He would follow any unescorted woman who seemed unsure of herself, rejecting her only if she turned her back on him sharply when he accosted her, or if she disappeared into a house where he was not bold enough to go. He explored unfamiliar streets, memorized faces, took note of details. His eye became practiced.
As a diver, after plunging numberless times into the darkness of the deep, finally puts his hand on the iron bar that reveals the position of the sunken ship, so Sredoje, one evening after work, on the street in front of the railroad station, suddenly became aware that the women who appeared to be standing there by chance or walking beside its walls were exactly what he had been imagining in the course of his long search. He looked one of them over; she returned his look. Holding his breath, he approached another, and saw that she, too, had spotted him and made him aware of it by a movement of her shoulders. A number of other men loitered around the street with their coat collars up and their hats pulled down on their heads. One of them exchanged a few words with the first woman, then left her and stood a short way off. Sredoje, as if pulled by a magnet, took the man’s place, mumbled “Good evening,” and the woman, turning to him and pretending surprise, returned his greeting. He asked her where she was going; she said nowhere. He suggested they go for a stroll together; after a careful look around, she agreed. They chatted. The woman said she was thirsty, so they went into a nearby tavern and each had a brandy at the counter. In the light, Sredoje saw that the collar of her coat was worn down to the lining and that her brown hair was greasy, but his eyes were drawn to the wedge of fair skin between her bulging breasts, taut beneath her coat. He asked her abruptly if she needed money, they agreed on a price, and she led him out. They walked some distance, she half a pace in front of him, and then, near the quay, she knocked at the door of a low house, where a stooping old woman in a head scarf rented them a stifling little room.
The novelty of this encounter held so much charm for Sredoje that he went right back again to the street in front of the station. And every day from then on. He went further to the left and to the right, to see how far this hunting ground for women extended. For it was a hunting ground, as opposed to those cages of the taverns, where he had felt almost as trapped as the women there. But here the women came from all directions and of their own free will, like wild animals drawn to a watering hole, and new ones came, some out of poverty, some out of habit, some out of inclination. They were not yet crushed; they still had some pride, and, unlike the tavern girls, no one was their master, their pimp. But also there was no one to protect them. Like game in front of guns in ambush, they exuded that mixture of boldness and fear which excited the hunter. They strutted before the eyes of their enemies and partners in the game, making their inevitable surrender more delightful.
Sredoje now discovered that not only bodies beneath coats and dresses were laid bare, but souls as well. With a hungry passion he questioned the women who risked the street: Where did they come from? For what reason? He observed their fear, a fear equally of punishment and of scandal; he observed the moment when, crossing the threshold of the rented room, they cast off the mask of self-confidence with their clothes, abandoning all resistance, as in ardent love, but without the burden of responsibility that love imposed.
Their very submissiveness was exciting, their trembling setting of limits. As he possessed one after another, Sredoje wondered how far he could go in his amorous demands without meeting a refusal. The police card was burning a hole in his pocket. He toyed with the idea of dumfounding some woman with it, of breaking her down further, to a surrender that was total. For some time he hesitated, knowing full well that it was wrong, illegal, to use it, that he would be plunging into danger, which would result in his fearing as they feared. But he longed for that fear, too, his own, which would add to the excitement.
One evening, when it was snowing, he stopped under a streetlight with a tall, black-haired girl in a thin dark coat. The moment she quoted a price for her services, he pulled out his card, unfolded it, and shoved it before her panic-stricken eyes. “Do you see this? I’m placing you under arrest for prostitution.” He expected an argument, or that she would read the document carefully and say that it did not give him the power to arrest, and he would then try to laugh the whole thing off as a joke.
But, instead, the girl’s thick lips quivered, and tears from her wide eyes made shining streaks down her face. “Don’t do that to me, please! My family would kill me!” And she seized his hands in hers, which were soft and moist.
He pulled his hands away. “Not arrest you? Ha! And what will you do for me if I don’t?”
“Anything. I’ll do anything,” she said, again grabbing his hand, as if she wanted to kiss it, and looking at him with terror in her eyes.
“Very well,” he agreed, his throat tight with lust. “Let’s go, and then I’ll decide.”
She was rooted to the spot, as if unable to believe that her crime had been so easily pardoned. Then, afraid that he might change his mind, she ran quickly into the darkness. He followed, stumbling over the cobblestones, his legs weak. She took him into a big old house, up a creaking narrow wooden staircase to the top floor, to a door on which hung a rusty padlock. Her hands shook so much, it took her forever to unlock it. Once inside, she fell on her knees before Sredoje. He dragged her to the bed, which showed white in the faint light from the street, a lifeless doll with which he could do absolutely anything.
He played the same trick on other women on the streets around the station. He practiced, perfected the details. At the start he would try to establish how independent or intelligent they were, how experienced in their trade, and how advanced the self-destruction that accompanied it, so that his attack, delayed until the moment they were alone, would be neither more brutal nor more considerate than necessary: to destroy the woman’s confidence while leaving her with enough hope to beg and obey. He trembled as much as his victim, trembled on the brink of achievement and in the fear that one of them would see through his deception. He felt himself sinking into this new addiction as into madness, felt it changing him, making him incapable of any other approach to a woman. After each one of his intoxicating bouts he swore that he would never do it again, telling himself that it was dangerous, that he had had enough experiences to last him a lifetime, that it was time to put them behind him, to keep them as no more than an incredible memory. But the temptation was too powerful. Sitting in the office or lying around at home, he would suddenly recall a posture of supplicating submission, or, better still, think of some form of violation he had missed, but which he could do the next time, and he would get up, his blood hot and his knees wobbly, to rush off to the streets where the women assembled.
He had the gnawing suspicion that he was being seen too often around the station, that the women had exchanged information about the rapist with the police card, or that they had already reported him to the police. A noose, he felt, had been thrown around him and was being tightened. Even so, he could not stop himself; he realized with horror that only a disaster could stop him. That was in fact what happened.
One evening, he came upon a young girl with an unusually firm body. After the deception with the card had worked and he had undressed her and enjoyed her in an attic near the quay, he discovered that her dark-pink body, so supple and strong, still tempted him, and he regretted that his threats ruled out the possibility of their meeting again. Thinking feverishly as they were getting dressed, he asked for her identity card. She dug it out of her dress pocket and handed it to him with a worried look. “I’ll keep this,” he said. “If you want it back, come tomorrow to the place we met today, at the same time.” At home he examined the card; although the photograph did not live up to the girl’s freshness, it was a pleasant reminder and made him want to see her the next day. But that, he knew, would be a mistake, it would be crossing the line of risk, which so far he had not crossed. He should throw the identity card away and not go. But he went.