[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

The man looked at the badge.  Homicide, eh? Someone murdered around here?
 No. Can we go inside and talk for a moment?
The man looked at him suspiciously.  Is this a search? Aren t you supposed to have a warrant?
D Agostaswallowed his annoyance.  It s voluntary. I want to ask you a few questions about the man
who lived in this warehouse. Kawakita.
 Was that his name? Now there was a weird guy. Seriously weird. Leading D Agostaout of the alley,
the man named Kirtsema unlocked his own black metal door. Stepping inside, D Agostafound himself
inside another vast warehouse, painted bone white. Along the walls were a number of oddly shaped
metal cans filled with trash. A dead palm tree stood in one corner. In the middle of the room, D Agosta
could see countless black strings, hung from the ceiling in clumps. It felt like some kind of nightmarish
moon-forest. In the far corner he could see a cot, sink, exposed toilet, and hot plate. No other amenities
were visible.
 So what s this? D Agostaasked, fingering the strings.
 My God, don t tangle them! Kirtsema almost knocked D Agostaaside in his rush to repair the
damage.
 They re never supposed totouch , he said in a wounded tone as he fussed with the strings.
 D Agostastepped back.  What is this, some kind of ex-periment?
 No. It s an artificial environment, a reproduction of the primeval jungle that we all evolved in, translated
to New York City.
D Agostalooked at the strings in disbelief.  So this is art? Who looks at it?
 It sconceptual art, Kirtsema explained impatiently.  Nobody looks at it. It s not meant to be seen. It
is sufficient that itexists. The strings never touch, just as we human beings never touch, never really
interact. We are alone. And this whole world is unseen, just as we float through the cosmos unseen. As
Derrida said,  Art is that which is not art, which means 
 Did you know if his first name was Gregory?
 Jacques.Jacques Derrida. Not Gregory.
 I mean the man who lived next door.
 Like I said, I didn t even know his name. I avoided him like the plague. Guess you re here because of
the complaints.
 Complaints?
 Yeah. I called, again and again. After the first couple of times, nobody came. He blinked.  No, wait.
You re Homi-cide. Did he kill somebody?
Without answering, D Agostatook a notebook out of a coat pocket.  Tell me about him.
 He moved in two years ago, maybe a little less. At first, he seemed pretty quiet. Then these trucks
began pulling up, and all kinds of boxes and crates started going inside. That s when the noise started.
Always at night. Hammering. Thuds. Loud popping noises. And the smell ... Kirtsema wrinkled his nose
in disgust.  Like something acrid burning. He d painted the inside of the windows black, but one of them
got broken somehow and I got a look inside before it was re-paired. He grinned.  It was a
strange-looking setup. I could see microscopes, big glass beakers boiling and boiling, gray metal boxes
with lights on them, aquaria.
 Aquaria?
 One aquarium after another, rows upon rows. Big things, full of algae. Obviously, he was a scientist of
some kind. Kirtsema pronounced the word with distaste.  A dissector, a reductionist. I don t like that
way of looking at the world. I ama holist, Sergeant.
 I see.
 Then one day the power company came around. Said they had to hook up some special heavy-duty
lines to his place, or something. And they turned off my power for two days. Two days! But try
complaining to Con Ed. Dehumanized bureau-crats.
 Did he have any visitors? D Agostaasked.  Any friends?
 Visitors! Kirtsema snorted.  That was the last straw. People began arriving. Always at night. They had
this way of knocking, like some kind of signal. That was when I first called the cops. I knew something
seriously weird was hap-pening there. I thought maybe it was drugs. The cops came, said there was
nothing illegal going on, and left again. He shook his head bitterly at the memory.
 It went on like that. I kept calling the cops, complaining about the noise and the smell, but after the
second visit they wouldn t come anymore. And then one day, maybe a year ago, the guy appeared at my
door. Just showed up, no warning or anything, about eleven o clock at night.
 What did he want? D Agostaasked.
 Don t know. I think he wanted to ask me why I d called the cops on him. All I know is, he gave me the
willies. It was September, almost as hot as it is now, but he had on a bulky coat with a big hood. He
stood back in the shadows, and I couldn t see his face. He just stood there, in the darkness, and asked if
he could come in. I said no, of course. Sergeant, it was all I could do not to shut the door in his face.
 Lieutenant, corrected D Agostaabsently, scribbling in his notebook. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]