Caution is a good teacher. A cap and a leather jacket hide my curiosity when I peek inside the tattoo shop, walking along on the other side of the street, where I enter a bakery, to buy bread and biscuits before returning to the place where I left Malik: "The lights are on, but the shop is empty. There's a door at the back, ajar. I suspect the entrance door has one of those bells to announce someone's entry. I hope I can handle that. We must enter without making any noise. Surprise is our main weapon here."
Malik nods and follows me to the door of the shop, but stays out of sight to watch my back and the deserted street. At breakfast, I told him I'd found Khalid El Bullít's secret identity. It surprised him, but for me, it was obvious. Khalid has a problem with book people. Why? Malala gave us the clue in Lin-Kin Park: Khalid can't read or he is word blind. He communicates with images, drawings, and emoticons. Like old Egyptians and modern Whassappers, Khalid writes with simple pictures. His perfect cover is… a tattoo shop. There's only one tattoo shop on Malta: it has to be his.
Doorbells come in two types: the electronic ding-dong, and the mechanical cling-cling. The best tactics are to bet on the mechanical version. If we're right, or if there is no bell at all, we can get inside without making a noise, and if we're wrong, there will be time enough to walk away and see if someone enters the shop or not.
I take a stiletto out of the inside pocket of my jacket, slip the blade between the upper right corner of the door and the frame, move it up, and feel the resistance of the mechanism that rings the bell. With my left hand, I keep the blade in place. With my right hand, I open the door. No sound.
"Malik. Go inside. Quickly.", I whisper.
My thumb takes over from the blade, so I can enter and, carefully, close the door behind me. It worked. We're inside. I switch the «open» sign on the door to «closed», switch the knife for the Beretta, make the gestures «hush» and «over there» to Malik, and tiptoe to the door at the back. Behind the door, there's a stairway, leading down to a cellar, to the atelier where the tattoo artist works his needles and pins. The steps of the stairs are concrete with tiles (no danger of cracks, foretelling our entrance), but the stairs go down; anyone in the cellar can see the feet of anyone coming in, while I can't see where I'm going to, or who might be waiting for me.
I open the door a bit more, slowly, without a sound, and lower my spiPhone with the video recorder running. The basement is empty except for one man. He's working at something that lies on a workbench at the back wall, concentrating on the job, not aware I'm looking at his back. Silent as a silken silhouette, I sneak down the stairs, my pistol pointed at the man's back. With my other hand, I sign Malik to follow me.
The man at the workbench is unquestionable the owner of the tattoo shop: every part of his flesh is covered with cartoons: the back of his neck, his arms and his legs, all visible thanks to the white Bermuda shorts and short-sleeved T-shirt he's wearing.
"Khalid El Bullít, the checkmate King of crime. Finally, we meet. We're running out of time.", I say. It sounds like a lyric from a blues song.
Khalid freezes. He didn't hear us coming. He didn't expect us. Surprise is a powerful weapon. The sharp click of the cock of my gun makes Khalid also aware of our other powerful weapon.
"Put your hands in the air, please, and turn around, so we can properly present ourselves.", I say.
Khalid raises his hands and turns around. He's awful. His entire face, including his lips and eyelids, the inside of his hands, even his tongue is decorated with colourful tattoos. His grin is one of genuine pleasure when he recognises Malik: "My dear poet. I have been looking for you. They told me it was a mistake to take your manuscript and let you live. HA! They said you could write the story again, perhaps even better. HA, HA, HA! It would have been better if I'd killed you right away, but I'm happy you come here to give me a second chance. Is it okay if I strangle you? My guns and my knives are all upstairs in the shop. All I have here are a few needles, as you see."
Khalid shows what he was doing: in his right hand he holds his tattoo needle, and in his left hand a Barbie doll, naked, with little hearts and «Ken» written all over her in blue ink: "A birthday gift for my daughter. She likes Barbie a lot."
"Drop the needle on the ground. Now, push it over to me with your foot. That's right. Now do the same thing with Barbie. Slowly. That's it."
In the corner next to the entrance, there's a low table, surrounded by four comfortable chesterfield chairs. I put Barbie and the needle on the table and ask: "Where's the manuscript, Khalid? Did you burn it?"
Khalid grins again: "Burn it? Such a great work of art? Of course not. It's a masterpiece, mainly because it features me as the main character. Did you read it? You should. When I read the title page, I already felt its potential: a worldwide bestseller, shaking the literary world with a force 9 on the Wrighter scale."
"You're lying. You can't read."
"Don't underestimate me. I'm word blind, but that doesn't mean I can't read. It just takes longer, and I mistake some words for something else."
Malik interrupts: "Erroneously, you don't mistake the words. Either you make a mistake with the words, or you are mistaken when you read the words."
Khalid grins his stupid grin at me and says: "You see? I told you. This man is good. But nobody will ever know: his story is history…"
I don't want to waste more time: "Where is the manuscript?"
"It's in a safe place: in my vault at the bank. The key is not here and you'll need a secret code to open the vault; both will I take with me in my grave. Nobody will ever read what Khalid El Bullít did. All we need for my happy ending is that I correct the only flaw left: shoot the writer of the book. If you would be so kind and lend me your gun…"
With a kind, convincing smile, Khalid reaches his hand out to me. Malik is surprised, shocked, afraid: "Are you going to give him the gun? He'll kill me."
I copy the killer's smile: "Not so fast, Khalid. I'm holding the gun, so it seems fair that I make the rules here. Malik told me stories about how many people you killed, robbed, drugged and forced to prostitute themselves. Those are serious crimes, but so far they're just stories. Malik told me the proof is in the manuscript, but the manuscript is not here. I've spoken with many people lately; all have an opinion about you, but nobody really has seen you do anything evil, basically because nobody really has seen you at all. Your donations keep the school, the hospital and the residence open. Perhaps you're a good man who suffers from a bad reputation. All this places me in a difficult position. If I shoot you, I might just murder an innocent man. Having a bad reputation is not a crime. So I've decided to let Malik handle this. He's the only one who knows what you've done. He should judge you and give you what you deserve."
I give Malik my Beretta.
Malik is now even more shocked: "What? Do you want me to shoot him? Sodom and Gomorrah! I can't kill anyone. I'm a lover, not a fighter."
"You started this, Malik, so you have to end it too. It's easy. I took this Beretta from The Rock, who tried to kill us with it when you weren't watching my back. As you can see, the security is already off. Just point it at Khalid and pull the trigger. You accused him, you had the proof he's guilty, and now you will be his judge and his executioner. Khalid is a bad person, Malik; if you don't kill him, Khalid will take those five steps that separate you two, take the gun out of your hand, and shoot you between the eyes. If all those stories in your manuscript are nothing but fiction, you don't have to shoot Khalid and he won't shoot you, so I won't have the blood of an innocent man on my hands. It all sounds very logical to me. What do you think, Khalid?"
Khalid agrees: "It sounds very logical to me too."
Malik doesn't like so much logic: "Rightfully, it's not my task to judge and punish other people. Judging and punishing is Allah's task. I shall not do His work in His place. I'm not God. People who take the life of others put themselves on the same level as Allah. I refuse to act against my belief."
"From a writer like you, I expected a better defence, Malik. You've told me more than once that you could no longer believe in Islam and Allah. You disavowed the Muslim religion because you found a new religion, one that fits your needs better: Economy, the religion of the 21st century, the most popular religion in the world. What was your goal? You wanted to write THE best action thriller of the decade. You wanted to become the Number One on the New Joke Times Bestseller list. You wanted to become a God yourself, worshipped by millions of readers who sacrifice everything to earn the Holy Money they voluntarily offer to get a copy of your wisdom, full of your rules and examples about Good and Bad. The herd follows their shepherd on his way to fame, glory and financial benefit, the Heaven of Economy and modern society. You disavowed Allah because you want to be a God yourself, Malik. A God is not only an example for humanity to follow. Allah also speaks the final judgement and punishes those who didn't follow His rules. Use the gun and do your divine work…"
Malik can't handle so many religious tasks at the same time: "I can't do this. Don't ask this from me… I've never killed a man before."
Khalid tries to put Malik at ease: "Don't worry. There's a first time for everything. Just aim and pull the trigger until there are no more bullets left. Usually, that's enough. And if you're such a lousy shot that I'm still alive, you go upstairs and search in the drawer below the counter. There, you'll find two loaded guns and a box with about 100 bullets, which should be enough to finish the job."
I take two steps back to have a good view of the scene: "Come on, Malik. Murder isn't hard. You've seen how others do it. You've even written about it. Writing is hard. Writing humour is die-hard. Killing is easy."
Khalid grins and takes a step towards Malik: "Yes, Malik. Killing is easy. Give the gun to me. I'll show you how easy it is."
"Don't give him the gun, Malik. He's bad. He'll kill you first, and then he'll kill me. I saved your life. Now you must save mine. I'm your friend. Pull that trigger. Now!"
Khalid is only three steps away from Malik, reaches out his hand, two steps away, Malik's eyes jump around between me, the Beretta and Khalid, who is now only one step away, Khalid's hand reaches out for the gun, he takes it out of the powerless hand of Malik, takes it in his right hand and puts the barrel between the eyes of Malik: "Killing is easy. You aim… you cock the hammer… and you pull the trigger. BANG!"
Click.
I take Chekhov's Glock from its hiding place under my shirt, point it at Khalid and say: "That was the proof I needed, Khalid. That Beretta looks quite real, doesn't it? It didn't belong to your bodyguard. It belonged to your daughter, Dorsa. It's a toy. It doesn't work. Well, it does work to see if someone is a killer or a good man. Malik was not capable of shooting you, not even when his own death was the logical result of his behaviour. Malik is a good man. He writes about violence, shootings and killing, but he's not capable of committing these crimes. You, on the contrary, did not hesitate one second to shoot and kill an innocent man. Or did you mean to miss from that distance?"
"To be honest… I did miss before from that distance. Does that count as a point in my favour?"
"Step back, Khalid. Drop the gun and return to that wall. You're tested and found guilty before a one-man jury. The sentence is death by shooting. Is that wall behind you made of limestone?"
Khalid nods to confirm. I aim at the limestone wall behind him and pull the trigger of Chekhov's gun.
BANG!
A nice hole shows where the bullet buried itself in the soft stone.
"Good. If I was to shoot at bricks or a concrete wall, the bullet could ricochet. It might be a risk for Malik and me. If the bullet comes out of your back, it won't cause any collateral damage. So there's just one little problem left: do I shoot you in the head, in the heart, or in the stomach?"
Khalid grins: "Why is that a problem?"
"Because a criminal like you doesn't have a heart, so a bullet in a place where others have their heart would not kill you, and because someone as stupid as you probably has the brain of a shrimp, a worm, or even an ant, which would make it extremely difficult to put a bullet in your brain. The best solution is to put three bullets in your belly. If the stories I heard about you are true, you have a lot of guts, so I can't miss. The problem, therefore, is yours: a bullet in the head or in the heart causes immediate death, but three bullets in the guts make dying a terrible and time-consuming operation. You'll die slowly and painfully, shedding a tear for every baby that died because of you, until you will finally die not from blood loss but from dehydration. I'm not sure if we have time for that. Are you in a hurry, Malik? Do you have to go somewhere?"
Malik almost shits his pants: "Radically, are you going to shoot him?"
"Doesn't Malta have a death penalty for criminals like Khalid El Bullít? Well, it has now. We gave him a fair chance to prove his innocence, and he pulled the trigger, giving a new meaning to an old saying: he who lives by the bullet also dies by the bullet. What do you want, Malik? Do you want to erect a statue of the man after everything he has done? I gave you the opportunity to shoot him yourself, and you showed us both that you can't. We can't expect Khalid to shoot himself. That leaves me to do the job. Is there any alternative? Is there anything you want to say in defence of the accused, after his clear attempt to kill you, here, in front of my own eyes? If there is, I advise you to say it now, because this has taken long enough. My arm is getting tired. Sentence executed in three… two… one…"
With horror in his eyes, Malik looks at how I aim and pull the trigger three times.
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
The explosions echo from the limestone walls. Three red stains put colour on Khalid's white T-shirt. He lowers his hands and puts them on the wounds, like he wants to heal himself, to stop the pain, the bleeding. The blood gulps through his fingers. He falls to his knees, watches how the concrete floor absorbs his blood, looks up at me, worried, says: "That hurts, you know… You screwed me hard… And you didn't even send me flowers or invite me to the cinema first…", grins his stupid grin one more time, tries to hold himself up, but loses the strength, and slowly, slowly, falls over, on his side… clumsily… trying to catch his fall… to lift his hand… to…
…
"It's over, Malik. He's dead. Your manuscript will be out of reach forever, but you can return home and write a new copy, this one with an ending like every single reader adores: the worst criminal in the history of Malta is dead, and you, the hero of your own story, live to write your testament. You'll become the Number One on the New Joke Times bestseller list. Why would anyone pay four hours of hard-worked salary, to read how fictional characters solve fictional problems in a fictional world? Readers LOVE the real thing, especially when it's packed with violence and action; they watch it every day on the news and they'll enjoy, visiting Malta, to see the bullet holes in the wall and the bloodstains on the floor. This entire country will benefit financially from the success of your «Noxious Secrets» about the violent life and the dramatic death of Khalid El Bullít, the Number One terrorist who finally got what he deserved. Poetic Justice and real-life soap in one."
Malik still doesn't understand that the epilogue has already started: "But… It's horrible. You've killed a man. Look at all that blood. What will his little daughter say? What about his mother and his wife? This was not what I wanted…"
"So what did you want, Malik? You wanted a thriller, full of action, fights, blood and shootings. You have your bad boy, Khalid El Bullít, the worst criminal ever, and you have your good guy, me, the spy who came in from the cold to save the day and your novel. Together, we investigated, we had a lot of trouble on the way, but we escaped every time, following the Law of the Jungle: the Good is the one who shoots first, who wins the war and survives. And now, finally, we've found the criminal who caused all this mess, we've proved his guilt, and we gave him what he deserved. What more do you want? Isn't this the happy ending you had in mind?"
"Accidentally, I didn't want anybody to get hurt. All that violence, all that blood… A man just died here, Sami. Don't you understand? Honestly, he confessed he was Khalid El Bullít, but… that's impossible. And now he's dead…"
I walk to Malik, grab him by the chin, and look him in the eye: "What are you trying to say, Malik? You didn't want Khalid El Bullít to die because… you invented Khalid El Bullít yourself? If you made him up, how is it possible we found him and killed him? In great fiction, the characters come to life, they say. It has to be the greatest fiction ever when the character comes to life and tries to kill the writer who trumped him up: you've just won yourself a Nobel Prize. Is it true that the man I just shot was a product of your imagination? Then there's only one explanation: you can create life. You really have the power of a God."
Malik doesn't say anything. I walk towards Khalid's corpse, point at him with the barrel of my Glock, and say: "Did you invent this entire story about Khalid El Bullít, or not?"
Malik can't stand it anymore: "No. Yes. I mean…"
He looks away, takes a deep breath, looks at me again, and confesses: "It was writer's block. I wanted to write an action thriller, but I suffered from writer's block."
"This story stinks out of too many plot holes from the moment I entered your house, on that night when I was sent to steal your manuscript. A criminal who was there first and had stolen the book, okay, but I had serious doubts that a man as evil as Khalid El Bullít would just leave you there, tie you up as a blutwurst, taking the risk you'd run away to write another version of the manuscript. But criminals are, by definition, not the best examples of reasonable thinking human beings, so I gave it the benefit of the doubt. But day after day, we ran into situations that would not be acceptable in even the worst pulp fiction. We saw so much violence, but there was nothing in the newspapers…
» You should have known that I knew. I fell out of my role when those four junkies pointed their Colombian Córdovas at us in the Royal Suite of the hotel. One spy against four armed junkies and he doesn't blink an eye? Even Sam Spade would shit his pants, but this hero walks towards the biggest one without one drop of fear and he bluffs himself out of the scene with a toy gun in his hand. Why? Because this hero knew he wasn't in real danger. All this mess was just a setup, an act, a real-live soap to create a fascinating crime story for a failed poet who wanted to do his first steps on the slippery path to bestseller action-thriller novel fiction, a writer who didn't know how to write such an action-thriller. You suffered from writer's block. Desperately, you needed a story, so you decided to create one in real life, to see what would happen. Without experience with the world of crime and punishment, you invented a cheap McGuffin, a stolen manuscript of priceless value. You invented an antagonist, Khalid El Bullít, who was so mysterious that even my colleague The Nerd couldn't find anything about him in all the archives of the FBI, the KGB and Interpol, not even a parking ticket or an article in the Maltese Malaise, the country's biggest newspaper. But you had no plot and you had no hero. The hero presented himself on the scene, just one day after the publishing of your advertisement in Time for Crime Magazine, and with a little help from your friend Katie, the plot wrote itself. You invented the entire story, but in the end… I tracked down your fictional criminal. He's trialled, found guilty, and executed. How is that possible? How is that possible, Malik?"
"I don't know."
"I know. You're God. You've created something so powerful, so real, that everybody believed it was true. Your words of fiction became the world's reality. Do you believe something like that is possible?"
Malik doesn't say what he believes. He can't take his eyes off Khalid's dead eyes and the pool of blood he's lying in. Malik is too confused and shocked to say anything.
I say: "I've read the Qur'an. That won't make me an expert on the Muslim religion, but it does allow me to have an opinion about the book itself: the Qur'an is precious poetry. It's a book full of love and beauty, about the love of Allah for the people, the love of the people for Allah, and the beauty of the world He created. I've read The Holy Bible too. Those two books, full of love and beauty, have inspired the world for over a thousand years. Billions of people, every day, are inspired by the love and the beauty of what they read in either one of those books. It doesn't matter if they believe in God, Allah, or Mother Teresa; the fact remains that the world has changed a lot, thanks to those two ancient books. Those books explain to us the difference between Right and Wrong, between Good and Evil, and they tell us it's for our own benefit to follow the narrow path of Good.
» I'm not an expert in Christian or Muslim religion. I'm a graduated Economist, a judge of the most popular religion of the 21st century: Economy. On behalf of my work as a spy, I make decisions every day, decisions about life and death of people, decisions that have their impact on the future of the world and every living creature on it. For me, it's fundamental to have a clear idea about Good and Bad. Killing others is Bad, as our friend Khalid over there has just found out. Why? Because my definition of Good is: everything that gives a positive result for me and all the others, for now, and for the future. All the rest, like selfishness and short-time profit with long-time damage, is Bad. As a scientist, an economist, and a spy, I have the responsibility to judge between Good and Bad, based on that definition. Selfish behaviour that causes problems for others, like selling drugs, hurting other people, and killing them, that's bad behaviour.
» But, as I can read in the Qur'an and the Bible, and also as a consequence of my own Economy religion, my responsibility doesn't stop with deciding between Right and Wrong. It goes further than that. Responsibility is the price we pay for freedom. What was your favourite food when you were five years old?"
Malik can't follow my sidestep: "What?"
"When you were five years old, and it was your birthday, what would you pick for dinner? What was your favourite food?"
"Deliciously, chocolate cake, like my mother made."
"I was talking about food, Malik. Five-year-olds want to eat pizza, chips, or hamburger."
"Not me. I never liked junk food. I would pick chocolate cake. If you'd ever tried a piece of chocolate cake like my mother made, you'd understand. When I wrote poetry and didn't know how to start, the memory of my mother's chocolate cake inspired me and helped me to find the words."
"Right. Chocolate cake. And how often did little five-year-old Malik want to eat chocolate cake?"
"Daily. For breakfast, lunch and dinner, if possible."
"And how often did little five-year-old Malik get chocolate cake?"
"Hm. Half-yearly; on my birthday and at Suger Feast, on the day the Ramadan was over."
"Why was that? Why didn't your mother put chocolate cake on the table every day?"
Malik knows the answer, but he still doesn't know where we're going to: "She didn't give us what we wanted; she gave us what we needed. Every day chocolate cake isn't very healthy."
"Change that last word: Every day chocolate cake isn't good for you. Once or twice a year is Good, but every day is Bad. Good is balance, Bad is excess. Your mother was a wise woman, who felt responsible for her children: she didn't give them what they wanted, but what they needed. She gave you what was Good for you. Do you agree?"
Malik nods. I go on: "And you, the God of Literature, the Creator of Images that become Reality in the world, the Holy Number One of Fiction, adored by billions who follow your example. What do you give your readers, Malik? Do you give them what they want? Or do you give them what's Good for them? Do you give them violence, drugs and hate, because that's what pays best? Or do you give them love, beauty and poetry, the images they'll need to make the world a better place? Do you talk to their animal instinct of wrath, following the Law of the Jungle, where Good is always the strongest and most violent, the one who will survive? Or do you talk to their human values of compassion and love, of tolerance and peacefulness, to the Law of Higher Economy and Human Qualities, where it's better to live in peace and harmony, working together for the benefit of everyone one, helping the entire human race to survive? You don't have to choose between the Qur'an, the Bible and the Economy, Malik, because all three will teach you the same thing, the lessons you learnt from your mother: sometimes, it's nice to get what you want, but only when every day, you get what you need. Which definition of Good do you follow, Malik? How should I judge you? Is it okay for you if I follow my own moral of Good, being a positive result for you and everyone else, now and in the future? You must choose and you must do it now. Love or hate? Wrath or peace? Violence or beauty? Action thriller fiction or precious poetry? What will it be, Malik?"
Malik confesses: "I'm a lover, not a fighter."
I point the gun at Malik: "Kneel, writer. Today you stand trial before me, the judge of Economy. I accuse you of writing a manuscript that incites violence and hatred, with the egoistic aim to become rich and famous, to turn yourself into a God: you're accused of blasphemy. You created a stereotype image of a criminal with an Arab background, and by doing so, you created a terrorist image of the kind and friendly Arab community to the rest of the world: you're accused of betrayal of your own people. You preach wrath instead of love and beauty. Do you have anything to say in defence against these accusations?"
"Generally, everybody does it. Every journalist writes about violence and disasters. Every novelist writes about murder and hate. The TV news shows nothing but disasters, corruption, shootings, and war."
"Overruled. You're not accused of other people's crimes. You're judged on your own acts. Your reaction confirms the opinion of the judge: images, shown in mediaeval evil media and published boo-boo books, serve as examples that others follow, which doesn't make it Good. Those others will be dealt with. I will inform the cash-offering audience about their responsibility to choose between Right and Wrong, and they will react massively, by spending their future money on save-the-world novels. Every writer of bad fiction will regret hor acts until she dies in poverty and oblivion. I'm not done with them yet, and Allah will personally take care of the ones who escape me. But this is not their trial. It's yours. You're not responsible for the acts of others; you're responsible for your own acts, for your own part of the world. It's your task to follow the rules that Allah and your mother taught you, the rules of Good and Evil we've just made clear to you. So I repeat my question: are you guilty of the crimes you're accused of?"
"Yes. I'm guilty."
"According to the Law of the Jungle, you deserve the death penalty. According to the law of Economy, your death is not good for you, and neither is it for all the others. The judge wants to add one point in favour of the accused: you're capable of writing Precious Poetry. Your death would mean less beauty and love in a world that desperately needs more beauty and love. So, herewith, I declare you guilty of writing bad fiction and sentence you to write Precious Poetry until the day you die. Do you accept that verdict?"
Malik looks up, surprised, confused, but he understands the judge demands an answer here, with consequences for Malik and the rest of the world: "Affirmatively: yes, your honour. I accept your verdict. I promise to dedicate the rest of my life to writing poetry, precious poetry, and nothing but precious poetry. So help me God, Allah, the Royal Bank of Scotland, and all the Good people on this planet."
"Amen. I mean… Good. Stand up, Malik. I forgive you. I knew you were a good man; that's why I helped you. But you have to understand that people are good because they do good things. You were on your way to becoming the authentic antagonist of this story. I'm a spy, you know. It's my job to free the world from antagonists, and it's my style to use words, like any good writer, instead of bullets, like a bad writer would."
I help Malik stand up: "You're a lousy fiction writer, Malik. Do you know what your biggest plot hole was? It was the money. Your poetry sold 2.000 copies, not enough to make a living, and by far not enough to live in such a splendid mansion. Conclusion? You have a sponsor. We visited the school, the residence, and the hospital; they all depend on Khalid El Bullít's money. You might have invented Khalid, but that money was real. Someone gives financial support to those three institutions, and I'm sure it wasn't you.
» Why would anyone do this? I can understand why someone donates money to a school or a hospital. There are still noble people in this world, people like Frederic Fitzrumbold IV, for example, who has the money and the noble heart to be generous to charity. A man like Frederic Fitzrumbold IV would even be capable of giving financial support to those institutions without mentioning his name; those who do well don't act for fame and glory. But why would he make the teachers, nurses, patients, and grandparents believe that his money came from Khalid El Bullít, a notorious criminal, a man who doesn't even exist? I can only think of one motive: love. Frederic Fitzrumbold is in love with the writer who invented Khalid El Bullít, and this writer is probably also in love with Frederic but… his religion doesn't allow him to be open about his homosexuality, so they keep it the best-hidden secret of Malta since the treasure of the Maltese Knights. Too bad I'm around. I'm a spy. Discovering secrets is my job, and I'm good at it, as you might know by now."
The colour on Malik's cheeks is all the proof I need. The weak point in my theory was the motive. If I were in love with a Goddess, I would do anything I was capable of to impress her. Frederic, as the President of M.A.L.T.A., gave Malik the medal of highest honour. Malik wanted to show Frederic what he was worth. I couldn't think of a more logical explanation, but it was a wild guess, and I'm glad I was right.
"Love is nothing to be ashamed of, Malik. So now, we also have our motive. Why would a precious poet make a switch in his career from poetry to fiction? This poet wants his life partner to be proud of him. This poet wants to show the world, his country, and his lover that he can write better thrillers than David Baldaccion and sell more books than S.M. James. So he decides to stop writing poetry and sells his soul to the devil of commercial fiction, the world of violence and conflict where the hero is the one who shoots faster and more accurate, fiction not printed with black ink but with red blood, dripping from every page, where epitaphs form the titles of every chapter, and where mafia and gunmen rule the world, with the Law of the Jungle as their only moral.
» Poetry is an act of beauty and love, translating the soul of the artist into passion and bittersweet salty tears. Commercial fiction is an act of greed, of making money and earning fame over the dead bodies of innocent literary characters. Violence pays better than beauty. Hate is more interesting than love. The poet sells his soul to the devil who publishes the monthly list of bestsellers because the audience, the readers who pay for all this, can't get enough of all the violence on the news. They want more and are willing to pay for it, clearing the way for a world in which war gets more interest than peace, in which doctors and teachers have to fight poverty because criminals get all the tax money, a world in which violence always wins from beauty, where hate is preferred over love, a world that's created by writers who think they're God…
» Am I right, Malik? Did you want respect in the eyes of your lover? Did you believe you could never achieve respect with poetry? Made the poor sales figures of «Precious Poetry» switch you to writing action thrillers?"
Malik nods.
I continue: "To me, this explains everything. Malta, as you said more than once, isn't a country; it's a village. In a village, the people know each other. In a village, everyone likes to do a favour to the respected poet with his plan to set up a real-life crime fiction novel. Everybody likes action thrillers and everybody wants to be part of it, so everybody happily agreed to play their part. You prepared everything long before I came, and your friend Frederic was around to pull the strings and finance the production.
» When I decided not to follow the script but visit the doctor in the hospital, you needed to improvise. You needed to win time with a red-herring visit to the Christian hospital, so your friend and art director Djemila could prepare the bloody scene that took away my final doubts about Khalid. The camera and microphone in your glasses grab every word we say and record every piece of the action we produce, right? That's why you looked over my shoulder when I read the secret messages from the LSD, so your art director could stop every yellow taxi that was heading to Triton Fountain and set up a shooting instead.
» You did a fantastic job, Malik. If you want to become rich and famous in the world of stories and entertainment, forget about writing and start a career as a film producer. Here you have your plot, a great plot, and nobody can see it coming. Malta is your fabulous film set, with everyone playing her own role more realistic than any actor could. And finally, you have Khalid El Bullít, your ace antagonist, the worst criminal ever, who goes down in a glorious, dramatic, bloody scene, the climax of the film. Khalid will bring you the Oscar. Your audience bites their nails. Did your glasses-camera record all this without flaws, Malik?"
Malik nods.
"My colleague, The Nerd, number two in the organization I work for, sent me several messages about amateur recordings on social media. He recognised me on several violent videos, shot on Malta. He wondered why the local newspaper and the international TV news never showed anything about these terrorist attacks. Usually, journalists are horny about violence and they swarm around blood like flies swarm around a honey cake. Who recorded those videos? I didn't. How could I? I was on them, fighting bad guys. Via my friend Rostov's spiPhone, I asked The Nerd for more info. He reported those images were trailers for an upcoming bestseller, teasers for a true-crime story. The novel would break all the records of book sales over the last century. How many followers do you have on Facebook, Malik?"
"Forty million, growing every day."
"That's what I call good marketing. You've sold the book before you've even written it. So I do hope you recorded this last scene well. I don't want to tell Rostov he has to do it all over again because of some technical problem. Are you okay, Rostov?"
The dead corpse of Khalid El Bullít stretches his sore muscles and stands up. I can't resist: "Record this too, Malik. There is a 2.000-year-old book in the top 3 of most-read books ever. Its final chapters tell about the execution of the main character, who, three days later, returns to life for the happy ending. Your story has a similar scene now. Rostov's resurrection will do miracles for your sales."
Rostov grins and gives me a big hug: "Lux, my friend. Did you like my performance or what? Do you like my make-up? I'm the Illustrated Man. I have naked women all over me, from my feet up to my hair."
I look at my clothes, ruined with fake blood after Rostov's hug: "I'm overjoyed to see you again, my friend, and congratulations on your performance. You were spectacular. We'll come back to that later. First, I want to introduce you to my friend Malik. Malik, this is my friend Rostov."
Malik and Rostov shake hands and complete the usual exchange of politeness by giving a brief introduction of themselves.
"Pleased to meet you. Have you ever heard about the bundle «Precious Poetry»? That's mine."
"Pleased to meet you too. Have you ever heard about the nuclear disaster in Chernobyl in 1986? That's mine. Well, to be honest, a human error caused that disaster, and the human was my father, in shock since he saw me, right after I was born. It wasn't really my fault, of course, but I do have a certain effect on people."
I search my pockets: "Wait a second. I have prepared this. Where do I have it…"
In my breast pocket, I find a tiny toy, a golden statue. The envelope comes out of the back pocket of my jeans. I open the envelope and read out loud: "The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences herewith proudly announces… that the Oscar for the best antagonist goes to… (pause)… (a little more pause, we have to create tension here, which is hard without drums or orchestras to set the tone)… Rostov, for his role of Khalid El Bullít in «The Maltese Manuscript»!"
I whisper: "Applause" to Malik, who slowly claps his hands while I hand Rostov the small statue, a plastic copy of the Hollywood Oscar I found some days ago in that small bric-a-brac store in the old centre. Rostov is stunned: "Wow… Thanks… I don't know what to say… This is totally unexpected, you know. I didn't even know I was nominated. You could have warned me… I haven't even prepared a speech… Well, it means I'll have to improvise, and «Improvise» is my middle name, so I want to thank everybody who's made this possible, and Mum and Dad, of course, but, really, there's only one person I want to mention here, at this special moment, at my finest hour, at the top of my glory, the one who inspires me every day to do what I do, to become what I became, the most important person in my life…"
Rostov! Can't you just accept the compliment? Do you have to make such a show out of everything? And, most of all, why do you want to put ME in the spotlight here? You know I don't like that. And now what? Do you expect me to say something too? I haven't prepared anything. This is totally unexpected…
"… and also the most important person in my future: Katja, will you marry me?"
"Katja?"
I turn around and see Katja coming down the stairs, Katja, #4, The Agent, my colleague, the one I had to support during her mission here.
"Hi, Lux. Long time no see. The Boss asked me to have a look at certain events that took place here, some wave of violence that recently hit Malta, although the newspapers and TV didn't pay any attention to it. He also wanted to know why you didn't follow his instructions to support me on my mission. I'm happy to discover it was nothing serious; you were just playing cowboys and native Americans here with the locals, who suffer from a dangerous excess of fantasy."
"I can explain everything…", I mutter.
"Don't worry, dear. I've heard the entire story. I'm very much capable of filing my own report, although I doubt if there will be any fiction in it."
Rostov hates to see his Oscar-winning performance disappear into the shadows, thanks to an act of minor importance by two B-actors with a supporting role: "Hey! I asked the lady a question. Don't you know a good story always ends with a kiss and a wedding? I'm the one who likes to be kissed and who's willing to pay for the wedding, but I want an answer to my question first: Katja, do you want to marry me? I've just won the Oscar for awfully awesome antagonist, so you can be truly proud of me."
Katja looks at him, with a quizzical smile: "Have you looked at yourself recently, Rostov? You look like a bloody walking comic book. How can anyone be proud of you?"
Rostov grins: "I'm the Illustrated Man, babe. I've got tattoos everywhere. I got faces down on places where the sun don't shine. If you show me yours, my love, I will show you mine."
Malik, the poet, flashes a smile for the first time in quite a while: "Rhythmically, that's a nice line. It rhymes too. Did you ever think of writing poetry?"
I try to support Rostov in his hopeless mission to get «yes» for an answer from Katja: "Forget about poetry, Malik. We have to finish this action thriller first. Don't you like a happy ending with a kiss and a wedding?"
Malik thinks it over and decides: "Positively. It would be a completely unexpected, but highly valuated ending for this bestselling story. I advise Miss Katja to answer «yes»."
"I advise Miss Katja to answer «yes» too.", I say: "Rostov is my friend, but, from a professional point of view, he's also a walking disaster who's in the top five of the biggest threats to the world, just below Tronald Dump, but nine places higher than an outbreak of a Zombie virus, and twelve places higher than an attack by aliens from out of space. I would feel much better if Europe's Number One secret agent would stay close to him from now on, to save the world."
Rostov is good with numbers: "And my vote is a «yes» too. That makes three in favour and one still having fantasies about the fabulous life she will have as my wife. The majority is always right, my love, so what you say doesn't really have any influence, but, just for the statistics, what will be your answer?"
The majority's opinion doesn't impress Katja: "And what exactly might I find attractive in a man like you?"
Rostov doesn't have to think about that. He knows himself: "Apart from being ruthlessly handsome (everyone says I look like Matt Damon), I'm also fun to be with. Without me, you'd bore yourself to death. When I'm around, you can always expect the unexpected. If you like being in trouble, you can't have a better man than me."
"He's right. Boring yourself to death is not an option when Rostov's around.", I confirm.
"I hope you understand this is a big decision for me, Rostov. I'll need a little more time to think it over before I give you my answer. Is that good enough for now?", Katja says.
"How long is «a little more time»? Two or three minutes won't be a problem. If you give me your «yes» before lunchtime, I can call my parents to take the three o'clock plane. They'll be in time for the wedding tonight."
"Two or three minutes? I was thinking more about two or three centuries. But you're not in a hurry, are you? With the interesting life you have, those three hundred years will pass quicker than a holiday on Malta. Time flies when you're having fun."
Rostov's grin confirms he's having fun: "Well, at least we can end this with a kiss. I deserve one after my Oscar-winning performance."
Katja's ironic smile can't hide the authentic fun in her eyes: "Malik will be delighted. As I just learnt, he's gay. He enjoys kissing handsome men who look like Matt Damon. Don't you, Malik?"
That's rude. Quickly, I save Malik from the embarrassment: "That's not fair, Katja. If The Boss orders you to seduce a target, you don't hesitate to kiss him. Do you have any idea what Rostov did here? He avoided the publication of a novel, filled with violence, blood and murder, a novel that would become a bestseller, read by hundreds of millions of people. Every reader would be influenced by the impact of that book, convinced that violence is the only solution to all the problems we cause to each other. Many of those readers would have reacted on instinct, hitting their wives, husbands, children or parents, or they would go out on the street to throw bricks at the politicians and the captains of industry who make their life so miserable, or they would get a gun and start shooting around. People do that, you know. There are still too many people who follow any example they see around them. I didn't want to be responsible for releasing evil examples in the shops. That's why I neglected my work for the LSD and failed in my mission to support you; the world was in danger and only I could change its fate. And now you're part of this mission too. The only favour I ask from you (apart from… putting a little fiction in your report to The Boss about my actions here), the only detail only you can fill in this whole story, is rewarding Rostov, who came all the way from Moscow to help me, and who will get nothing in return for his altruism if you keep being stubborn."
"This is not about me being stubborn. This is about those stupid plots that only allow pretty girls like me—"
"gorgeous, beautiful, exquisite, splendid, magnificent, outstanding, excellent, topgallant, supernacular, astonishing, breathtaking, perfect girls like you…", Rostov interrupts.
"… that only allow pretty girls like me on stage because everybody wants us to kiss them."
"I don't want you to kiss me.", Malik says.
"I don't want you to kiss me either.", I say.
"It's nothing personal. It's just business, kissness.", Rostov says.
Katja is a bad actress. She falls out of her role and flashes a smile, a real smile of entertainment: "Okay, Rostov. You win. But first, you take off that bloody shirt and clean yourself up. My dress was designed by an exclusive fashion house in Paris, and I don't want to walk the streets like a cheap screaming actress in a bloody zombie film. If you want me to kiss you, you better prepare yourself. A kiss from me has more impact than the majority of lifelong marriages."
Rostov grins, disappears into the bathroom next to the stairs, makes a lot of splashing noises, and in less than a minute, he's back, dressed in a spotless smoking, a wrinkleless white shirt, a tight tie, and even his hair seems less rebellious than usual.
Katja is surprised: "Well, look at that. If it wasn't for that stupid grin, I wouldn't even recognise you. If you put on dark shades, and if we dim the light, and if I close my eyes and use all my imagination… I might even admit you look a bit like Matt Damon. But only from a long distance, of course."
"I'm just Bourne to be alive, baby…", Rostov says with a low voice. Katja ends the Rostov show, grabs the lapels of his jacket, pulls him towards her, overwhelms him and… kisses like only a true professional, beautiful spy can kiss a man, a kiss so intense that I feel I should look away and not disturb this precious moment of intimate contact between two people, but I can't, it's impossible to look away from this scene, from this everlasting kiss, although my knees try to convince me it's probably better to sit down, and my heart tries to tell me: "Don't try this at home, kids". A kiss from Katja does really have more impact than the majority of lifelong marriages.
For Rostov, it's just too much. Nobody can survive such a strong emotion. When the kiss is over, he falls out of Katja's hands and smacks on the concrete floor, his tattooed eyes closed forever, a red river of blood streaming out of his cracked skull, putting a red signature under this violent story.
The End
Rostov's grin ruins this final scene: "Ha, ha. I fooled you, didn't I? I had one of those blood spitters left and I hid it under my hair, to make it look real. You didn't see that one coming, did you?"