A felon, fatally drawn to the scene of crime, he looks upon the woman lying in submission at his feet. Life trickles out from her with every drop of blood he shed in an act of self-defense conjuring Magda away as the ghost of a fallen angel on the tomb of sex. Now he is on his own. He treads a dangerous ground cracking menacingly under his steps. He shivers. He is scared. Drenched with Magda’s blood, the woods are dripping with death.
Harrowing whimpers, the laments of an injured animal, are obstructing his passage through the twilight zone. He is cold. He is lost to nightmares. Under these hazy circumstances how can he know who is accountable for Magda’s death? He was blacked-out when it happened. That’s to be believed. He does, many won’t.
He doubles with pain. He is not cut to be a killer. He covers his mouth with his hand. His guilty hand? How close to nausea guilt is! Foul taste of vomit makes his stomach heave. He rinses his mouth with Evian water Magda had not time to finish. Her fault! She was too inquisitive for her own good! That snoopy little weasel! He spits the water smash in her face. Her dead face, a face creased with contempt. There are some feelings that age. What a blow to her sex appeal! Off with you, tattered rag doll!
Tit for tat! Heart for heart! Fools in love do not get smart!
He fetches a shovel from the car. He digs a hole in the thick Swiss forest. He shrouds Magda in a blanket. To bury her naked is beyond his act of killing. Would it sound better if called an act of passion? Would he then be granted mitigating circumstances? Why bother? His self-defense is a plain, untarnished truth. What tied him to Magda was by no means love. Call it obsession, call it libido, call it a towering rage of sex! Who cares? Not him! And then again, he doesn’t believe in heeding for the dead. The deader, the better! Dead girls tell no tales!
With every shovel-full of dirt goes down Magda, that gorgeous hooker he used to bed while making love to the other one, the one he loved.
The hole is filling up with his past soon to be gone to ashes.
The cell phone in his breast pocket starts ringing:
DIAL M FOR MURDER
DIAL M for MAGDA
DIAL M for MURDER MAGDA
“Go away Mr. H! Here you are straying away from your grounds! This here is my territory! This here is a sex romance that turned sour. This here can’ be qualified a crime! It is a clean-up! Cleanliness is next to holiness. Saint Magda on a baroque altar proffers her hot-red lips to the non-repented sinners, a long sight better than a murdered hooker taking her dust bath in an unholy ground. Half corps, half harpy, all terror!”
The future enmeshing Alex is headache grey. It thickens at his passage. It gets into his throat. He coughs it out in a sound close to grief too dense to detach itself from his heart. It mounts into his eyes; a heavy bitter smoke after an extinct fire.
In some respect, though not in the major one, this ending is a stunt. Seldom will you find a better fade-out reaching the glazed-over moment when love broke into pieces and there is no other way than to swap your laptop for a camera and haul the sequel into a naked flame.
He brings a can of petrol from the boot of the car. He pours it over its body. He strikes a match. He throws it forth. Flames hit the night in one blow assaulting death with a primal scream. He stumbles shooting the final scene, a remake of the real story.
On second thought why not reclining into the past? He lived happily in the past - the past of his imagination.
He stumbles back into the edited time when he was still alive; when he was happy. He reaches after the whisky bottle rolling the taste of loss over his tongue: a bitter taste, the taste of his future. Only a fool would take it. Why should he? He always has his present. Could it be called anything else but grandiose to enter the flames and become a phoenix?
He reaches after Nathalie’s hand. Is there a more magical moment than turning a non existing past into fiction?
Lights go down at the Champollion movie theatre in Paris which was theirs for a while now flaring up in his memory. He goes for it! He holds it! Nathalie is sinking into his arms.
You can believe in anything if you believe in love. Unfortunately he doesn’t. All he can believe in is the absolute perfection of the exploding car in the opening scene of Martin Scorsese’s “Casino”.
He conjures Nathalie close to him though not close enough to hold her for ever and a day. His heart skips a beat jumping over the real into the Never-never land. They had their moments when they were happy together. Thereafter his life was a long waiting for a repeat. A fatal error! Waiting is easy. It is when you start losing faith that it becomes hard. Only a fool would commit this error twice. A man takes the sequel into his hands. He grasps hold of the gun with its one bullet missing. Soon it will be two. He inserts its muzzle into his mouth. It feels hard and cold on his tongue. It reminds him of something. Would it sound cheap to say -of Nathalie’s mouth? But then isn’t any love story a tightrope dance at the edge of kitsch? Even more so if the romance is shot with sex?
Step by step he nears the blazing inferno. When the flames lick his face he pulls the trigger. A shooting star blows up skyward. Make a wish, Nathalie! Up and up he goes shedding all that was human. Soon there will be just a radiance of his love aglow in the darkness. Your darkness, Nathalie! Look how he does it. This last shot is custom-made for you!