Three i - ViceVersaMag

makes him even more hideous. The young
man stammers out paltry excuses, pretexting
it was all down to his editor, that he
too hadn't understood. Besides, nobody
had a clue about this damned business.
Nobody except he and Nathaniel Haag,
eminent socio-psychologist, whose recent
book confirmed what he, Desire Ladouceur,
had known from the start.
"The Killing Singularities", it is true,
had been a real letdown for the North
American criminologists. Drawing on
anthropology, history and psychoanalysis
Haag maintained that the series of unexplained
murders which were occurring in
the cities had something of the nature of a
new form of ritual criminality. He claimed
that by applying his method one could reasonably
anticipate the date and place
they'd be carried out. This declaration was
laughable at first. But two days after the
Huntington Avenue drama it set people on
edge. The police questioned Haag for eight
hours. His Washington Square apartment
was searched from top to bottom. In
between time, he became a celebrity with a
reputation for being provocative.
The gutter press revealed his fondness
for young boys. A rumor persisted that
credited him with crimes he would have
staged in order to confirm his theory. A letter
from his faculty dean arrived, warning
him against any further scandal. In short,
the private and professional life of
Nathaniel F. Haag was turned upside down
in a manner far beyond anything he could
have dreamed. Yet what disturbed him
most was that, despite his achievements,
none of his peers had considered it advisable
to confirm or invalidate his hypotheses.
As if he had unveiled a secret everyone
knew about but were unwilling to acknowledge.
Nobody was really interested in these
theories except this puny reporter, uglier
than himself, who wrote for a some small
paper on the outskirts of Montreal and was
in New York with the sole purpose of meeting
him.
They have just left Times Square and
entered an heavily-lit zone. Red and
mauve neon lighting intermittently claw
the leprous facades of shops with shoddy
goods. Above them, a pulsing mauve beam
comes out of the windows, punctuated by
the stroboscope of a disco. One would like
to caricature diis city that we wouldn't
otherwise have caught out. Two men of
medium height, who look like brothers,
leave a cabaret. They both have moustaches
and wear iridescent shirts under their
leather jackets. Their gaze lingers at length
on Haag and Désiré and the bum of their
prying eyes is felt long after they've gone.
Haag, in turn, looks mockingly at Désiré,
and invites him to a café.
Désiré flatly refuses explaining, in the
most serious manner possible, that he hasn't
'come for that' but to accomplish a mission
of a higher order in which he, Haag, is
the striking and indispensable element.
Haag looks to the sky, as if trying to find
words which are going to resolve the situation.
After a moment he speaks to him as if
they've suddenly become intimate friends:
But you're not afraid, in fact. Who says
I'm not the killer.
Desire's eyes shine with a strange
gleam "I know who the killer is."
... Moira and Désiré
Moira waited for Désiré to finish his
tale. She had her nose pressed against the
Altitude restaurant's panoramic window.
Her breath, condensating on the cold
pane, formed a mist in which she could see
the lights of Montreal reflected.
Without admitting it to herself perhaps,
this story attracted her already with
its violence and mystery. Like the pure
black quartz of Mount Royal standing out
against the luminous pearly line of the
horizon. This block which sucked in all the
brightness, keeping captive something
unspeakable which committed evil. Maybe
that was what had drawn her closer to
Désiré and made her decide to trust him
again with the investigation.
She bent her neck forward and bit her
upper lip, its fullness. She turned round.
"You really believe in these théories?" she
said. Désiré smiled, wanted to take Moira's
hands, but she slipped away. She was
already rummaging in her purse to hand
him the paper. Désiré half-grimaced; it
hadn't been published. Willie too had
given in. Deep down, that didn't surprise
him. Moira seemed relieved.
Perhaps she also thought he exaggerated.
Perhaps she began to be afraid of him
too.
Moira rrt} sweet little lamb, come here,
come, I won't hurt you. You smell of lilac.
Come with me into the shadow flecked light.
"It 's him isn't it. He set you against
me." He said. Moira looked at him, surprised.
Once again Désiré had become
caught up in his phobias. He created imaginary
lovers for her, accused her of feeling
differently about him, of wanting to leave
him whereas there was nothing between
them. Their undertsanding was strictly
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