Kleinzeit (14 page)

If sky were earth and ocean sky,
Green turtles would be kites to fly.

Kleinzeit read the second one:

Golden, Golden, Golden Virginia,
Be my tobacco, be my sin,
Golden, Golden, Golden Virginia,
Be my original, be my tin.

‘You see what I mean,’ said Drogue. ‘Universal subjects on universal paper. It’s just now come to me why the sparrow popped into my head.’

‘Why?’

‘Something I read in the
Oxford Dictionary of Quotations,
from Bede. About man’s life being like the flight of a sparrow out of the wintry dark into a warm and brightly
lit hall. It flies in through one door and out of another, into the cold and dark again. I don’t want to go back to travelling for Speedclox when I get out of hospital. I don’t know what I’ll do but I won’t do that.’

‘Have you a spare Rizla?’ said Kleinzeit. ‘I’d like to try one.’

‘Of course,’ said Drogue. He gave him a little red packet of them. WORLD’S LARGEST SALE, said the packet. Kleinzeit wrote on a Rizla:

Rizla, world’s largest sales are thine,
Rizla, smoke a little song for Kleinzeit.

He put the Rizla in his pocket, gave the packet back to Drogue.

‘Keep it,’ said Drogue. ‘I’ve got more.’

‘Thanks,’ said Kleinzeit, ‘but I’d rather not. I’m a yellow-paper man, you see.’

‘Ah,’ said Drogue. ‘Yellow paper. You’d say that was universal, would you.’

‘No question about it,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘Same as ordinary foolscap and Rizla.’

‘Ah,’ said Drogue, ‘yellow paper and foolscap may be universal in their way but they’re not universal the way Rizla is.’

Running today, said the morning looking in at Kleinzeit’s window.

Kleinzeit got up. Running today, he said to the bathroom mirror.

Not me, said the mirror. No legs.

Kleinzeit put on his new tracksuit, his new running shoes.

Let’s go, said the shoes. Motion! Speed! Youth!

No speed, said Kleinzeit. And I’m not young.

Shit, said the shoes. Let’s get moving anyhow.

When Kleinzeit opened the door of his flat Death was there, black and hairy and ugly, no bigger than a medium-sized chimpanzee with dirty fingernails.

Not all that big, are you, said Kleinzeit.

Not one of my big days, said Death. Sometimes I’m tremendous.

Kleinzeit trotted off down the street. Not too much at first, he reminded himself. Just from here to Thomas More, then fifty steps of walking.

Death followed him chimpanzee-style, putting its knuckles down on the pavement and swinging its legs forward. You’re pretty slow, it said.

With glue my heart is laden, said Kleinzeit.

What do you mean? said Death, moving up beside him.

I mean life is gluey, said Kleinzeit. Everything’s all stuck together. That isn’t what I mean. Everything is unstuck, runs over into everything else. Clocks and sparrows, harrows, flocks and crocks, green turtles, Golden Virginia. Yellow paper, foolscap, Rizla. Is there an existence that is only mine?

What’s the difference if there is or not? said Death. Does it matter?

You’re very friendly, very cosy, very matey today, said Kleinzeit. How do I know you won’t start yelling HOO HOO again and come at me all of a sudden?

You don’t, said Death. But right now I feel friendly. It’s lonely for me, you know. Lots of people think I’m beastly.

Kleinzeit looked down at Death’s black bristly back rising and falling as it swung along beside him. You are, you know, he said.

Death looked up at him, wrinkled back its chimpanzee lips, showed its yellow teeth. Be nice, it said. One day you’ll need me.

Thomas More came into view with his gilded face. Walking time, said Kleinzeit. Fifty steps.

We’ve hardly got a rhythm started, said Death. This isn’t my idea of a morning run.

I’m out of condition, said Kleinzeit. I’ve been in hospital, you know. Ordinarily I trot the whole way. I’ve got to work back into it.

The fifty walking steps used up, he began to trot. The river jolted past him. Silver, silver, said the river, said the low white morning sun. Really, said the river, you have no idea. Even I have no idea, and I’m a river.

I have
some
idea, said Kleinzeit.

A postman cycled by. There was a white flash of sunlight centred on the bottom of each wheel-rim. The wheels of the postman’s bicycle seemed to be rolling on the two white rolling sunflashes rather than the road. Even the flashes, said the postman’s wheels, you see?

I see, said Kleinzeit. But I don’t really see the need for making a mystery of every single mystery. Especially as there’s nothing
but
mysteries.

Death began to go a little faster, singing a song that Kleinzeit couldn’t quite make out.

Don’t go so fast, said Kleinzeit. I can’t hear what you’re singing.

Death looked back over its shoulder smiling, but drew farther ahead as it sang. Gulls flew up over the river.

Don’t
you
be making a mystery out of that little song, said Kleinzeit. He trotted faster, closed the gap between them, was shocked by the heaviness that exploded in him as if he had been struck by a comet. The pavement became a wall that slammed into his face. A brief display of coloured lights, then blackness.

Blip blip blip blip. Well, there you are, thought Kleinzeit. Now I’m Schwarzgang. I
have
no separate existence. It hardly seems fair.

Remember, said Hospital.

What what what? said Kleinzeit. Why must everybody continually make cryptic remarks. The whole thing’s plain enough. When I wake up I’ll tell you about it. There’s no need to write it down, it’s so perfectly obvious, so simple really.

Very good, said Hospital. Now you’re awake. Tell me.

Tell you what? said Kleinzeit.

What you said you were going to tell me, said Hospital. What you said was perfectly plain.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, said Kleinzeit. I wish you’d stop bothering me.

Quite, said Hospital. Ta-ra. Keep blipping.

Wait, said Kleinzeit.

No answer. Blip blip blip blip, went the screen. If I had one of those things attached to me I’d start waiting for it to stop, thought Kleinzeit, scratching his chest where the electrode was attached. Ah, this one’s mine then.

‘How’re we feeling now?’ said a familiar face. ‘I must say you’re looking a good deal better than you were. Gave us no end of bother when you showed up, heh heh. Seemed quite determined to pack it in.’

‘You’re not Dr Pink,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘He doesn’t say “Heh heh”. Also has a different face.’

‘Dr Pink’s on holiday,’ said the heh-heh man. ‘I’m Dr Bashan.’

‘Doesn’t surprise me in the least,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘Folger Bashan?’

‘Yes. How’d you know?’

‘Just one of those things,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘You don’t know me, I suppose.’

‘I don’t, actually,’ said Dr Bashan. His grown-up ugly face was annoyingly authoritative. His teeth weren’t yellow any more. ‘Have we met?’

‘Perhaps at a party,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘It’s hard to say. Stretto your speciality, is it?’

‘As a matter of fact it is, heh heh. How’d you know?’

‘Must’ve read it somewhere. Are you famous?’

‘Finished first in last year’s Bay of Biscay race,’ said Dr Bashan. ‘You might have seen a photo of me in a yachting magazine in someone’s waiting-room.’

‘How do you know I don’t subscribe to one?’ said Kleinzeit.

‘Well, yes, of course you very well might do. No reason why not.’

‘What’s the name of your yacht?’

‘Atropos.
Heh heh.’

‘Jolly name,’ said Kleinzeit.

‘Good boat,’ said Dr Bashan. ‘Well, old man, you’d best get some rest, settle in a bit. We’ll keep an eye on things, see what’s to be done with you.’ He squeezed Kleinzeit’s shoulder in a good-natured way, walked off.

He
wouldn’t be in the bed and I the doctor, thought Kleinzeit. That wouldn’t be in the nature of things.

The curtains must have closed around his bed when he woke up. Now they were pushed back, and he looked at the beds across from him and on either side. The whole thing again. There were Drogue, Damprise, Smallworth. Hello, hello, hello. Nods and smiles. Yes, here I am back again, simply couldn’t stay away. Nox to the left of him, Piggle to the right.
The Secret Agent
on Piggle’s locker. Raj,
McDougal, then Schwarzgang, still blipping. Redbeard just beyond him. Mouths moved, words came out. His mouth moved, words came out. Faces went back to newspapers, oxygen masks, sleep, coughing, spitting. The window was far away now. Mmmm, said the bed, cuddle closer, love. Kleinzeit’s fists beat feebly against its hot embrace. O God, where’s Thucydides. Not here. Home. No shaving gear, nothing. What was he wearing? Hospital pyjamas, too big, with the trousers sliding down. Ah yes, he’d been trying to catch up with Death so he could hear that little song, had very nearly done it too. Sly old chimp! Where was Sister? Still daytime, not here yet.

Nox was looking at him in a man-to-man way. He took something out from under several newspapers, passed it to Kleinzeit. Dirty pictures? thought Kleinzeit as he took it. No, a catalogue. Script lettering, silver on glossy black:
Coffins by Box-U-Well.
Before the pictures a foreword:

Choosing your coffin

How many times have all of us said, or heard others say, ‘I wouldn’t be caught dead in that hat/coat/suit, etc.?’ And yet how many of us, even the most discriminating, are caught dead in a coffin that does not reflect our high standards of personal taste! That is why we say: ‘A word to the wise.’ The choice is yours whether to go in the style that is personally yours or simply to be packed off at random.

Leaving this world is no less important an occasion than coming into it. Just as your parents showed their love for and pride in you by their careful choice of a baby carriage that provided as it were the setting in which you as a baby were the jewel, so you as an ‘outgoing party’ owe it to your family, friends, and business associates, to the community at large, to take your leave in a distinctive and ‘personalized’ manner.

Examine the Box-U-Well line carefully, and you will see why generations of satisfied customers have endorsed our slogan; ‘A Box for Every Budget.’ Traditional skills passed from father to son, years of consummate craftsmanship and technical ‘knowhow’ go into every Box-U-Well coffin. Whether you choose an economy model such as the ‘Tom-all-Alone’s’ or a de luxe container like ‘The Belgravia’, you are assured of materials, fittings, and workmanship of the first quality. With Box-U-Well you can indeed ‘Rest in Peace.’

Pages of gorgeous colour photographs followed. Kleinzeit examined ‘The Sportsman’, covered in genuine pigskin (Team colours inset optional), ‘The Foreign Service’, covered in gilt-stamped black morocco, watered silk lining (Flag border extra), ‘The City’, with solid silver handles hand-wrought in the shape of furled umbrellas, ‘The Trade Winds’, teak with brass fittings, manila hemp handles with turk’s-head knots. ‘Easy Hire Purchase Terms Available’, said the catalogue. Box-U-Well (Sales) Ltd., Retchwell, Herts. Mfrs of ShowTot Baby Carriages, StopTot Contraceptives, Bagdad Sexual Aids and Appliances and Firmo Trusses. A Division of Napalm Industries.

Kleinzeit gave the catalogue back to Nox. ‘I wrote the copy for this,’ he said.

‘No!’ said Nox. ‘Did you really?’

‘Yes,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘I used to work on the Anal Petroleum Jelly account. Napalm Industries is one of their divisions.’

‘Could you get a discount, do you think?’ said Nox.

‘Not any more. I was sacked.’

Nox shook his head. ‘Bad luck,’ he said. ‘Damprise thinks we may be able to get them on the National Health. He’s writing to the ministry.’

‘Where’d you get the catalogue?’ said Kleinzeit. ‘Traveller come round?’

‘Damprise’s brother-in-law,’ said Nox. ‘He said he might be able to arrange a group discount. Quite a knowledgable chap. He said we can look for burial plot prices to zoom. Speculators moving in and all that. Some big consortium called Metropolis or something like that has already bought up two or three of the better cemeteries.’

‘Necropolis,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘Necropolis Urban Concepts. That was one of my accounts too.’

‘I say,’ said Nox. ‘Quite formidably well-connected, weren’t you. Damprise’s brother-in-law says now is the time to buy, and I would have thought it’s certainly worth looking into. It’s the sort of thing one tends to put off, then there you are out in the cold.’

‘You don’t happen to have any dirty magazines, do you,’ said Kleinzeit.

‘All-Star Wank’
said Nox, gave it to Kleinzeit. NEW MODELS, NEW POSES! WANKIE-OF-THE-MONTH LUVTA DEWITT, UNRETOUCHED COLOUR SPREAD.

‘Lovely,’ said Kleinzeit, buried himself in Luvta Dewitt’s pubic hair, found Dr Bashan’s image glazing on his eyeballs from time to time. They might have retouched
that
out, he thought, tried to call to mind Death’s little song that he had not quite heard, became aware of what he was doing, tried
not
to call it to mind. Sneaky, he thought. Must be careful. No aeroplanes visible from his bed. An appalling sunny afternoon sky. When Napoleon spoke of two o’clock courage he could only have meant two in the afternoon, thought Kleinzeit. Two in the morning’s nothing compared to it. Luvta Dewitt, 43-25-37, was this year’s Miss Bristol Cities, her favourite book is the Bhagavad-Gita, she plays the dulcimer, is studying to be a dentist. Teeth, for God’s sake!

You’ve got me wrong, said Hospital. It is not my intention to eat you up.

That won’t prevent you from doing it though, said Kleinzeit.

Ah, said Hospital. Your understanding is stronger than it was. If, in the nature of things, it should happen, you will understand, won’t you, that it’s only in the nature of things.

Quite, said Kleinzeit.

Good, said Hospital. Now that we have somewhat cleared the air we can perhaps chat a little.

About what, said Kleinzeit.

About Orpheus, said Hospital. You know the story?

Of course I do, said Kleinzeit.

Tell me it, said Hospital.