. That is, they no longer overlapped from night to day, the “plots” were abbreviated, visions flickered by sharply. His mind was so charged, so jumping, that he became vaguely alarmed, went to a doctor, received a prescription for a mild tranquilizer. They worked on him as a weak sleeping pill. But his mind still jumped.
He could not penetrate deeply enough into himself. He lied to himself; he admitted it; he caught himself at it. It was difficult not to lie to himself. He had to be on guard, not every day or every hour but every minute. He had to question every action, every motive. Probing. Penetrating. If he wanted to discover…what?
He soothed an engorged penis in a Vaselined hand, probed his own rectum with a stiff forefinger pointing toward Heaven, opened his empty mouth to a white ceiling and waited for bliss. Throbbing warmth engulfed him, eventually, but not what he sought.
There was more. He knew there was more. He had experienced it, and he set out to find it again, bathing, dusting, perfuming, dressing, preparing for an assignation. We all-all of us-must fulfill our island life. Oh yes, he thought, we must. Taking up the ice ax…
“Blood is thicker than water,” he said aloud, “and semen is thicker than blood.”
He laughed, having no idea what that meant, or if, indeed, it meant anything at all.
3
A week or so after the death of Bernard Gilbert, Daniel Blank went on the stalk. It was not too unlike learning to climb. You had to master the techniques, you had to test your strength and, of course, you had to try your nerve, pushing it to its limit, but not beyond. You did not learn how to murder by reading a book, anymore than you could learn how to swim or ride a bicycle by looking at diagrams.
He had already acquired several valuable techniques. The business of concealing the ice ax under his top coat, holding it through the pocket slit by his left hand, then transferring it swiftly to his right hand shoved through the opened fly of his coat-that worked perfectly, with no fumbling. The death of Lombard had been, he thought, instantaneous, while Gilbert lingered four days. He deduced from this that a blow from the back apparently penetrated a more sensitive area of the skull, and he resolved to make no more frontal attacks.