I tried hard not to remember that Celia's husband wrote this. I tried to get Celia's face out of my head. When we last met she said I had a split personality. I was afraid of her. I didn't want to meet her; I was scared to look into her eyes. I didn't want to see that strange, thoughtful look. I didn't want to see myself in that mirror. Why did she make love with me? She loved her husband, this damn genius, she's told me so many times. Was she the type of woman who fights old age by having passing affairs? I couldn't believe that, couldn't imagine it. What was I to her? A younger lover? But I had to meet her! I had to see her! Maybe she was right. She could have been right about everything. Maybe I was sick. Opposing desires tore me in two. I felt like I'd go crazy. Why, why? Did she make love with me because she felt sorry for me?
     I read the book the way I used to in my old student daysâwhen I was studying for exams. I took notes, I summed up passages. I put a mark on the margin with a soft pencil when I found something that struck me as important. I put a mark next to the facts and the paragraphs where Baruch was really saying something. I put signs there when I agreed with something and a different sign when I doubted his conclusions. I also marked the passages where he seemed to contradict what he said earlier. And when I'd gone through the whole book, I'd start again, following my signs. I copied abbreviated passages into my notebook, only a couple words sometimes, practically just names and figures mixed with lots of my own arrows, exclamation points and question marks. And when something seemed important, the pencil marks appeared on the margin of my notes too. In the end, I'd have a summary of a summary. This would enable me to recall the original pile of gobbledygook.
     I only used two symbols at first. One mark indicated Baruch's references to other materials that I should read. The other mark indicated Baruch's own passages that I want to re-read thoroughly.
     The first bottle of beer was empty now, and I was constantly snacking. Distractedly stuffing pieces of chocolate and salty crackers into my mouth. As if I was afraid that as soon as I stopped eating, the machinery in my brain would stop too.
     On first reading, it didn't seem worth the effort. Baruch was a disappointment. But I was patient. I'd begun dissecting the book. There would be an answer.
     I jumped when the phone rang. It was just three feet away from me, on the desk. It sounded loud, frightening, like an alarm bell. I could see myself throwing some clothes on, rushing out into the night to find a dead body in a clotting pool of blood, a crying family, curious neighbors or the darkness of a park, a bar. The spot changes, the violence remains the same.
     Even though I hadn't gone on a call like this for over a year, the thought made my heart beat faster. I glanced at my watch. Past midnight. Who the hell could it be?
     Celia. I instantly recognized her voice. She was sad, frightened.
     "Did I wake you up? Were you asleep?"
     "No. I'm still reading."
     She didn't ask me what I'm reading. She just told me how many times she had called. She spent half the night trying to reach me last night, and also today, both at home and at the police station. I could see her in front of me. The pain and disappointment in her beautiful eyes would make my heart sink. I would hold her tight, stroke her, comfort her and promise that this would never happen again.
     "I was busy," was all I said.
     Her voice was soft earlier, but it became even softer, I could hardly hear what she was saying.
     "Something â¦again â¦?"
     "No, don't worry! I'm all right."
     I felt my voice was offensive. I don't know why. Maybe I was annoyed. I didn't want to have to give excuses, to tell her that I visited my brother. Most of all I didn't want to tell her why I went. I didn't owe her explanations. She at least has her genius with her.
     "You're sick, John. I'm worried about you."
     "Thanks. That's kind of you."
     My voice became clearly hostile. I don't know why I wanted to hurt her, but it gave me a kind of perverse satisfaction.
     I could hear her crying. My hands shook, I felt like throwing the phone to the floor. Instead a took another verbal jab, hoping to force her to say what I wanted to hear.
     "You thought that the only thing you could do to stop me from going insane was to go to bed with me. Thanks. It was nice medicine."
     But she still didn't say it. She didn't say she loved me. She didn't say she'd leave her genius husband, or that I should go pick her up even nowâin the middle of the night. She didn't even tell me I was wrong.
     "John, we need to talk," was all she said. I could picture her face, imagine it in the circle of light made by the lamp next to my bedside. I knew that her eyes would look at me with pity, as if I were sick. I suddenly hated her for this.
   "Tomorrow morning?" Her voice was hopeful.
   "That's no good," I answered maliciously, "I'm busy."
     I thought of Lewis, of the hospital entrance next to the parking lot where he'd be waiting at exactly ten, glancing at his gold watchâand looking at me with displeasure if I dared to arrive thirty seconds late after the 100 mile drive.
     There was a short period of silence. Painful, hurt silence.
     "In the afternoon?" Celia asked.
     "Where are you calling from?" I automatically reached for more chocolate.
     Celia hesitated. What? She didn't know where she was calling from?
     "From home," she said quietly. Her voice was unusually soft and very sad. There was something suspicious about it. It bothered me.
     "And where is your genius?" I kept bugging her.
     "Don't talk about him like that!"
     "Why? Isn't he a genius?"
     I glanced at the book, open in the middle, with a diagonal pencil mark on top of the left page. This meant I was going to copy that sentence into my notebook: "When we chart the spread of violent acts on a society-wide level, we see the same sort of pattern that would be created by the appearance and withdrawal of infectious diseases over the course of time." And the part that followed also looked interesting. It was about how infectious diseases keep returning again and again, in different forms. It was not exactly clear to me what that had to do with violent behavior, but this passage kept bugging me.
     "Yes, he is," Celia said. "Your mockery is disgusting. You have no right to do this."
     I hated to hear the woman I love constantly praising another man.
     "Of course," I answered. "How could I come close to a genius? Who am I? A simple, ignorant cop with a split personality."
     "John, I've told him!"
     "What?" I held on to the receiver with all my strength. I felt emptiness in my chest as if it was me who had been cheated on. Celia wanted to talk to me. Was she going to move in here? I instinctively looked around at my plain little room. Or was she about to break up with me? The feeling of emptiness grew.
     "I'm working in the afternoon," I told her. It's amazing how hoarse my voice became. Celia knew as well as I did that if I really wanted to get away from work I could. I had told her about Captain Ericsson's offer. I wondered if I should explain to her how many people are on leave, and that I didn't have the nerve to ask him for time off? Celia would see through me anyway. The same number of people were on sick leave or vacation when I ran to her office like a madman. Like a madman!
     "Tomorrow night then?"
     My stomach shook, the nausea was pushing the half-digested chocolate back up my throat.
     "I'm going to a dance club in the evening â¦" I began. I'm not sure what happened to me just then. Maybe I felt pity, or maybe it was because I loved this woman, and her soft, sad whisper was driving me crazy. "You can come with me if you want."
     I was a little surprised when she said she wanted to come. We agreed on a time and place and then I got back to reading the book by my lover's husband. I could hardly see the lines, I could hardly get the words. I took notes automatically. "Waves of aggressive behavior sweep over mankind again and again, like an infectious disease." Not a very original thought. I'd read this metaphor before. But as I continued reading, I realized that he meant it literally. Dr. Baruch believed that there was an infectious virus responsible for the outbreak of meaningless conflicts, civil wars and witch-hunts. When the viral epidemic wanes, more tolerant times follow, there is a decrease in war and an increase in the number of international peace treaties.
     The more I understood, the more questions I had. According to Dr. Baruch, certain historical events cannot be explained with economic or political theories. Of course, there are a few people in every country who may benefit from a war, but that doesn't explain how these opportunists can manipulate all of their fellow citizens. Was it a coincidence that several nationalist dictators could take power at the same time? Was it a coincidence that these leaders simultaneously found an eager audience in different parts of the world? Was it a coincidence that people listen to the preaching of war hawks in one era and ignore them in another? According to Baruch, it was a mistake to say that hard economic times bring on wars. He listed countless examples of times when deranged leaders came to power under prosperity instead of poverty.
     According to my lover's husband, and I never suspected he was into history too, these phenomena have biological explanations.
     This thought was frightening. I closed the book and stared into the darkness. A sense of helplessness came over me. If Baruch was right, we were all subject to some kind of incurable disease, one that attacks unexpectedly and kills like cancer or AIDS. Except that this disease doesn't just kill one individual, it can wipe out an entire miserable population. I hated Baruch for this idea.
     If it wasn't for Lewis's obsessive punctuality. If I didn't picture him telling me in a pained voice that, in case I didn't know, he has an awful lot of work. If I wasn't certain that, although Lewis can be a fat head, he's a loving brother who'll be waiting for me with a team of nurses and doctors, I would have continued reading Baruch's book. But knowing all this, I closed the book, and shuffled over to the bedroom barefoot.
     It took me a while to fall asleep, I stared at the ceiling for a long time. I couldn't stop thinking about questions that I should remember to write down in my notebook before leaving in the morning. I had no idea where I would find the answers to them. Maybe in books, or from Celia, or from other doctors and psychologists. I knew I'd find someone who knows. It's my profession to ask questions and find the answers to them. Before I drifted off to sleep, I realized what the most important question actually was: What does all this have to do with what's been happening to me? There had to be a link! I fell asleep with this thought in my head.
CHAPTER 24
As soon as he steps on his brakes in front of the Star Dance Club, Arany regrets having invited Celia along. He looks at Celia next to him, hunched up silent. She turns away, looks out of the window and Arany can't see her eyes.
     Arany parks the car, turns the engine off, and looks at the run-down building with a young crowd hanging around the entrance. The grubby facade is decorated with colorful neon signs announcing the club. It reminds Arany of an old whore who tries to hide her age with a thick cake of gaudy makeup.
     Even though it's a weekday, there's a long line in the street. It moves very slowly, because armed bouncers search everyone at the door. Beautiful girls, giggling too loudly in their mini-skirts, wait impatiently. The swollen biceps of their dates are shiny in the colorful light.
     Arany despairs. Lots of Pats and lots of Frosts, he thinks. He's still under the influence of the depressing book he'd read the day before. It didn't seem that these young people wanted to hang out and have fun, they looked like an unpredictable crowd. Like sick people. Sick with the disease that starts wars. Someone's gun is taken away at the door. He can enter now.
     "Are you sure you want to come in with me?" he asks.
     Celia is still not looking at him.
     "Sure," she says quietly.
     They had both been deep in their own thoughts on the way here, and hadn't spoken. Now Arany hesitantly reaches out and touches her thigh. Celia shudders. Arany starts slowly stroking her long muscular legs. She tosses her head back, closes her eyes and parts her lips. She shuts the world out, listens only to her body and sighs self-indulgently.
     Arany touches her breasts, and Celia tosses her head to the side so her dark hair covers the headrest. Desire sweeps over him. The way this woman surrenders to his touch anywhere anytime, excites him. The headlights of an approaching car flash across Celia's passionate face. Then it's dark, and her features become obscure again.
     "Let's go home!" Arany whispers.
     He turns toward Celia. Her eyes are half open, her face looks hazy, with a mysterious shine. Her thin fingers touch Arany's chest and slide downwards.
     "No!" he whispers suddenly. "Not here â¦"
     The answer is only a mysterious smile. Arany feels like this woman can see through him, control him. Whatever Celia wants, and wherever she wants it, she'll get it.
     He looks outside while the fine fingers undo his fly. From the edge of his vision he can see her head bending forward. He runs his fingers through Celia's hair. Her warm lips pamper him. Outside the car, at the end of the line to the club, a fight breaks out. Someone runs away; a man curses; a woman screams. A few people look on with surprised faces as they take their places at the end of the line. No one in front of them seems to care and neither do the bouncers. Arany doesn't care. He's just stares glassyeyed out of the car window, at a world that doesn't care about him either. No one notices the couple in the car, not even when a Arany cries out with pleasure.