The World of the End (2 page)
The ward’s head nurse, eavesdropping at the doorway, smiled contentedly. She knew these monologues by heart, knew where they were leading. Within a week and a half at most, the woman would come to her senses and, after walking the weathered track of deliberation, would ask submissively to grant him eternal rest. If unexpected signs of optimism arose, the nurse would gently explain to her where true hope resided. She had, over the past decade, already nudged the spouses of ninety-nine men and women into proper bereavement, and it was now Kolanski’s turn. After all, ever since she first experienced the wonders of euthanasia, she had vowed that after the hundredth death she would opt for early retirement, secure in the gladdening knowledge that her calling had been answered in full. The fifty-year-old nurse saw herself as an angel of salvation, delivering the comatose from the anguish of their loved ones. The other nurses dubbed her The Angel of Death, a nickname that clashed eerily with her frail and fragile bearing.
She left the hospital early in the evening, in no rush to get home. As always, she walked the city’s main streets, perfuming herself with the pulse of everyday life, drinking in the notion that all the people in the cars, stores, cafes, restaurants, movie theaters, and on sidewalks, this mass of mankind, was not, at this very moment, engaged in the act of love. She walked her usual route, pleased by the sight of mortals immersed in their affairs, urban men and women of the cloth, who, for the time being, kept their chastity belts clasped tight, as did she. Her mind, at this point, still shied away from her sanctum sanctorum. Five minutes away from her house, she crossed the street and approached the final bend in the road, where an untamable, feral pounding erupted in her chest. The rational part of her mind stabbed at her repeatedly, for her childish excitement, for the crudeness of the whole affair, for the fact that a geographic Spot could charge the dusty battery of her heart and fill it to the point where she could almost hear the growl of an awakening engine in her ears, causing her to scan the street, to ensure that no one else had heard the ghastly noise. But no one heard and no one knew.
Two years ago, the bend in the road was just another curve on the way home from work, and she had no reason to believe that a health club would be built right there, firmly and unavoidably in her way. And then it happened. Since then, had anyone noticed her, they would have had some trouble interpreting the expression draped across her face—a lethal concoction of embarrassment, paralysis, disdain, attraction, disgust, agony, excitement, jealousy, resentment, indignation, pretension, and happiness. For the past two years she had been shuffling past the club, feigning nonchalance as she glanced through the front window, behind which sweaty and sleek men and women exhibited their bodies’ achievements. For two years she had been experiencing a tiny pleasurable heart attack, averting her eyes whenever they happened to meet those of any male club member. For two years she’d endured tedious, ten-hour shifts at the hospital in order to reap the reward of five blissful minutes on the walk home. If she could have it her way, she’d be waylaid for a while longer, but she feared that her sinewy heroes would spot her and creep into her forbidden thoughts. So, after five probing minutes, she marched on. Every once in a while, with the arrival of a new member or the disappearance of a regular, a wild sheen invaded her eyes, as if her mind had, with secretarial diligence, filed away every possible twist in the usual plot. A year before, she chose her protagonist. She had been tracking him since then, focusing on his mute attributes. The man frequented the gym every evening, never mingling, devoutly safeguarding his privacy. She was reminded of her first glimpse of him: tall, well-groomed, in his early forties, with brown hair cropped close to his scalp, whimsically spiked; blue, void and immobile eyes; a thick nose, thin lips, and body language that spoke of firmly harnessed sensuality. Over the course of the year, she wondered why the once-scrawny man distanced himself from the humming social scene at the health club, especially as his body revealed its clear intent to join the gym’s pantheon of well-defined Herculi. To her delight, he did not turn into one of those formidable monsters that treat their bodies like a sacred temple. He kept his humanity, immersing himself in his demanding workout, determined to carry on with the addictive mission, as though he expected some great reward at the end of the road.
Taking the bend, her eyes widened in surprise. Tonight, for the first time, he was not there, his absence creating a chasm between the perky-breasted blonde to his right and the expressionless blind man to his left.
* * *
At 9:00
P.M.
the bell rang. One after another, Ben’s friends, heavy with longing, poured into the house that had been off limits for a year. Beyond the dozens of balloons, wall decorations, overflowing plates of food, blaring dance music, and the enormous sign for Marian, the guests had no trouble recognizing the familiar guest room and were delighted to see that the owner had made no changes—the overloaded shelves still groaned under the weight of books, CDs, LPs, and videos, and the works of art, so loved by the woman of the hour, were still immaculately strewn all over the house.
Still, his friends struggled to make sense of their old friend’s new appearance, wondering what stood behind the dramatic shift and whether it conveyed a specific intent. The masculinity gushing out of every pore of his hardened body did not suit Ben, and not for aesthetic reasons. They circled around him relentlessly, hugging him, treading carefully around the thin ice of Marian’s name. Yet Ben, the life of the party, threw his head back and laughed, open-mouthed, constantly bringing Marian up, signaling that he was aware of the delicate situation and eager to put everyone at ease. With each passing moment it became clear that Ben refused to accept even the slightest gesture of pity. The blood that drained from his friends’ faces—when he joked that Marian had perfect timing, leaving when she did in order to avoid having to deal with a midlife crisis—slowly resumed its normal course as they began to realize that Ben could only relate to the crushing loss with humor, and so they played along, chuckling on cue when he announced that his wife had found the most original manner in the world to leave a man without hurting his feelings. After an hour of verbal ballet, Ben suggested opening the presents. He failed to conceal the moistness in his eyes when he ripped open the wrapping paper, revealing the newest works from his wife’s favorite writers, musicians, and fashion designers. But before the evening was stained with melancholy, he brought his palms together, rubbed vigorously, and said it was about time he revealed his second present for his dear wife. When one of them asked what the first present was, he posed for her, struck a male-model pout, and pirouetted three times, arms extended, enchanted by his own inane performance. “This body—Marian always wanted me to put some work into it.”
His friends, rejoicing at the simple explanation, rose out of their chairs and clapped him on the back, some of them wiping away tears.
Ben waited for them to settle down and then repeated his earlier statement. He walked over to the window, pulled the curtain aside, and nodded. Before his friends had the chance to fully interpret his actions, their ears picked up the crack of gunpowder from outside and, at the sight of Ben, smiling, nodding his head toward the door, they rushed out and stood dumbfounded in the front yard, their eyes tracing the arc of the fireworks in the sky, the wealth of stunning colors crowning the night with festive circles of light. The eye-and-soul pleasing shades flared across the night sky, drawing hearts and roses, baby blue fountains and emerald gardens, orange suns and regal purple stars. As Ben’s friends oohed and ahhed, the neighbors came out of their houses and joined them, enjoying the breathtaking pyrotechnic display on the eve of an ordinary day.
But it was not, the friends learned, a regular evening, nor was it an ordinary day. Twenty exhilarating minutes later, they filed back into the house to thank Ben for the generous display but were rudely denied the chance. Ben lay in a puddle of blood, seeded with parts of his brain. In his right hand he held a warm gun, and in his left a note asking them to open the fridge and take out the towering birthday cake with the maple syrup script that read “And They Died Happily Ever After…”
2
Other World Orders
Welcome to the Other World. First, we would like to extend our deepest condolences to those you have left behind. We sincerely hope they realize that no harm will be done to you here. If they think otherwise, they will simply have to wait their turn and see the error of their ways. Surely, you will be pleased to note that, as opposed to the previous world, which you entered without any instruction or orientation, we offer several prefatory comments as you stand here at the gates of your renewed existence. We promise not to carry on at great length, offering merely that which is essential for you to get the most out of this world, to suck the marrow out of death.
Two brief clarifications before we commence: For those of you worried about scars, souvenirs, or remnants from the events that brought you to this world, allow me to ease your minds. When the light goes on and you look at your body, you will, I assure you, be pleased with its fine state. All praise to our reconstructive surgeons and various somatic artisans. Each and every one of you has come through the Other World’s O.R. on your way here. You’ve all been outfitted with a brand new immune system and undergone a full-body tune-up, including repair work on defects and disabilities. Unfortunately, we are not able to fully repair birth defects; those suffering from congenital deformities, however, will be happy to hear that we have installed microscopic tactical devices that will allow you to dispense with your disabilities for the duration of a year. At the end of the prescribed term, we ask of, say, the blind, to report to the See No Evil clinic in their city, where their artificial eyes will be replaced with a new pair. The deaf will report to the Hear No Evil clinic, the dumb to the Speak No Evil clinic, the anosmic and the tasteless will report to the Different Strokes clinic, the mentally challenged and disabled will report to the Artificial Intelligence lab, and those suffering from physical disabilities will report to the Spare Parts lab. As for all of the others, shed your worries. Any disease you suffered from in your life, congenital or acquired, has been excised from your system with death. In our world, disease is nonexistent, and health is no cause for concern.
Our apologies to doctors, nurses, researchers, and others in the field of medicine, but if you wish to continue practicing in your respective fields, you’ll have to take a series of exams, after which, if you pass, you will be posted at one of the six aforementioned clinics, or at one of the many thousand reconstruction labs described earlier.
The second clarification pertains to language. Since you speak so many different tongues, we have installed a microchip in your brains—Babel—which contains more than one hundred languages and a thousand dialects. Whenever you feel like speaking with someone in a once-foreign language, you will find that you are fluent, even eloquent. Owing to our belief in candor and honesty, we’ve not forsaken the crasser trends of the tongue, offering a series of twenty curse words which will be at your disposal during rare moments of rage. Do not deduce from this that we support verbal violence. We simply prefer you swear rather than strike. It’s your responsibility to visit the multilingual labs once a year to update your chip, lest your vocabulary in the unpracticed tongues dwindle and your circuits start to short out your conversations.
Apologies to the translators, transliterators, language teachers, and others in the field, but if you wish to continue practicing in your area of expertise, you will have to take a series of tests, which, if you pass, will enable you to work in the multilingual labs, making the necessary updates in language, particularly in the realm of slang, and keeping abreast of the changes instituted by the academies of language.
* * *
And now several facts pertaining to our world:
1)
In light of the devastating results of the financial system in your previous world, it has been decided that here, in this world, currency, in all its forms, be abolished. We urge you not to seek it out. It simply does not exist. If you are interested in acquiring a certain item, go to the nearest store and ask the “salespeople” for assistance. They will provide whatever it is you seek, for free. Fear not, there is enough to go around. If it is hard for you to accept the system in our world, we shall clarify and elucidate: Those of you who choose to work in your fields, or to undergo a career change, will not be receiving monetary compensation for work performed. This ensures that your occupation will be a labor of love. Soon enough, you will realize that the rewards in our world are great. The nonmonetary system spawns creativity and, since you have all the time in this world at your disposal, there is no choice but to engage in activities that compensate you with, well, love.
To the merchants, bankers, entrepreneurs, economists, brokers, mint workers, banknote printers, counterfeiters, misers, rainy-day savers, big spenders, materialists, and others in the field—our apologies.
2)
In accordance with our devotion to candor, purity, and maximum freedom, all residents of this world are naked. When the exposed outweighs the concealed, people are infinitely more trusting, developing a reputable, honest society where costumes, masks, and other props are unnecessary. Moreover, studies have proven that nudity markedly reduces the rate of violence. Before moving on to the next matter at hand, we have a simple request, which will not be elaborated upon due to security concerns: Now and again you will bump into people who are clothed; please do not mingle with them or disturb them. To the fashion designers, models, tailors, cobblers, seamstresses, kings and queens of haute couture, and all other members of the garment and shoewear trade—our apologies.