Woes of the True Policeman

was at the back door of the hall. Arcimboldi was alone, which meant that no one tried to stop him. Dubillard was accompanied by three college friends, one of whom ended his brilliant career as a socialist minister in the eighties, and together they tried to convince Arcimboldi, first, that times had changed, and second, that Dubillard was much stronger and bigger than he and therefore, objectively speaking, it wasn’t a fair fight. They fought anyway, and Arcimboldi lost again. Their next encounter was in 1955, at a well-known Paris restaurant. Dubillard had given up literature and become a businessman. This time all they did was shove each other and shout insults, until Arcimboldi’s friends broke things off by taking him away. Their final encounter was in the fall of 1980. Dubillard was out for a walk with his grandson and his grandson’s nanny and they ran into Arcimboldi. The latter considered spitting at the boy but he thought better of it and contented himself with spitting at a wheel of the baby carriage. Dubillard showed no reaction. They never saw each other again.
    Raoul Delorme , concierge of the building where Arcimboldi lived from 1959 to 1962. Amateur writer of poems about horses and meticulous crime stories in which the killer is never caught. For a while Arcimboldi tried to convince some magazines to publish his work. According to him, Delorme might have been an extraterrestrial boy scout, or perhaps just a telepath. There soon sprang up between them a cool and contained hatred. Delorme, according to Arcimboldi, performed Black Masses in his cramped concierge quarters: he defecated on books by Gide, Maupassant, pissed on books by Pierre Louÿs, Mendès, Banville, shot his wad between the pages of books by Barbusse, Hugo, Chateaubriand, all with the sole intent of improving his French.
    Marina Libakova , architect, literary agent, and poet. One month of passion and five years of hard feelings. One night, according to Madame Libakova, in her house in Thézy-Glimont where they were spending the weekend, Arcimboldi, without provocation or explanation, tossed into the fire a poetry manuscript that she had kindly and eagerly presented for his consideration. 1969–1973. She also admits that Arcimboldi asked her forgiveness for his stupidity something like three hundred times over the course of those five years. No letters were preserved.

V. KILLERS of SONORA

1
    Pancho Monje was born in Villaviciosa, near Santa Teresa, in the state of Sonora.
    One night, when he was sixteen, he was woken up and led half-asleep to the Monte Hebrón, a bar where Don Pedro Negrete, the police chief of Santa Teresa, was waiting for him. He had heard of him but never seen him. Accompanying Don Pedro were two old women and three old men from Villaviciosa, and lined up before him were ten boys about the same age as Pancho, waiting for Don Pedro’s decision.
    The superintendent was sitting in a high-backed chair like a throne, though it was covered in frayed fabric, different from all the other chairs at the Monte Hebrón, and he was drinking whiskey from a bottle that he had brought from home, because no one at the Monte Hebrón drank whiskey. Behind the chief and the old men, in the shadows, was another man who was also drinking. But he wasn’t drinking whiskey, he was drinking Los Suicidas mescal, a rare brand that couldn’t be found anywhere anymore, except in Villaviciosa. The mescal drinker’s name was Gumaro and he was Don Pedro’s driver.
    For some time, without getting up from his chair, Don Pedro examined the boys with a critical eye while every so often the old men whispered in his ear. Then he called Pancho and ordered him to step forward.
    Pancho was still half-asleep and he didn’t understand the order.
    “Me?” he asked.
    “Yes, you, idiot, what’s your name?”
    “Francisco Monje, at your service,” said Pancho.
    One of the old men whispered again in Don Pedro’s ear.
    “What else,” said Don Pedro.
    “What else?” asked Pancho.
    “Francisco Monje what, boy,” said Don Pedro.
    “Francisco Monje Expósito,” said Pancho.
    Don Pedro stared at him and, after consulting with the old men, made his choice. The other boys went home and Pancho was ordered to wait outside.
    The sky was full of stars and it was as bright as day. It was cold, but Don Pedro’s Ford was still warm and Pancho put his two hands on the hood. Inside the Monte Hebrón, Don Pedro handed out money and inquired about people’s