
All week long, Ethan busied himself writing horrible stories. They were filled with scenes of murder, torture, robberies and all manner of violence. His inspiration came from the news or grim anecdotes he heard about town. What interested him was the psychology of his characters; the elusive darkness that dwells within all of us. His imagination worked at a frantic pace. He had a special room in his parents’ apartment just for writing, where he had pinned news clippings all over the walls. This was his sacred space; no-one was allowed in, not even his mother, who called him to the table by ringing a bell. When Ethan heard its ringing over the sound of his typewriter, he sprang up to go and eat his mother’s meatballs, which were the best in the world. During lunch, he would tell her about what he’d written as she nodded along proudly. She did not dare give him any notes; after all, what did she know about crime? Her son was so independent and so talented. He’d always been more intelligent and imaginative than the other children. At school, he used to draw crime scenes in his notebook. His teacher worried about him, but Ethan’s mother knew this was a sign of great things to come for her child.
Today, however, it was Shabbat, which meant Ethan could not write at all. This was torture to him. Returning to reality was so boring. Fortunately the synagogue brought him some comfort; each time he went he prayed for inspiration. God had placed him on a special path, and Ethan would not disappoint Him. The rabbi wasn’t exactly proud of him. He was always saying, “Ethan, your interest in these sordid details will not bring you wisdom. Look at how your own people have suffered: if it is horror you want, why not tell their story?” Ethan had no inclination to open up that particular can of worms. The criminals in his stories never came to complain, but if he were to write the Big Story people from his community would have plenty to say about it, telling him he hadn’t been dramatic enough, or too dramatic; not faithful enough, precise enough or whatever else. As things were, his community knew him and admired him. The respect of his peers was not equal to the respect of a rabbi, but it was better than nothing, and life was more peaceful that way. Ethan lit the candles in the menorah, watched by the other Jews who had gathered for the morning’s prayers. A man came over to talk to him in hushed tones.
“I read your latest book, sir.”
“And what did you think?”
“Well, to be honest, it gave me nightmares for a month.”
“Thank you very much,” Ethan replied humbly.
“Your mother must be so proud.”
Ethan left the synagogue. What would he do with himself today? He disliked being rudderless and abhorred wasted time. He had no friends, and he liked it that way. He had only one mission — to write — and wanted nothing to stand in his way. The niceties of the outside world exhausted him. “Hello, how are you? And your son, and your daughter? How is your husband, your wife?” - all of it seemed nonsensical to him. He sometimes wondered how people didn’t shoot themselves in the head just to end the boredom. Lost in thought, he wandered in spite of himself towards the newsstand, where he went so often to stock up on newspapers. He could not buy anything today, but surely a quick scan of the headlines was no sin. “Woman tortured and riddled with bullets,” he read in the small items. What a title! Should he read the details? Just a little bit, to stimulate his imagination. “The young woman was found in her basement by a neighbour.” A basement; how wonderful. A dark, dingy basement no doubt. Were there rats and cockroaches? No, too predictable. A basement full of boxes, completely normal, a basement that could be yours or mine. That’s right, your basement. One day, you go down looking for your stepladder and you find a body, cut to shreds. It’s your young neighbour, who was so pretty and lovely. He read on: “The police suspect a crime of passion. The young woman has no criminal record, and the theory of a revenge killing has not generated any leads.” A crime of passion wasn’t his speciality. Love was too simple a motive, or perhaps it was just too foreign to him. No, it would have to be a neighbour who did this... maybe the one who found her in the basement. Ethan went home in high spirits. His mother would have lunch ready, and he could tell her all about this wonderful story.
Alan Alfredo Geday