Chapter 39: Dance, Dance, My Doll 03
By the time Hestal reached the parking lot, he still felt as though a lingering dampness clung to his throat.
Albanino was still following along beside him at an unhurried pace. According to the other man, it was because “I need to take the subway near the parking lot.” Hestal decided that if it turned out the man was lying, he might as well run him over with his car.
He let his violent fantasies run wild for a while, until he saw that there really was a subway station standing at the intersection near the parking lot. Hestal had already reached his car parked at the edge of the lot, while Albanino was supposed to head toward the subway station.
That was how it should have been: the two of them pretending to part with polite courtesy, hiding their true thoughts beneath tacit, knowing smiles, and then immediately waiting for the next clash, whenever it might come. They were like the metal balls at either end of a Newton’s cradle—the moment one fell, the other was launched away, forever unable to move in parallel, a brief contact followed by a long, solitary flight.
So of course they had brief couplings and kisses, yet they never spent the night in each other’s beds.
—That was how it should have been, until things suddenly hurtled off in a different direction.
Because someone had suddenly emerged from the side of the parking lot and was striding quickly toward them. It was a man with fluffy hair, who looked to be in his thirties. He didn’t seem particularly threatening, but his target was clearly the two of them. Albanino had noticed him as well. He had only just turned his head to glance in that direction a couple of times when the man had already rushed up in front of them.
“Hello, Dr. Barris,” the man said, not even deigning to spare Hestal a glance—how rude. “I’m Leo Hard Schheib, a special correspondent for the *Westland Daily News*. Could you please—”
This special correspondent had a slight European accent, and Hestal also noticed that on the right hand gripping the voice recorder, the pinky finger was severed clean at the base. The smooth cross-section of the scar was quite vivid in color—likely an injury sustained within the past year or two.
“No,” Albanino answered decisively before the reporter could even finish his entire question.
The other party paused for a moment, clearly not surprised by Albanino’s answer. Shi Haibo was evidently not disappointed, and instead continued to ask: “But Dr. Bax, you should know that many people on the internet now believe that you are the victim of that case committed by the Westland Pianist some time ago…”
“I understand how they think, but what does that have to do with me?” Albanino retorted. “Although I was not involved in the investigation of this case—as you know, at the time it happened I was on leave due to the accident in the Landon case—but according to WLPD convention, I’m afraid I cannot disclose too much information.”
“Even if it affects your reputation?” Shi Haibo asked.
“I find it strange that you would think that, Mr. Reporter. Being considered a rape victim affects my reputation? Are we now living in an era where we need to sacrifice virgins to dragons?” Albanino chuckled softly. He still wore that gentle mask, making it impossible to see through his true thoughts. “I think this matter affects the Pianist’s reputation more—this kind of case is too tasteless even for a serial killer.”
Hestal glanced at Albanino.
“But, were you just coming out of an anonymous support group?” Schhaibo continued asking, his eyes gleaming, “The manager of the small theater told me that every Saturday the theater rents out a sexual trauma anonymous support group, for—”
“That’s enough, Mr. Schhaibo.” Hestal coldly interrupted the other man, “Are you following Dr. Bax? This already constitutes an invasion of privacy.”
The reporter finally deigned to glance at Hestal, and asked, “And you are?”
“I’m his lawyer,” Hestal replied simply. “Also, please delete the recording. My client did not consent to this recording, and I imagine you wouldn’t want to be sued over such a trivial matter—would you, Dr. Bacchus?”
Albanino glanced at Hestal, a faint, secretive smile in his eyes. Then he answered lightly, “Let’s go.”
Hestal looked at the expectant gaze Albanino was giving him and suddenly understood what the other man was hinting at, but there was no backing out now: he could certainly just get in the car and drive off, leaving Albanino alone with this reporter, but then the man would absolutely follow Albanino all the way to the subway station. Although Albanino certainly wouldn’t reveal any critical information to Shi Haibo, the act of “a lawyer abandoning his client to deal with a reporter” already seemed rather improper.
Now, the corners of Albanino’s mouth had joined in the process of forming that smile. This man’s eyes sparkled, forever looking like a river of stars, and it was precisely this expression that constantly reminded him: you cannot defeat someone like this.
Because he didn’t care.
Hestal had no choice but to take out his car keys and drive. After the beep of the doors unlocking, Albanino nodded toward the reporter, then without any hesitation opened the passenger door and slid in with practiced ease. Hestal swallowed more complaints and curses and got into the driver’s seat.
The car door slammed shut with a bang, and the excellent soundproofing immediately cut off everything the reporters outside wanted to say and everything they didn’t. The reporter stared somewhat discontentedly at the dark glass of the car window, clearly displeased at having failed to get any sensational news out of Albanino. But if he knew Albanino well enough, he would know that he definitely wouldn’t say anything useful.
Hestal started the car and drove out of the parking lot.
The journalist’s figure grew smaller and smaller in the distance. Albanino tilted his head and stared at the rearview mirror for a while before suddenly saying, “In that case, let’s go get lunch.”
Hestal wasn’t particularly shocked that those words came out of the other man’s mouth. The moment you allowed him to get even a little close to you—no matter how unavoidable the circumstances—this person would cling to you like a piece of sticky candy.
But he didn’t expect Albanino’s next sentence to be: “I know a place that sells the best cheeseburger I’ve ever had in my life—I took Elliot Evans there.”
And Hestal once again began entertaining the idea of throwing the other man out of the car, then driving over him a few times.
In the end, they really did go to that family restaurant. Hestal himself didn’t understand at what point he had started to compromise—or perhaps, when one is by Albanino Bacchus’s side, compromising is simply a matter of sooner or later. In this process, the one who first said “I will fall in love with you in the future” would naturally lose the upper hand in the game.
Hestal refused to order the burger that Albanino had enthusiastically recommended—the one piled so high with cheese it looked utterly unconscionable. His lunch was salad, bread, and soup, naturally so; Albanino was different. While waiting for the food to arrive, he had been rudely playing on his phone the entire time, and after the food was served, he even tried to sneak cherry tomatoes from Hestal’s salad bowl with his fork between bites of his burger.
—It was hard to imagine how this person did it. A psychopath, a serial killer, smiling, his movements so effortless and fluid, as if they had never threatened to take each other’s lives, as if the Sunday Gardener didn’t have an elaborate plan in his mind about the degree to which blue flowers matched Hestal’s eyes, as if they were just playing some romantic love game.
“He’ll report what you said,” Hestal said.
Albarino was using a knife to cut into that Hestal-estimated burger with at least four layers of bread, a small mountain of a thing, and somehow he managed to slice clean through in one go, without even a bit of cheese or sauce squeezing out. While he worked at this with the same focus as someone dissecting a body on an autopsy table, he said calmly, “Of course he would, but I didn’t provide any key information, nor did I say anything particularly inappropriate. Bart probably won’t be angry.”
He placed the knife he’d finished cutting with onto the plate, slowly licked the bit of cheese that had smeared onto his fingers, glanced at Hestal, and then suddenly smiled.
“Or is it,” he said in a teasing tone, “that you really care that I said the Pianist has no taste?”
Hestal let out a contemptuous snort.
“Herstal,” Albanino said, his voice lowered, almost as if he were being serious, “whatever you’ve done, you’re nothing like those people in Kentucky who hurt you, you know that?”
Herstal looked at the other man—but Albanino merely kept his head down, eating. He barely made any sound when he ate; even with food like this, he wouldn’t get sauce and crumbs everywhere. It was almost like magic.
There was still something about him that continuously made itself clear to others: he came from a well-bred, wealthy family. The way this essence would unconsciously reveal itself at certain moments, mixed with his usual manner that was so wildly different, created a very strange picture.
“Do we have to talk about this?” Herstal retorted. “Is your next line going to be ‘I did it willingly’?”
“I have always been a willing participant, especially when it comes to the part about sleeping with you—regardless of what form this activity ultimately takes when presented to the public.” Albanino answered with a smile.
Hestal shook his head. “Then I can only interpret what you just said as you making excuses for my actions?”
“That’s not quite accurate either. I’m merely stating the fact that ‘you all are different.’ Because we both know clearly that making excuses is meaningless—from the perspective of universal values and the law, we are guilty, but we are not bound by these doctrines. Some people would say, ‘The Pianist is an overly violent vigilante; everything he does is actually positive for society,’ and we both understand that’s nothing but an absurd lie.”
Albanino explained, simultaneously using his fork to bring a piece of hamburger meat to his mouth: he chewed the beef, but Hestal always suspected that to him, this kind of meat was no different from the meat he had handled, the meat he had created; he didn’t eat his prey simply because such an act was meaningless to him—just as the Pianist killed criminals only because he followed in the footsteps of his own sinful desires, and those crimes were essentially meaningless to him as well.
“The reason you are different from them is that you have never yielded to the basest of desires. You present yourself to my eyes in a form of beauty, and that is precisely where the meaning lies—incidentally, you and I both know that the Pianist’s case was not a true ‘rape.'”
“So by that logic, everything revolves around your senses?” Hestal let out a scoff.
“Why not think so? Didn’t Protagoras say, ‘Man is the measure of all things, of the things that are, that they are, and of the things that are not, that they are not’?” Albanino answered with easy cheerfulness.
“Thinking that way is far too arrogant,” Hestal replied in a low voice.
But Albanino only smiled faintly. “Indeed, it is.”
They were silent for a moment, and the low buzzing vibration of Albanino’s phone broke the stillness. Albanino pulled out his phone and unlocked it with casual indifference—Hestal wondered whether his phone’s unlock code was still “0725”—Albanino looked at some new message on the screen, then slowly smiled.
“I have some friends in the WLPD who can talk,” Albanino said airily. Hestal had reason to believe that “friends who can talk” actually meant “dirty cops who’ll do things for money.” Given Albanino’s level of caution, the dirty cop he contacted probably didn’t even know who he really was. “He looked into that Billy situation for me—the life skills teacher who once hurt him was named Anthony Sharp. After the incident came to light, he lost his job and is still unemployed at home now.”
Hestal looked sharply at the other man. “What are you trying to say?”
Albanino’s fingertips tapped the tabletop rhythmically, a flickering white in the sunlight. He continued unhurriedly, “And that journalist named Leo Hard Scherber is quite famous—a quick Google search will turn up plenty of information about him. Do you know about that internationally famous case from last year? The one that happened in a small Nordic country called Hokston?”
Hestal thought for a moment, pulling from his memory some of the exaggerated reports that had flooded the world in the second half of last year: “That country had a terrorist who joined an extreme religious sect, blew up a bunch of churches, and kidnapped a cardinal?”
Albanino shrugged, clearly indicating that he had spoken the truth: “Hoxston is quite a nice country, with beautiful scenery. I visited once during my tour around Europe. And the first church that terrorist blew up—it was said to be an artistic treasure designed by Kaelharit. Boom, and it was gone, just like that.”
His voice sounded sincerely regretful, but there was always a strange smile on his face. Albanino paused for a moment, then continued: “So you can imagine how much attention this case has attracted. After this case is closed, the journalist who holds the exclusive rights to the final conclusion on this incident is that very Riohard Shihaibo.”
“That makes it sound like he’s exceptionally capable. Then why leave Europe?” Hestal asked.
“Who knows. Some say it’s because he stops at nothing to dig up news, and he offended someone he shouldn’t have.” Albanino said slowly, smiling as he extended his right hand and wiggled his pinky finger. “In any case, this journalist has a terrifying obsession with the things he wants to pursue—things he himself doesn’t even know how dangerous they are. I think it’s enough for you to know that.”
Hestal looked at him warily: “What exactly are you trying to say?”
“What I’m saying is, these two people: a former middle school teacher of poor moral character, and a journalist who is famous but whose morals seem questionable… which one would you choose to hunt?” Albanino asked, propping his chin on one hand, looking almost curious.
“Is this your ultimate goal?” Hestal replied coldly, putting his fork back on the plate, having completely lost his appetite. “Using me as a marionette, watching me kill, and getting some cheap thrill out of it?”
“That is absolutely not what I mean,” Albanino said in a low voice, the glittering amusement in his eyes fading—though even this was nothing but an illusion. “Hestal, the relationship between us is not that of a puppet and a ventriloquist. I do not speak for you—speaking of which, have you ever heard of that fairy tale?”
His topic had evidently veered off into a strange direction again—namely, Albarino.
“The student who came to tutor the children taught little Emily a nursery rhyme: ‘Dance, dance, my doll! Your steps must keep the rhythm’; the adults thought it was a silly song, but little Emily did not think so. She understood what made the song interesting, and so did that student, because that song was one he had written himself.”
His voice was low and slow, but now was hardly the time for bedtime stories. Yet Albarino’s fingers crept slowly across the table, his fingertips pressing against Hestal’s knuckles with measured pressure.
“—This is what our relationship is.” He spoke in a whisper.
“Just like that?” Hestal did not hold back his scornful laugh. “Singing a song no one understands, making the doll dance to a rhythm you’ve drawn yourself—”
“It was never that no one understood at all. Isn’t that precisely the point? Isn’t there still another person who also thought this song was wonderful? That student taught little Amelie this song, and little Amelie understood it and fell in love with it. Her doll also danced to the melody of this song—isn’t that what matters most?”
Albanino asked in return, his fingertips gently brushing over the skin of those knuckles: this hand had once hurt him, the bruises had already faded, but the warmth was still etched upon his Adam’s apple.
He asked, “Hestal, would you be willing to sing that song with me?”
Note:
[1] This chapter mentions some plot points from my other work, “The Wall of Precepts,” but it’s basically unrelated to the story of this novel. I just wanted to sneak in a little self-indulgence.
The main storyline of the first part of that other work is about a guy who’s a terrorist on paper and a deranged psychopath in practice kidnapping a cardinal; and to put it simply, not long after that incident, the journalist pissed off someone he shouldn’t have, got his fingers chopped off by criminals, and decided to just flee to America to make a living.
(Hoxton is a country I made up. Geographically, it corresponds to Germany’s northernmost two provinces, Schleswig-Holstein and Mecklenburg.)
[2] Protagoras was an ancient Greek philosopher. Since his relevant works have long been lost, his theories can only be found in Plato’s Theaetetus and Protagoras.
So although that line Albanino said—”Man is the measure of all things…”—is indeed Protagoras’s view, it actually comes from Plato’s Theaetetus.
I gradually discovered that Albanino might really be very fond of Plato’s works.
[3] Kailharit: a French architect who designed the Amiens Cathedral in France and the Cologne Cathedral in Germany.
Actually, the bombed Gothic church mentioned in the text is particularly small. By all logic, it’s unlikely to have been designed by Kaelharit (but I don’t care, the Bishop deserves it, Elijah deserves it).