The Interrogation

The man was strangely handsome for a police detective.

We were standing on my terrace. The weather was usual. Sultry. Hot. Unbearable. The time was the evening. We started on the right foot, perhaps because no other foot was left. Both of us agreed that it had been a terrible idea to be born in a country where people sweat even in the evenings, even standing on the terrace. We lashed out at the whole world – everybody but ourselves – for contributing to the creation of Global Warming, and smoked to the demise of human sensibilities. Then he asked a bizarre question, which I must report now.

“Have you noticed how wonderful it is to live in the suburbs?” he asked with genuine curiosity.

“No, I didn’t. I am sorry.”        

I was taken aback by this peculiar observation. I was sure that anybody in his sanest mind would abhor living in the suburbs. The detective seemed a normal person. Why should he feel like this? I even asked him that.

“Why do you say that?”

“Forget it. I was thinking about something else. Can we move downstairs?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“These mosquitoes here…,” he slapped one of them to death.

I said nothing. Of course, the mosquitoes. They could outnumber the population of China. And they were relentless. They were colorblind too. But that was not a big deal. The detective was not in uniform.

We came down to my drawing room. It was particularly decorated for these occasions.

We settled ourselves to the comfort of the couch. The mosquito repellant was in mint condition.

“You got a nice place here,” he looked around, “you live alone?”

“Yes. I live here alone.”

“Your parents?”

“They are dead.”

“Oh! I am sorry,” he sounded sympathetic and suspicious at the same time. How can they do that? Do they have voice training at the police academy?

“You haven’t told me yet why you are here.”

“Haven’t I?” he sounded surprised.

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Don’t be afraid. It’s just a routine enquiry.”

As if to assure me further, he stretched his arms and yawned.

“I don’t understand. What are you inquiring about?”

He folded his arms on his chest, “Don’t you feel cold?”

I observed him for a couple of seconds. He was trying to get at something. What was it?

“Would you like to have some whiskey?” I had to ask him.

“It seems you can read mind,” he grinned and looked into my eyes. I noticed that his left eye was smaller than the right one. Small details are as important as the Statue of Liberty.

“Ah, scotch! Wonderful. You have taste,” the detective smiled sipping on his drink.

I nodded in response. He might not be as vicious as suggested by the size of his left eye. I took a swig myself. The ice didn’t melt yet. My lips touched them. It felt cold.

“Where were you last Saturday evening?”

Have you ever played volleyball with professionals? Those gigantic people, who cannot but only look down upon you? Imagine you are standing in front of the net, and the tallest and the most virile of them serves a volley with full force, and to save your nose, you turn to your left, so the ball hits your right ear, and you can’t figure out for the next few days for whom the bell tolls. Well, the question hit me from that direction, and I was so unready. I tried to cough away my embarrassment, but it didn’t help.

“What do you mean?”

“Were you home that night?”

“Which night? Can you be more specific?”

The detective looked a little restless, “I don’t know how to be more specific. I am asking about last Saturday, you know, 24^th June? Do you remember anything?”

“Last Saturday was 24^th June? And nobody told me!”

The detective was unmoved. Perhaps his wife does all the laundry at home. So he knows how to keep a straight face even when his collars are rouged with foreign lipstick. 

“Why? What’s so special about the date?”

I thought about it. Am I in a jam? Or a pickle? Or any other mushy, grisly substance?

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“What should I tell you?”

“What’s so special about the date.”

“Yes. What is it?”

“Have I shown you my collection of records?” 

A little pause. Not more than four seconds.

“I think that’s a good idea,” he finally spoke.

We both took sighs of relief. The conversation was going nowhere. It was standing in the desert and looking for a pub, and after the American intervention, one can’t find them anymore. They have vanished like pimples of puberty.

The officer borrowed a couple of early Monks from my collection. He promised to return them as soon as possible. His wife had gone to her parents’ house. He was so bored that the other night he fell asleep while masturbating. The jazzy meanderings of Thelonious Monk might cure his allergy to cat food.

“You know what’s sad?” he said in his melancholic baritone, “I don’t even have a cat.”