Everything Like Before, page 21
“Well, I’d better be going,” my daughter said after a pause that was brief, but long enough, “I have to get to an herb shop before it closes. See you.” She held out her hand. “Goodbye, Maria,” I said. Then she left. That was my daughter. I know everything has its own inherent logic, but it isn’t always easy to spot.
Mrs. M
One of the few people who know I still exist is Mrs. M at the corner shop. Twice a week she brings me what I need to live – she doesn’t overexert herself. I seldom see her, as she has a key to the apartment and leaves the shopping inside the door; it’s best that way, we protect ourselves and each other while maintaining a peaceful, almost friendly, relationship.
But one day when I heard her let herself in, I had to call out to her. I’d fallen, banged my knee, and couldn’t make it to the couch. Luckily it happened on one of the days she brings the groceries, so I didn’t need to wait more than four hours. She wanted to fetch the doctor immediately, and she meant well, only close relatives call the doctor out of spite, when they want to get rid of old people. I explained to her everything she needed to know about hospitals and one-way tickets to old people’s homes, and compassionate person that she was, she wrapped my knee. Then she made three open sandwiches that she placed on a table by the bed, along with a decanter of water. Finally she brought in an old milk jug she’d found in the kitchen, in case the need arises, as she put it.
Then she left. Later that evening I was eating one of the sandwiches when she came to check on me. It was so unexpected, I have to admit my emotions got the better of me, and I said: “You’re such a good person.” “There, there,” she replied, and began changing the dressing on my knee. “This is going to be all right,” she said, and added, “so you don’t want to go to an old people’s home? You do know, by the way, that they’re not called that any longer, now they’re known as assisted living facilities.” We both had a good laugh at that, the mood became almost upbeat, it’s such a joy to meet people with a sense of humor.
My leg was sore for nearly a week and she came to check on me every day. On the last day I said: “I’m well again now, thanks to you.” “No need to be so serious,” she interrupted, “everything has gone just as it should.” I agreed with her about the last part but insisted that without her my life could have taken an unfortunate turn. “Oh, you would have managed somehow,” she replied, “you’re so stubborn. My father was the same, so I know what I’m talking about.” I felt she was drawing conclusions on a rather flimsy basis, she didn’t know me after all, but I didn’t want to appear reproachful so I just said: “I’m afraid you have too high an opinion of me.” “Oh, not at all,” she replied. “If you’d only known him, he was an extremely obstinate and difficult man.” She said this in all seriousness, and I have to admit I was impressed, I felt like laughing with joy, but I maintained my composure and said: “I see. And did your father also live to be very old?” “Oh yes, very old. He was constantly disparaging about life, but I don’t know anyone who struggled more against letting go of it.” I could safely smile at that; it was liberating, I even chuckled, as did she. “You’re probably just the same,” she said, and then, out of the blue, asked if she could read my palm. I held out my hand, I don’t remember which, but it was the other one she wanted. She studied it for a while, then smiled and said, “Just as I thought. You should have been dead long ago.”
The Banister
A few months ago I received a visit from the new landlord. He rang three times before I managed to open, even though I walked as quickly as I could. I didn’t know it was him, after all. It’s seldom anyone comes by, and almost all who do are representatives of religious sects asking if I’ve been saved. That does amuse me a little, but I never let them in, people who believe in eternal life aren’t rational, you never know what they could get up to. Anyway, on this occasion it was the landlord who called. I’d written to him almost a year previously to draw his attention to the fact that the banisters on the staircase were broken, and thinking that was why he’d come, I let him in. He looked around. “Nice place you’ve got here,” he said, and this was such a tendentious statement I realized I had to be on my guard. “The banister is broken,” I said. “Yeah, I noticed, were you the one who broke it?” “No, why would it have been me?” “There’re only young people living in the other apartments, so you’re probably the only person who uses it, and it hardly broke itself, did it?” He was obviously a difficult person and I didn’t want to enter into a discussion about the whys and wherefores of things being broken, so I said rather curtly: “Be that as it may, I need to use that banister, and have a right to do so.” He didn’t respond to that, however he did say the rent would increase by twenty per cent as of next month. “Again?” I said, “and by twenty per cent, that’s quite a lot.” “It should be more,” he replied, “I’m losing money on this building.” It’s been a long time – must be almost thirty years – since I stopped discussing finance with people who say they’re losing money on things they could get rid of, so I didn’t say anything. But he didn’t need any input from me to go on, he was the type who required no help from anyone else. He went on at length about all his other buildings that were also operating at a loss, it was quite the lament to listen to, he must have been a pretty lousy capitalist. But I didn’t say anything and eventually his moaning came to an end, and not before time. Instead, without any apparent reason, he asked if I believed in God. I was on the verge of asking which God he was referring to but contented myself with shaking my head. “But you must,” he said. So I’d let one of them into the apartment after all. Not that I was that surprised, it’s not unusual for people with a lot of property to believe in God. However, having relegated evangelists to a crack in the door long ago, I wasn’t going to let him get started on a new topic, so I didn’t let him get any further. “So the rent is increasing by twenty per cent,” I said, “I gather that’s what you came to tell me.” My rebuff seemed to surprise him, because he opened and closed his mouth twice without making a sound, something I’d imagine was out of character for him. “And I hope you see to it that the banister is repaired,” I continued. His face turned red. “The banister, the banister,” he said impatiently, “you won’t let up about that banister.” I thought that was a stupid thing to say and became rather worked up. “But don’t you understand,” I said, “that on occasion that banister is all I have to hold onto in life?” I immediately regretted having said it, precise formulations should be directed at contemplative people, otherwise things become a right mess. Which they did. I can’t be bothered repeating what he said, but mostly it concerned the afterlife. Finally he started talking about being at death’s door, and I was the one he was referring to, so that made me angry. “Stop pestering me about your finances,” I said, because really that was what this entire thing was all about, and when he didn’t decide to leave right away, I took the liberty of banging on the floor once with my cane. Then he left. It was a relief, I felt happy and unencumbered for several minutes afterward, and I remember saying to myself, inwardly of course: Don’t give up, Thomas, don’t give up.
The Disturbance
When reading or occupied with solving chess problems, I’ll often sit by the window looking out. You never know when something worth watching might happen, although it’s pretty unlikely, the last time was three or four years ago. But the mundane can also provide some diversion, and at least outside the window there’s always something moving, in here it’s only me and the hand of the clock.
But three or four years ago I did see something strange, and that was the last remarkable thing I’ve seen, although as I said I’m not indifferent to more everyday occurrences, people fighting for instance, hitting and kicking one another, or people keeling over on the pavement and lying there because they’re either too drunk or sick to make their way home, if they have a home that is, many of them probably don’t, there aren’t enough homes in the world.
But what I saw that time was different. It must have been at Easter or Whitsuntide, because it wasn’t in winter, and I remember thinking such an occurrence most likely had some connection to one of the religious festivals.
My window looks down upon a side street; it’s not too long and I can see to the end of it without difficulty, I have good eyesight.
I was sitting following two flies mating on the windowsill, so in all probability it was at Whitsuntide; watching them provided some diversion, although they hardly moved. Looking at them didn’t arouse me, not like I can remember it doing when I was young – oh yes, I remember that well.
Anyway, I was watching the two flies – I’d just touched one of the female’s wings very carefully, and then one of the male’s wings, without them seeming to notice, and it struck me as odd that their preoccupation with each other should be so intense, since the male had been sitting on top of the female for at least ten minutes, and that’s no exaggeration. I should have spent more of my life studying insects, then again what would have been the point? – when I caught sight of a man at the far end of the street behaving in a most conspicuous manner. He was sort of flapping his arms, and shouting something, although I couldn’t catch what it was in the beginning. He did move in a systematic way, although his sense of geographical organization was peculiar, because he walked, or jogged rather, from the first window on the right-hand side of the street to the first window on the left-hand side, and from there to the second window on the right-hand side then on to the second window on the left-hand side, and so on, knocking on all the doors and shouting something. It was unusual and strange, and I opened the window – this was before the hinges broke – and heard him shout: “Jesus has come.” But he called out something else as well, which sounded like: “I have come,” and as he drew closer I realized I was right, that was what he was shouting. “Jesus has come, I have come.” And the entire time he was jogging from one side of the street to the other knocking on the windowpanes he could reach. It was a disturbing sight, religious insanity is disturbing.
The initial reaction was as surprising as it was appropriate: a stool came sailing down at him from a fourth-floor window around halfway along the street. It didn’t hit him – nor hopefully was that the intention – but it broke into pieces of course. It was very much a wasted effort, the man only grew louder, perhaps he needed confirmation that what he was doing was of importance.
The next reaction was akin to the first, but less concrete, and not without a touch of comedy. A window flew open and a furious voice screamed: “You’re stark raving mad, man!” It was only then that I realized that the man on the street was actually dangerous, that he provoked latent inclinations in some of his fellow men, and I thought: can’t some rational person, who has no difficulty walking, go down there and put an end to all this? Quite a few heads had gradually begun to appear out of windows along the street, but down below the madman alone held sway.
I was fascinated, I admit, but as time went on perhaps more so by the entire street scene than by the main character. People had ceased being silent, they laughed and called out to one another over the poor wretch’s head. I’d never seen the like of such sudden social interaction, a man in the building next door even called out to me. I could make out only the last word, ‘blasphemy’, and of course I didn’t reply. If he’d said something reasonable, ‘emergency room’ for example, then who knows, we might have begun to nod whenever we saw each other from then on. But a grown man, old enough to be my long-deceased wife’s son, who has nothing more reasonable to say than ‘blasphemy’, I have no desire to have a nodding acquaintance with, I’m not that lonely yet.
But enough about that. As I said, I was fascinated at this teeming life outside my window, it put me in mind of my childhood – it was probably a better time to be old back then, I think, less lonely, and above all you generally died in a timely fashion – when a man emerged from an entranceway. He looked to be in a hurry and was headed straight for the madman. He grabbed hold of him from behind, spun him around and struck him so hard in the face that the madman staggered sideways and fell over. For a moment there was complete silence in the street, as though everyone were holding their breath. Then there was uproar again, and it was now obvious that the unpleasantness was directed at the assailant. It didn’t take long before people began emerging from other entranceways, and while the immediate cause of the entire commotion sat silent and seemingly helpless a few meters away, a heated argument broke out which was impossible to grasp the details of, but it was obvious that the assailant also had his supporters, because two youths suddenly came to blows. Oh, it was a black day for reason.
In the meantime, the madman had got to his feet, and while the youths fought –because of him in all likelihood, but possibly for other reasons – and some others tried to break them up, he backed further and further away, until he reached the closest street corner, at which point he turned and sprinted off. It was a relief. And I’ll tell you, that man could run.
When the crowd on the street realized the man was gone, things slowly began to settle down, and one window after the other was closed. I closed mine too, it wasn’t a very warm day. The world is full of foolishness and confusion, lack of freedom is deep-rooted, hope for fairness and equality is dwindling, the odds are stacked against us, or so it seems. We should be happy to be doing as well as we are, they say, most people are worse off. Then they take a pill against insomnia. Or depression. Or life. When will a new generation come, one that understands the importance of equality? A generation of gardeners and foresters who can fell the big trees keeping the smaller ones in the shade, and who can remove the suckers from the tree of knowledge.
At the Barber’s
I stopped going to the barber to get my hair cut years ago; the closest one is five blocks away, and in time that became too far to walk, even before the banister on the staircase was broken. But what hair I have I can cut myself, and do, I want to be able to look in the mirror without feeling too depressed. I pluck long nasal hairs too.
But one day, less than a year ago, when, for reasons I won’t go into, I was feeling particularly lonely, I landed on the idea of going to get my hair cut, even though it was actually short enough. I did try to talk myself out of it, it’s too far to walk, I told myself, you don’t have the legs for it, it’ll take you at least three quarters of an hour each way. But it was no use. So what if it does? I replied. I’ve plenty of time, time is the one thing I have too much of.
So I got dressed and went out. I wasn’t exaggerating, it took a long time, I’ve never heard of anyone who walks as slowly as I do, it’s a nuisance, I’d rather be a deaf-mute, what’s the good in hearing after all? And why speak, who’s listening, and is there anything left to say? Well, yes, I suppose there are things left to say, but who’s listening?
Eventually I got there. I opened the door and went in. Oh, how the world has changed. Everything inside was different, only the master barber was the same. I greeted him but he didn’t recognize me. It was disappointing but of course I didn’t let it show. There were no empty seats. Three men were being shaved or having their hair cut, and another four were waiting, and there was nowhere to sit. I was so tired, but no one got up – the ones waiting were too young, they didn’t know what it meant to be old. So I turned toward the window and looked out at the street, pretending that was what I actually wanted to do, so no one would feel sorry for me. Politeness I’ll accept but you can save sympathy for animals. All too often I’ve noticed young people – actually, it’s been a while since I have, but has the world become more humane? – all too often, I’ve noticed young people stepping over helpless people lying on the pavement without uttering a word but no sooner do they set eyes on an injured cat or dog than their hearts overflow. Poor doggy, they say, or poor little kitty, have you hurt yourself? Oh, there are so many animal lovers!
Fortunately, I didn’t need to stand for more than five minutes, and it was a relief to sit down. However nobody spoke. In the old days both the wider world and matters closer to home were drawn into the barber’s, now there was just silence; I’d walked for nothing, there was no longer any world people wanted to talk about. So after a while I stood up and left. After all, what was the point? My hair was short enough. And I’d saved some money, probably a fair few kroners. So I walked the several thousand small steps home. Oh, the world is changing, I thought. And silence is spreading. It’s time to die.
Thomas
I’m growing terribly old. I’ll soon find it as difficult to write as I do to walk. It’s going slowly as it is. No more than a few sentences a day. And a couple of days ago I passed out. So I’m probably nearing the end. I was working on a chess problem when it happened. I noticed a sudden faintness. It felt like life itself was ebbing away. It wasn’t painful. But slightly unpleasant. And then I must have lost consciousness because when I came around my head was on the chessboard. Both kings and pawns lay toppled. It was exactly how I wanted to die. It’s probably too much to ask, to die without pain. If I was to fall ill, be in great pain, and sense that the sickness and suffering had come to stay for good, it would be nice to have a friend to help me into the nothingness. That’s forbidden by law, of course. Laws are conservative, unfortunately. So even doctors prolong a person’s pain, even when they know there’s no hope. It’s called medical ethics. But no one is laughing. People in pain usually don’t. The world shows no mercy. They say that during the great purge in the Soviet Union those who were condemned to death were shot in the back of the head while being returned to their cells to await their punishment. Suddenly, without warning. I think that was a trace of humanity in the midst of all the misery. But there was an outcry among people: they should at least be allowed to die facing a firing squad. Religious humanism is more than a little cynical, well, humanism in general.
