The Scent of the Blueberry - 7

“I can’t come to the phone right now but, if you’ll leave your name, phone number and a brief message, I’ll return your call as soon as I can.”

Allen wryly reflected on both the veracity and newly-found irony of his own recorded message. Allen could most definitely not come to the phone at that point, since he was securely bound at the wrists, ankles, knees, toes, thumbs. . . and, if he had been able to make it to the phone despite this predicament, the gag would have discouraged useful conversation. Of course, that might have led to his rescue, but his captor had just been pointing out all the reasons why there was no hope of escape. Allen wished that he’s just get it over with – the gloating was really too much for him to bear. No class, he reflected.

Ah, yes, his captor. . . George (previously known as The Jerk at Evelyn’s bar.) Allen’s ringing phone had interrupted George. . . and George hated interruptions.

“Really, Allen. You could have shown me the courtesy of disconnecting your telephone before your capture. I was in mid-sentence – there is absolutely no excuse for this type of rudeness. I think the world is slowly going to hell, don’t you think?” Allen just stared at him. “Oh, I think so. Slowly going to hell. Well, I do believe that it is my responsibility to accelerate the process. Wouldn’t you agree?”

By then Michel was leaving his message and George said in a low voice to no one in particular, “I’m sorry, but your little friend can’t come out to play right now. He is . . . indisposed.” He turned back to Allen. “Now, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, the twine that binds your thumbs is my new signature motif. Much more effective than merely securing your wrists. However, time grows short, so I must regrettably end our conversation. (Thank God, Allen thought.) After all, your friend may be on the way over, and it would be premature for me to conclude my business with him. You understand, don’t you?”

Allen did indeed understand – only too well.

George paused. There was a time that killing Allen would have a cause of celebration, a triumphant event. He would have carefully considered the procedure – Allen fully deserved a unique and aesthetically pleasing death, and George would have lovingly lingered over every detail of the execution. The truth was (although George wasn’t ready to admit it) that he was beginning to find all of this just a trifle . . . boring. Even the prerequisite torture no longer held the excitement for George that it once had. It was all old, just too old – like eating the finest Swiss chocolate several times a day for countless years. George craved strawberry . . . or even vanilla. Allen, well, in the end, Allen was just another hapless victim.

So where to start? He did want to act quickly, but also create a unique experience. George pulled the knife from its sheath. Usually he held it in his right hand – at last count, 63% of the time. So this time he would use his left hand. (He briefly considered using his left foot, but he had actually already done that before – and he remembered that it had been distinctly uncomfortable.)

George decided that, as he lifted his arm to strike, he would curl his hand slightly behind his head. He knew that he had done that 38% of the time overall, but only 16% of the time when he was using his left hand. And he had screamed “Out, out, brief candle!” at the moment of death only 8% of the time – probably because George loathed Shakespeare – but had he ever done that when he was using his left hand and curling it behind his head first? He couldn’t remember doing it before but, if he did it now, he had to consider the effect of not being able to use that particular technique in the future. But since he really couldn’t see any downside to that future exclusion, he went ahead and did it (after taking the ingenious and reasonable precaution of translating the Shakespearean line into German. Best to save the original English for a future occasion.)

Allen had been pleasantly surprised at the absence of torture. He knew that George had been short on time, but had fully expected at least a few excruciating moments. His last thought as he saw the knife descending toward his heart was that he didn’t have the vaguest idea why George was screaming when he was the only one who had the apparent right to scream. Actually, his very last thought was to wonder what George was screaming. Allen decided that he would try to pick up a little German next time.

As George considered the flow of blood from Allen’s chest, he shivered slightly. Not from guilt or remorse or declining adrenaline. George did not like the cold, and the situation with Allen and the telephone and the execution had distracted him from the fact that his apartment seemed unusually cold. Then a possibility occurred to George that he really didn’t like, and he walked into the bedroom. Yes, the bedroom window was open. Not wide open, but this was a ground floor apartment – so was it possible that anyone on the outside had heard anything? George was relieved that he hadn’t taken the time for any torture – the dialog could have been mistaken for the script of a television program – his only concern, he reflected wryly, should be German fans of Shakespeare. Peering out the window, he did not see anyone at all – let alone potential fans of arcane Elizabethan translations. Still, it was evidence of carelessness on his part, and the consistent success that had given rise to George’s boredom did not come from carelessness.

So it was time to go – but first he would leave a small calling card.