CHAPTER 13

“Have you already been interrogated?” I asked just to make conversation.

“That’s what I just finished. I will not have to impose on you for too long,” LaPonder replied politely.

I thought to myself, he has no idea how they treat people here. “You eventually get used to doing nothing, the first days are the worst.” An expression of gratitude appeared on his face.

Another pause.

Feeling an awkward silence I asked, "Did the interrogation last long, Andrew?”

“No. They simply asked me if I confessed, I said that I did and signed my statement.”

“You signed a confession!” I exclaimed.

“I did.” He said it as if it were a matter of course.

It can’t be a serious crime, I decided, he is far too calm.

“Unfortunately, I’ve been in here so long it seems like a whole lifetime,”

I gave an involuntary sigh and his face immediately took on a sympathetic expression. "Please excuse the nosiness, Andrew, but I am wondering what got you arrested.”

He hesitated for a moment, pursed his lips, then said, without batting an eyelid, “Murder with a bit of cannibalism.”

I was shocked. He seemed to notice and discreetly looked to one side. Our conversation ended there, and we silently avoided each other’s gaze.

When it became dark and I went to bed, he immediately followed my example, undressed, carefully hung his clothes on the hook on the wall, lay down and appeared, from his deep, regular breathing, to have fallen fast asleep. I, on the other hand, could not get to sleep. The idea that I was sharing a tiny cell with a cannibal, even breathing the same air as he, was so horribly disturbing that it drove all the other events of the day, even Seven’s letter, completely from my mind.

I lay in such a position that I had the murderer constantly in view. The cell was dimly lit by a shimmer of moonlight, and I could see LaPonder lying there motionless, almost rigid. There was something corpse-like about his features, and his half-open mouth only intensified the impression.

For many hours he lay there, not changing his position once; not, that is, until a long time after midnight when a moonbeam fell on his face and he became slightly restless, moving his lips, like someone talking in his sleep. It seemed to be the same words, something like, “Let me. Let me. Let me.”

—-

For the next few days I avoided him, nor did he break the silence. His manner remained as friendly as ever. I began to reproach myself for my rudeness, but I could not overcome my repugnance for him. It even kept me awake at night.

Every evening the same ritual would be repeated, down to the very last detail: he would wait respectfully until I was lying down, then he would undress, fold his clothes meticulously, hang them up, and so on, and so on.

One night, I was staring at the full moon, full of melancholy thoughts of Seven when I heard the soft sound of his voice behind me. I turned and listened. I could not understand the words exactly, but it sounded like, “Ask me. Ask me.” It was definitely Seven’s voice.

Curious, I climbed down, as quietly as I could, and went to LaPonder’s bed. The moonlight was shining full on his face, and I could see clearly that his lids were open, but only the whites of his eyes were visible. I could tell he was in a deep sleep. Only his lips were moving, and gradually the words coming through his clenched teeth became distinctly audible, “Ask me. Ask me.”

The voice sounded just like Seven’s.

I softly asked, “Seven?”

His lips formed one word, scarcely audible but yet distinct, “Yes.”

I put my ear close to his mouth. After a while I could hear Seven’s voice whispering to me. So unmistakable was the voice, that an icy shiver rippled over my skin.He spoke of his love for me, of his happiness that we had bonded, that we would never part. He spoke without pausing for breath, like someone who is afraid of being interrupted and wants to make use of every second. He told me of Dr. Savioli paying him to steal Wasser’s wax mannequin and how when he delivered it, he had been seduced into joining the couple’s love making, first as a photographer, then as a willing participant.  He was sorry he had kept the truth from me and said it would never happen again.

Then the voice faltered, went completely silent for a while. “Seven?” I asked, holding my breath and trembling with fear, “Seven, are you dead?”

For a long time there was no answer, then, almost inaudibly, “I'm sorry, Charles.” Then he was gone. I listened and listened. There was nothing more.

Trembling with the nervous strain, I had to support myself on the edge of the bunk so as not to collapse on top of LaPonder. The illusion was so complete, that for a brief moment I thought it was Seven lying before me and it took all my power of self-control not to stroke the cheek of Andrew LaPonder and kiss his full lips.

I remembered having read somewhere that to get sleepers to talk one should not direct the questions at their ears, but at the network of nerves around their heart.

“Dr. Hill?” I asked the chest of Andrew LaPonder.

“Yes. I hear you.” “Do you know where I am and what has happened to me?” I asked.

“Yes. I know everything. I have known for a long time. Do not worry, and do not fear. We will we see each other soon? Goodbye, I hope you will remember me,” came out loud and clear only the words were in Seven’s voice, but as if I had spoken them myself.

LaPonder’s face was in darkness now, the moonlight falling on the end of his mattress.

I asked more questions, but received no answers. LaPonder lay there, motionless as a corpse, his lids closed. I reproached myself that all this time I had only seen LaPonder as a murderer, not as a man. From what I had just heard, he must be a somnambulist, someone who was susceptible to the influence of the full moon. Perhaps he had committed the crime in a kind of trance.

Now, as morning began to break, the rigidity in his features gave way to his usual charming smile. A man who has a murder on his conscience should not sleep as peacefully as that.

He opened his eyes, met my gaze and looked away. I went over to him. “I’m really sorry, Andrew, that I have been an asshole.”

“Oh please, I understand completely,” he interrupted. “I would hate to be locked up with someone like me myself.”

“Let’s let it go,” I suggested.

He looked into my eyes, “You think I am crazy.”

“Well, yes,” I agreed. Then added, “But I am curious too. This may sound strange, but do you remember any dreams from last night?”

With a smile he shook his head. “I never dream.”

“Well you were talking in your sleep.”

He looked up in surprise, thought for a while and then said firmly, “That could only be if you had asked me a question.”

I admitted I had. He paused, then repeated, “As I said, I never dream,” adding, almost under his breath, “I, umm, I roam.”

“You roam? What exactly does that mean?”

He seemed somewhat unwilling to speak, so I decided it would be best to tell him what had led me to question him, and I gave him a summary of what had happened during the night.

When I had finished, he said solemnly, “The one thing you can be sure of is that everything I said in my sleep is connected to truth. When I said just now that I did not dream, but roamed, I meant that my dream life was different from that of, shall we say, normal people. If you like, you can consider it an out-of-body experience. Last night I remember I was in a strange room which was entered from below, through a trapdoor. There was furniture in it, though not much. And a bed in which a young girl was asleep.”

It had to be Mary, Dr. Hill's daughter. I could hardly breathe.

“Please go on.”

“I went down a spiral staircase, a room lead off to one side, and in it there was a man. He had black eyes. He was leaning forward and seemed to be waiting for something. For instructions, perhaps.”

“Did you see a book?” I asked.

He rubbed his forehead. “A book? Yes. There was a book on the floor. The cover had a large letter ‘U’  in gold.”

“Don’t you mean with an ‘I’?”

“No,” he said assuredly, “It was ‘U'.”

Then I returned to the room with the sleeping girl, but then I saw she was not real, she was made of wax. It was the woman I murdered.

Suddenly, he jumped back from me and stared at my chest as if he could see something there. Ignoring my puzzlement, he hastily grasped my hand and squeezed it, almost pleading, “Please unbutton your shirt."

When I did he grabbed me by the shoulders, "For heaven’s sake, tell me everything. Today is the only day I can spend with you. I can see the reason now. Quick, tell me. The beans. What did you do?” he said with some some agitation.

“You know about the beans? The red beans with black spots?” I was surprised. “I was confused and in frustration I knocked them out of the hand and they fell onto the floor.” I lightly chuckled.

“You knocked them out of his hand?” he muttered. “I never thought of a third path.”

“That wasn’t a third path,” I said. “It was the same as if I had rejected the seeds.”

He smiled, “If you had rejected them, you would have followed the Path of Life, but the seeds would not have remained behind. Instead, they rolled onto the ground. That means that they have remained here and will be guarded by your ancestors.”

I was confused. “The seeds will be guarded by my ancestors?”

“You have to understand your experiences symbolically,” explained LaPonder. “The soul is not a single unity, just as a colony of ants is composed of many single ants. You carry the genetics of thousands of ancestors. Our ancestors are genetically in our bodies and in our souls.”

I then told him everything, even the things Mary had said about the hermaphrodite. When I stopped and looked up, I saw that LaPonder had turned as white as a sheet and tears were running down his face. I was so moved that I held him and kissed his tears.

“When I committed the murder I had no choice. Even though I was fully aware of what I was doing, I still had no choice. There was something that woke up and was stronger than I was. I had never killed anything, not even the smallest animal. Even now I could not kill any living creature.”

“I am not crazy. Like you I was offered the seeds, unlike you… I took them. I followed the instructions I received from god and those instructions, to murder, brought me to you.”

This man is either a saint or totally insane, I thought.

LaPonder was silent. For a long time I found it impossible to say a word. Finally he spoke, “You are in possession of the one key I lacked."

“Me? In possession of a key?”

“Yes, and you gave it to me. I don’t think there can be a happier man than I am today.”

Outside there was the sound of guards approaching; LaPonder paid no attention to it.

“The hermaphrodite, that was the key. Charles, you are the creature all your ancestors have been building toward. Your gift empowers the hermaphrodite.”

Tears that I did not understand erupted from my eyes. I could not see Andrew LaPonder’s face because of them, but I could see the light shooting spectacularly from the top of his head.

“And now, Charles Bobuck, I have an appointment to keep. You have one very soon as well.”