Roxanna E-Book

Renier-Fréduman Mundil

• Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 130

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

It begins with a murder, as befits a detective story, a somewhat bizarre female detective, events that take place in Rome, England and France. A story that jumps back to the Middle Ages, runs on two tracks, two suspicious women and a dead man who suddenly appears one night to one of the two suspects. Alive, of course, at least for a short time. Murder motives that don't want to reveal their secret and the simultaneous death of both suspects who, to make matters worse, are absolutely the only ones who could be responsible for the crimes. A tangled criminal string that seems to have been partially untangled by diligent endeavors, only to become even more tangled in the next moment and finally, seemingly lying in front of you untangled in a perfectly straight line.

Leseprobe

Content

It begins with a murder, as befits a detective story, a somewhat bizarre female detective, events that take place in Rome, England and France. A story that jumps back to the Middle Ages, runs on two tracks, two suspicious women and a dead man who suddenly appears one night to one of the two suspects. Alive, of course, at least for a short time. Murder motives that don't want to reveal their secret and the simultaneous death of both suspects who, to make matters worse, are absolutely the only ones who could be responsible for the crime(s). A tangled criminal string that seems to have been partially untangled by diligent endeavors − only to become even more tangled in the next moment and finally, seemingly lying in front of you untangled in a perfectly straight line.

At least seventy dead years lay before her. Death had eaten everything, skin and hair, not completely, what remained was an old grey shell.

The carefree years of a childhood with the privilege of growing up on the magnificent estate − gone, devoured by death. The exciting years at school and later at boarding school. The adventurous confusion of puberty − gone, swallowed up by death.

The meeting with her first boyfriend, the pompous wedding, the initially blissful first years of marriage − gone, swallowed up by death. The late years of widowhood after her husband's death − gone, swallowed up by death, including the dead woman’s many memories of her husband and her daughter M.

The later flare-up of the flame of life through acquaintance with a messenger, the love literally carried into the house by a messenger, devoured by death. Everything has disappeared. Except for the grey shell. Everything grey, starting with her hair, once an ebony snow- white-like jet-black. Grey the wrinkled skin, the toenails, exposed by the light sandals, grey, striped dark grey.

Roxanna's life experiences were enough to easily imagine the grey dead shell as an elegant, almost tall, fine woman with slightly curly, jet-black hair, with an elegant gait and an upright head. The dead woman had once been all this. Now she lay on the floor in front of her as a grey-faced, frozen, cold shell.

A huge black shadow weighed on the southern side of the splendidly majestic building. Picturesque figures were enthroned on the marble plinths of the magnificent building, their faces bathed in the glistening sunlight disappearing on the precious earthen floor in the huge shadow of the dome, only in a few places on the black surface dot-shaped bulges were formed as an earthen expression of the figures hovering between earth and sky. Their protruding feet, barely concealed by their stone robes, were skillfully fixed to the bases of the towers, an invisible force chaining the statues to their stone foundations to prevent them from gliding away into the sky. Their significance was concealed in their outward appearance in a magnificent yet unobtrusive manner, reminding the miniaturized inhabitants of the city to think of visions of a heavenly realm every day of their existence.

The medieval dignitary sat on a lavishly decorated balcony, balustraded with naked female images, entwined with strange creatures.

The weight of his body flowed seamlessly into the looming grandeur of the building, from time to time the hectic pace of a rushing servant interrupted the tranquility of captive time.

The dignitary held a gold-tipped telescope in his bulging hands and had directed it towards the earth at the angle of the sun's rays.

In the prisms of the glass, the image of a naked woman split apart, whirred through the dark corridor of the telescope and disappeared into the dignitary's eye with streams of sweet fragrance.

Behind the naked woman, years ago, a poor hut had erupted from the barren ground, nothing had changed about it over the years except for the decomposing traces of time, which gnawed at the building like destructive bacteria, letting it slide back into the immeasurable womb of Mother Earth as putrid rubbish.

The dignitary's eye rested for a long time on the naked female body. The woman performed ordinary tasks, as everyday life demanded. While doing housework, her body took on ever-changing postures, constantly raising other naked parts of her body, again parallel to the sun's rays falling from the sky, only this time in different directions.

The ringing of the huge bell, inside which the miserable hut would have found ample room, made the dignitary put the telescope aside. Fine rivulets of sweat had formed in his palms, confusing the end of the telescope with a stinking drain and coating the artistically crafted glass with a thin, slimy film.

Prepare the bed, the dignitary ordered his servant on his left, and the meal, I will eat it in bed.

With an envious look on his face, the servant hurried away, slipped out of the sumptuously balustraded airy room and disappeared into the cool chambers. For a few unobserved moments, he himself had let his eye slide through the telescope, focused on the same point, the same event, because it had been repeating itself from day to day for several weeks.

A grey cloak, the fullness of which extended the red speckled hair, slipped from the slender shoulders of the woman's body and covered the floor with its hem. Two sparkling eyes broke out of the thick fringe of hair into the sun-drenched daylight and leapt across the spacious hall. They stopped in front of the bed. The massive figure of the dignitary rested on silk-covered feathers, wrinkled skin labored to hold the fullness of his intestines together. Next to the bed, the meagre remains of the eaten meal exuded the last sweet smells, strangely combining the naked figure of the dignitary with the grey-clad slender female body.

At a signal from the dignitary, servants hurried into the hall and removed the remains of the grey covering from the woman's skin. Their glances betrayed an inability to grasp the situation with adequate understanding. The woman's mind was confused, its enormous bizarreness not in the least inferior to her overwhelming beauty.

The dignitary beckoned her closer in a friendly manner. The skill of his doctors, who had sealed the woman's fertile tube with a slightly corrosive liquid, flashed through his mind at that moment. The dignitary groaned indifferently. The meal lay heavy in his guts and, following the force of gravity, began to migrate downwards. It took twice the effort for his aged body, at the level of the navel the blood flow divided, an extensive half flowed into the bulging intestines, the other half of the red-soaked lifeblood flowed a little further downwards.

An hour later, two servants entered the room and carried the sleeping woman outside.

The dignitary was disgusted when the woman's gently wheezing body nestled against him in the unconsciousness of sleep.

The exhausted woman only woke up again in her hut, sometimes her sleep-induced return was via the servant's room, and he scanned the hut for the naked woman's body with his master's telescope when a favorable opportunity arose. When the woman awoke, she saw the sumptuously set table. Invisible hands, under the control of the dignitary like every moving hand in the city, had filled the table. After sleep had receded, the woman fell upon the colorful table and greedily devoured the delicacies spread out before her. At the same time, fifty meters higher, closer to the sky, the exhausted dignitary rested for the next day.

Let's assume that you are still alive. You're not lying on the ground, your eyes directed downwards, into the cold earth. Your gaze is straight ahead, something, let's say someone, you see, someone must have met your gaze. Let's assume this person was like you, I mean female basic structure. Let's talk about age. Not your age, I mean, let's say this person was younger than you. Not a bad idea. The question is, how much, how many years younger was this person? Let's summarize: a female person, younger than you, maybe five, let's say six, six years younger than you. You can disagree with me if it's not true.

Don't you feel well? The young policeman looked at the female inspector. Strange creature, talking to herself.

I've rarely felt better, Roxanna replied, and I've never had a single conversation with myself in my entire life. I wouldn't even know how to address myself.

But you were just talking, interrupted the young officer, and there's nobody here except the dead woman.

I always talk to the victim. Do you know a better witness? I certainly don't. Young kid from the police academy, Roxanna mumbled to herself. Cheating death with dead textbook knowledge.

Do me a favor, Roxanna said in a firm tone. I prefer to talk to others at eye level. Do you understand?

The young policeman didn't understand, of course. But before he could question her back, his colleague had rushed forward, bent down, reached under the dead woman with both arms and dragged the slowly freezing body into an armchair, right opposite Roxanna.

You still have a lot to learn, young man! Roxanna snapped at the newcomer from the police academy. Your colleague, look what ten years of professional experience can do!

She turned back to the older of the two.

Be so kind as to put a glass in the dead woman's hand. Water will do. I don't think she realizes the difference between water and whisky anymore. It could be a long conversation. A glass of water is good for her dry tongue. Whisky, murmured Roxanna, only to become louder immediately afterwards, whisky, since we're talking about alcohol: Was the dead woman preserved at an early age?

You mean an alcoholic?

I mean preserved at an early age, just like I said.

The two policemen shook their heads. There was a bar in every other room. A minibar in the bedroom, like in a hotel. The bottles were barely opened.

No travelling companion!

The older policeman bit his lips at this word. Too late. It had slipped out by mistake, he could have sunk into the ground.

Roxanna glared at him. With lightning speed, she reached for a glass, and it shattered at his feet with the clear sound of a bell.

Get out of here, she hissed at the careless man. The next glass will land on your head. And you know, even I can't have a conversation with two dead people at once.

The two policemen hurried out of the living room, where death had spread itself out cozily. Nothing of what they had heard about the inspector had been confirmed. It was far worse than their most unflattering expectations.

As calmly as a lover's hand, the Seine floated through the city. Melancholy accordion sounds torn from the dream dripped from the riverbank into the lazy water. Individual barges, wrapped in garlands, were carried away by the weak current. Laughing conversations ploughed through the air, bouncing against the people strolling along the banks and disappearing into people's heads through their open ears.

Behind the next bend in the river, the Seine squeezed through white sandy beaches. Beach chairs filled with kilos of stripped flesh dotted the beach. After sunbathing, reddened or even tanned bodies lay in the light-colored sand coating, wrapped provisionally in a few places with strips of cloth, as if to prevent them from falling apart.

Michelle's black hair was at least a meter long. She had skillfully decorated her head with it. Oversized sunglasses were perched on her long but delicate nose. Behind them were two blue Mauritius, the most precious eyes in the city. The rest of her body was covered by a wide sundress, and in a few places a velvety, even tan emerged. Delicate feet stuck halfway into the sand, where they absorbed the cold of the ground and transferred it to the overheated body.

Michelle Denatielle, if I'm not mistaken.

Just say Michelle. Denatielle, who likes to hear Denatielle.

Oui, oui, Michelle. May I sit with you?

I can't refuse you. I can't dispose of more than the square meter of floor I'm lying on.

It doesn't matter, said the visitor, at least that it's only one square meter here. In the city, the land should belong to you in hectares.

I didn't bother with it. But if nobody wants it. You see, land wants to be owned. All this talk of free land. Show me a handful of soil on this desolate globe that isn't crying out to be owned. Because eventually the next one will come. The quarrel is already there and the blood is flowing. You see, this lump of earth is devious. Promises itself to several people, only to suck up their blood at some point.

Philosophy at the Sorbonne, I presume. How long did you study there?

500 years of the Middle Ages. Interesting. The best period of a person's life. So also of history. Study the Middle Ages if you want to know something about yourself and the other eight billion bipeds.

The stranger looked down at the woman. She corresponded one hundred per cent to the image of a wealthy young woman who had no need to work, excluded from the sphere of protesting students by a well-meaning upbringing, occasionally attending meaningless parties in search of the best way to get a day over with as quickly as possible.

Romana Vaticana, said the stranger abruptly, as if taken out of context.

The young woman started. Her eyes glazed over as she stared into the stranger's face.

I imagined you differently, she babbled with a dry mouth. More southern, Italian, completely different.

But you completely fulfil my expectations. You see, it all evens out. You zero percents, me one hundred percents fulfilled expectations. That's fifty per cent each. Not a bad ratio.

Maybe, Michelle stammered. Let's go. My flat is less than two hundred meters from here. I have a lot of questions for you.

The stranger nodded. Answering questions was his job. It was a good living. Not enough to own a flat two hundred meters from the banks of the Seine. But still enough, instead of disappearing behind a grey factory gate day in, day out for forty years.

The two of them slipped away from the white beach, leaving the sluggishly murmuring Seine behind them, the conversations on the boats slowly died away and the two points merged with a flat on the fifth floor of the quiet street, including a view of the Seine.

After the third whisky, Roxanna broke off the one-sided conversation with the dead Madame Richaud. She had learnt enough, not enough to solve the case, but more than she could normally extract from the victims in such conversations. The dead woman looked at her with a frozen gaze, fueled by a shot of melancholy sadness. Roxanna stood on her slender feet and smoothed out her skirt, which had slipped a double hand's breadth − a man's hand, what else − over her knees due to the folds that had appeared. Now it ended an inch above the slightly protruding kneecap. Roxanna took a last sip of whisky, damn good stuff, her great-grandfather couldn't have distilled it better. Then she took the glass of water from the dead woman's hand. Not a trace of it had emptied.

When she turned round, a young man was standing behind her. She had no idea how long he had been in the room. A well-groomed three-day beard covered the man's face, his delicate hands ran nervously over his face.

Excuse me, the door was open.

What door? Roxanna asked.

The entrance. I mean at the front. The main entrance. Well, the front door.

Roxanna sensed the young man's nervousness. Only now did she notice the flat box in his hand, the sweet smell of onions emanating from the box.

I've brought the pizza for Madame.

You're too late, Roxanna replied curtly.

Too late? Has Madame already left?

Gone away? Where was she going?