The Other Suitcase continued
"Arab I know lives in Palermo found it. Buys and sells stuff: antiques, kif, blood diamonds, pornography, guns, whatever."
"And this is all he had? Just the title page?"
Arthur studied the surface of the coffee table.
"It was tucked in between some dirty lithographs he was trying to flog. The lithos were of poor quality and I passed on them. But then I remembered hearing you were keen on Kafka stuff. And here you are."
He was lying. I was sure of it. They'd detached the cover page and were offering it up as bait. To see how excited I got. Catch a clue as to how much I might be willing to pay for the entire story.
"This isn't worth much by itself," I said.
"But if there were a previously unknown story by the maestro, it would be worth a tidy sum?"
"Maybe you should call your Arab friend and ask him to bring the rest of the manuscript over. After I see it we can start the bidding."
Arthur grimaced. Then picked up his cell phone from the coffee table and walked down the darkened back hall for privacy. Two minutes later:
BLAM!
I ducked behind the high back of the settee, eyes on the shadowy hallway whence the gunshot had exploded.
Moments later a peaches and cream complexioned, narrow-hipped woman of striking Aryan beauty and youth strode vehemently into the room. She wore almost nothing: a whimsical T-shirt, postage stamp sized skirt, Converse high tops covered in tiny black skulls, aquamarine eye shadow.
A small black pistol in her hand pointed in my direction.
"Please raise your hands," she said.
When I complied, she flashed me a thin smile. One discolored tooth stood out like a vandalized gravestone.
"Now we wait."
I started to lower my hands.
"Don't put your hands down," she said, waving the pistol erratically. She walked around the settee. I turned to face her and gestured at the bottle of arak.
"Mind if I have a drink?"
She shrugged. I poured a double. Time passed; night descended. I imagined Arthur Zelig lying in a crumpled heap in the back hallway, his life slipping away one drop of blood at a time.
"My name's Alex," I said.
"Monique."
"What are you after?" I asked.
"I want back what was stolen from my grandfather in 1945." She picked up the title page of "The Fly" from where it lay abandoned on the coffee table; her eyes glowed like burning cities. "This and four others."
"The lost Kafka stories?" I was putting two and two together. "Your grandfather's name, it wasn't by chance Herr Grass?"
"How did you know?"
"To answer that question, I'd have to tell you my life story. I'm not sure we have time for that."
Just then an Arab-looking man in a black shirt and gray trousers burst from the hallway, bounded several steps and threw himself like a giant ape going for broke at Monique. Blam! A shot went wild. His fingers circled her neck. She was hitting the side of his head with the pistol. His other hand grabbed for the wrist of the pistol-wielding arm. They rolled, twisted, butted heads, floundered.
A folded manuscript lay on the tile floor where it had fallen out of the Arab's back pocket.
It had to be the rest of "The Fly".
I scooped up the document and hightailed it out of there. In the hallway I hurdled Arthur's remains. Stumbled my way down a stone stairway in the dark and out to the street where tourists strolled pretending all was right with the world.
Lightning skewered the sky. Wind whirled paper trash in circles.
After racing flat out for several blocks, I slowed to a walk; then ducked into a doorway. My breath wheezed like an emphysemic cat. As far as I could tell, no one was chasing me. My plan was to take a taxi up the coast to Messina, rent a car and drive to Rome.
But, first things first, I opened the manuscript.
Greta Simca had been a fly for as long as she
could remember. It was the only life she knew.
It had its ups and downs, but most of the time
she thought she was happy.
Just then her husband Gilbert flew through
the window and skidded to a landing next to her.
He was always horny when he came home from the
office. Greta rolled her multifaceted eyes. But
it was part of being a good mother and a good wife.
Gilbert strutted behind her; ran his proboscis
up her spindly leg. Then without further ado he
mounted her. She saw and felt his engorged aedeagus.
It was huge and potent looking.
The rest of the first page was taken up by an illustration.
