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  "Forgive me, sir, but everything seems to be in order..

  "Rubbish," I cut him short. The smile vanished from his face, he became cold and distant.

  "Will you be ordering, sir?" he asked.

  "Bouillon, Vienna schnitzel with vegetables and coffee to follow ..."

  He left me immediately.

  I was strangely incensed, irritated by the tone of his voice, the expression on his face and the strutting step with which he was crossing the soft carpet. I gave the couple at the nearby table another look. The man was sitting still, as if holding his breath, staring at the woman's face, or rather, at her profile, for she was looking at me, more and more intently and sensuously. When our eyes met a faint quiver ran through her face, her lips opened up gently and I saw her smile. It was an extraordinary smile; never had I been so moved. Her face radiated a kind of intoxicating charm - maternal, soothing and at the same time animal. So must the Phoenician Astarte, mother of the world, symbol of fertility, rapture, motherhood and sex, Astarte Protective and Riotous, have smiled on her followers.

  I saw her teeth - beautiful, gleaming white teeth - which might have indicated merely good health but seemed to me the predatory, strong teeth of a beast, made for rapacious kisses. I was experiencing a strange mixture of fear and desire such as I had never known before. I smiled politely in return, full of gallantry and respect, inclining my head slightly, giving to understand that I would be honoured to make her acquaintance. The man seemed to pay no attention to our silent communication, his despairing eyes fixed on his companion's profile.

  I was excited; thoughts ran through my head like a herd of frightened horses. My first impulse was to get up and walk to the other table but I restrained myself, or rather, I was restrained by her forceful, golden eyes which seemed to draw from the rest of her body that wonderful, tender and exciting warmth.

  Have you ever, my dear inspector, experienced a feeling of overpowering desire for a strange, unknown woman? Do you know the feeling, when a man is ready to commit any folly and won't shrink from murder or making a fool of himself just to take a woman in his arms? Are you familiar with this fascination, this obsession, even fury, when you will do anything to make your dream come true? Your head is full of rational thoughts, suddenly you become aware of all your duties and commitments, all your principles gain the strength of steel, only to break down and release with greater force that destructive power which will crush everything standing between you and the satisfaction of your desire. In one brief moment this woman became to me dearer than anything in the world, though, of course, I was aware that the moment would pass. It's maddeningly exciting, that first step on the path to hell. In moments like these you are perfectly aware that the desire which possesses you is as light as a puff of smoke, it's enough to make the decision - not a difficult one, in fact rather a trivial one - to get up and leave, stroll along a crowded street, visit a cafe, or a cinema, or simply return to your hotel room, he down in comfort and read a book. In other words it's enough to do something very simple, something which requires no effort, struggle or sacrifice and you can free yourself immediately from all temptation. But precisely because it is so obvious and easy you take the risk, you challenge Fate repeating to yourself stubbornly that there is still time to prolong this test of strength. For then, every man feels his own power, convinced that he controls events and recklessly feeds the fire of temptation which gives us all such pleasure.

  With every second the decision, at first easy and simple, becomes more and more difficult to make. We sink in inertia and reverie as in quicksand, our bodies grow heavier and heavier, our hearts beat faster and faster and our minds are feverishly building an intricate construction of justification and excuse to withstand the weight of what is about to happen ... It makes me realise now that in such moments people who are truly happy can, after all, control events. A man who is awaited at home by a devoted, loving woman and is satisfied and free of the suffering brought by unsatisfied desires, such a man can, without too much difficulty, find his way out of this maze. Loving, and being loved, he understands the full meaning of fidelity and the price of such a conquest. Everybody measures the world with his own yardstick and a happy man who loves and is loved thinks that only equally sublime feelings can, or rather should, accompany his every amorous adventure. The moment he realises this such a man gets up from the table, crosses the soft carpet and goes out into the street, and away into the world. But I? I, with my insatiable need for warmth and hope? You have to take into account, inspector, that I have never truly loved any woman; I have pursued them with a certain stubbornness and taken them with a touch of anger and bitterness, convinced from the start that even though I was driven by hope, in the end I would be disappointed. The untiring seeker after love, whom women always accused of selfishness, a slave to my own sensitivity and imagination, searching for a goddess or at least for a lover skilled in love- making, I, who nevertheless invariably ended up with trivial women, common like sand, those babbling featherbrains or frigid Brigits, spoilt kittens or melancholic princesses, all equally sentimental, awaiting a miracle, starved of warmth, support, strength, tolerance and the devil knows what else ... The worst were the lonely ones, beautiful and independent, but still capricious, who treated an affair like an adventure, or, on the contrary, built up towering expectations against which any man would look like -a dwarf.

  Perhaps this is why I treated the presence of the man at the table as reassuring. She was not a lonely, single woman. I could therefore afford another challenge without the risk of getting entangled in a moral dilemma.

  Naturally, then, in the restaurant, all my thoughts ran through my head in a violent and disorderly manner. I felt something was happening to me, that here was the beginning of a rare and delightful adventure, even though I knew all along it had only a temporary character. If you think, inspector, that I was building my future on the smile and the gaze of that woman you're very wrong. And if you think that I felt any hostility towards that man you're wrong again. It was quite the opposite. With every minute he seemed to me more and more friendly, a handy prop in the game I was about to begin. Please understand my situation. I'm single, earning good money, my professional position is very secure. Men like me are afraid of liaisons with single women, who tend to be possessive; they are a threat to our freedom. In a word, I'm an excellent catch. Please, look at my past, the most intimate details of my life. I've always avoided single women like the plague. All my affairs and flirtations have invariably been triangular. Love of geometry it may be called. To be the third, that's my motto. When terminating such a relationship I wasn't leaving a wrecked marriage behind, but the opposite, a newly cemented union. I think this must be counted as a good deed, though I've never tried to turn pleasure into a virtue.

  And so, even then, in the restaurant, I treated the presence of that man as a propitious circumstance. Naturally, I intended to get rid of him, but in a tactful and gentlemanly manner. What's more, I felt sorry for him. Surely, you can understand that? She was causing him pain. That heart-rending look in his eyes seemed to me almost like an accusation. I felt a sense of male solidarity growing within me. "My beautiful lady," I thought to myself with cruel satisfaction, "you will pay me back for him. You will not turn me into such a despairing wreck, oh no." This thought excited me and intensified my desire to possess her. I decided to conquer and humiliate her, and in this way make her pay for the pain suffered by the other man ... I felt very close to him and for a moment I wanted to call out: "You can count on me, my unhappy friend!"

  At that moment my schnitzel was served.

  I tucked in with gusto. But then, again, I experienced an unpleasant sensation. The dish seemed repulsive to me. The moist, whitish meat on the plate gave off a foul smell, its taste was nauseating and filled me with strange fear. I called a waiter and when he appeared I launched into a feverish and rude complaint about being served meat which was off and badly prepared. I was speaking in a raised voice, very ups
et and aggressive. What's worse I had a feeling that those sea creatures were moving noiselessly behind my back, that they had slipped off the wall and were crawling towards me. A sort of moist coldness was spilling down my neck. I sprang up from the table, heard the soft sound of the falling chair and saw a look of surprise in the eyes of the waiter. Next to him stood the headwaiter, a balding man with dark hair, ruddy cheeks and big fleshy lips which looked like liver chops past their best. The headwaiter was talking to me in an agitated manner, explaining and apologising, his eyes running between my face and the plate like a pair of little black spiders. Suddenly he picked up the fork, poked it into my food, put a bit of meat into his mouth and started to chew, carefully, conscientiously, his moist, round lips moving rhythmically, parting for a moment to reveal his tongue. It was disgusting, disgusting beyond words. All this amidst the all-pervasive putrid stench, as if the whole restaurant were a decomposing corpse, as if the waiter, the headwaiter, and even myself, were dead bodies: livid, gangrenous and swollen with the pressure of death ... For a second I caught sight of the woman's eyes. She was laughing gaily, the golden bees were buzzing above our tables, her face was almost happy, full of life, the only face with human colour, without that glaucous sheen and cadaverous paleness. The man at her side seemed to me particularly terrifying - bloated, practically green, fetid, dripping with the deathly venom of his rotting body ...

  It was a terrible moment. On the verge of losing my senses I pushed the headwaiter away with a force that made him reel backwards, and fled towards the door; banging my head on the door-frame was painful but at that moment it seemed like a blessing to me. I ran out into the street and kept running blindly through the crowd of passers-by. Suddenly, my sense of reality returned; I could feel a gentle breeze on my face, a pimply youth stood next to me, smiling derisively. I found myself in the big square of N.'s Old Town, surrounded by delightful, baroque houses. You know yourself, inspector, that it's quite a distance from "The Dancing Salmon", a good ten minutes' walk. I must have run, but I have no recollection of it, not a -crumb of memory left.

  I was breathing with difficulty, slowly regaining my balance. Looking around I realised it was already evening, the sky was dark blue, with just a few clouds, and a playful breeze was blowing from the sea. The moving cars had their lights on, brightly coloured neon signs glowed above the shops and the first few windows were lit up in the dusk. It was a normal May evening in a big seaside town. Nothing extraordinary was going on. The air was fresh if slightly damp, with a mixture of salt, car fumes and the smell of the flowers sold all day on the market square. The passing women were charming, the men smiled. Someone was playing a transistor radio, the sound of a fog-horn reached me from the port. I decided to go and see a doctor without further delay. And then I saw ... It was horrible, unbelievable. On the square, if you remember, there is a neat, well-lit newspaper kiosk. I was standing right next to it and just as I decided to go and see a doctor my eyes were arrested by the covers of the illustrated magazines on the display ... That's right, that's exactly what I am going to tell you, about this damned issue of the Weekly Mirror from the loth of May. And you can tell me a million times that it was an hallucination and I will answer you a million times that I had this magazine in my hand, that I felt its glossy cover with my fingers and smelt the smell of its fresh print ... No, it's not the issue you are showing me now! A hundred times no! You can think what you like, I know I can't win anyway, there's no hope for me, but I tell you again and again, being in full possession of my mental faculties and fully responsible for my actions, as your doctors confirm, that the issue of the Weekly Mirror I bought from the kiosk in the square had a different cover. It had a photograph in a black frame. That's right, the photograph of that man. It was him, I swear it was him, and I'll swear to it on the gallows! That sad, tense face, the eyes looking at something outside the frame, probably at her, that woman. The photo was framed by a thick, black line. And below there were a few words to the effect that this outstanding inventor, the pride of the electronic industry, the "constructor of thinking machines" had taken his life in mysterious circumstances. Inside there was an insipid, cheap, sentimental note about the man with a comment that the only explanation of his mysterious suicide was a tragic love affair.

  That's the truth, my dear inspector. The only truth about these terrible facts in which I got entangled through the machinations of some destructive, evil, infernal power .. .

  I cannot help it if it sounds fantastic. Everything here is fantastic from beginning to end. You can cut my head off, but I will not change a single word of my testimony.

  No, I can't explain these facts. I'm not even going to try. I know what happened to me. If you don't dare to put a name to it it's your business ... Let your people examine this medallion carefully, each atom separately. That's where the answer to the problem lies .. .

  The rest you know. You must know it all by heart. I'm giving my evidence for the umpteenth time without changing a word. That is surprising, isn't it? If a man lies, if he is fantasising, it may happen, it even must happen, that certain details will be changed. But in my story, you will agree, there is a perfectly rational description of every event! Well, there it is ... There is something terrifying in it ... Yes, naturally I returned to my hotel. As I walked I read in the light of the street-lamps this amazing article, growing more and more convinced that what I had just experienced was no hallucination but reality - inexplicable, mysterious but therefore all the more exciting and interesting. I decided that immediately after my return to the hotel I should get in touch with my friend, a professor at the local polytechnic, who was mentioned in the obituary as the friend, teacher and mentor of the "sadly departed". I decided to give the professor a precise, minute by minute account of the whole afternoon. He is a remarkable man with a highly logical mind and extraordinary intelligence. Who else but he, I thought then, should be able to help me in finding a rational explanation of those strange events. I assure you that from the moment I bought the Weekly Mirror I was convinced that what was happening to me was real.

  The paper was tangible proof that it hadn't been an hallucination, that I hadn't fallen victim to my untameable imagination or, indeed, to mental illness. What's more, and I have mentioned this before, the man selling the newspapers spoke to me briefly about the death of the famous scientist. So, there was another man who held in his hand a copy of the Weekly Mirror from the loth of May ... I don't care about your insistence that there is no such man, that for years the papers in that kiosk have been sold by an old lady, well known locally. I don't live in N., I came here to give a series of talks, and I know few people in this town ... I declare again that the man who sold me the magazine was about thirty, with a long, pale face, lightly freckled with light red hair. He wore a flannel shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and on his right forearm he had a very peculiar, unusual tattoo, to be exact, the same as the painting on the wall in "The Dancing Salmon". I know, you claim that the painting depicts a coastline but you're wrong. If you want to see exactly what the painting on that horrible wall is like, find the man from the kiosk. You'll find an identical picture on his right forearm . . .

  OK, IT stick to the story. So, I was walking quickly towards my hotel. After a few minutes I was there. In reception the wall-lights shone brightly. I was handed the keys to my room. The receptionist was just looking through the Weekly Mirror - and I don't care that he emphatically denies it now. Someone who can corroborate my story certainly exists. I went upstairs. Walking up the stairs I smelt for a moment that dreadful, penetrating rotten stench, but I did not think about it much. I was determined to phone the professor at once and to unravel this mysterious story with his help.

  The door to my room was slightly open. As I approached it I knew well whom I would find inside. I did not feel any surprise. It all seemed perfectly natural, obvious ... With the Weekly Mirror in my hand I pushed the door open.

  She was sitting in the armchair looking at me with a joyful gle
am in her eyes. I came in and carefully closed the door. For a long while we remained silent. I felt I was lost but decided to go ahead and meet my destiny. She was beautiful and desirable above everything in the world. The medallion on her neck shone with a bewitching radiance . . .

  "Where is he?" I asked after a while, pointing at the man's photo on the cover.

  "He left," she answered.

  Those were the only words I heard her say. Her voice was astonishing, unearthly. When she said these words the whole room filled with the sound of an organ playing. Yes, that's right, an organ playing ... That's the only thing we agree upon, isn't it? Just at that time an organ concert was taking place in the nearby church of St. Roch, a famous virtuoso was playing Bach's fugues and toccatas. This helped you to establish the exact time ... My God, who would have thought that my life would hang on a string of a few notes by J.S.Bach? This is the toughest nut to crack: the whole thing didn't last more than half an hour. Thirty stupid minutes from the moment I ran out of "The Dancing Salmon" till the moment when, allegedly, a cry was heard in my hotel room ... It's nonsense, of course. I cannot prove anything, but I do know that she was with me the whole night, till dawn. The sound of organ music filled the room till the sun rose on the eastern side of the sky. These are the facts and you can keep repeating that I was arrested at 9 p.m. till kingdom come for all I care. You've got a statement from one of your men, someone read it to me. It's quite comforting. When he came into the room I was standing by the open window. I said: "What a bracing morning. How lovely the sunrise is above the city! . . ." He states in his report, if I remember correctly: "I heard him say it and I came to the window and indeed it seemed to me that there really was a sunrise. I said something like: `I must be drunk.' And the sergeant behind me said: `But corporal, you're teetotal!' and I confirmed that I was but I still saw the rising sun and I got scared . . ." This corporal of yours added later that he must have been imagining it, but that's nonsense, it's a desperate search for a rational explanation to this whole story which is constantly slipping from our grasp .. .