Dialogues of the Dead

24

the fifth dialogue

Oh, the bells bells bells.

Yes, I remember, like bagpipes, they make a fine noise-between consenting adults and a guid Scots mile away!

But close by, when you’ve got a hangover …

Who but a sadist would programme an alarm call on the one scheduled day of rest?

Sorry. Blasphemous. No sadist, but my light and salvation; which is why I don’t have to fear any sod.

But the sound does get on my nerves.

Noisy bells, be dumb. I hear you, I will come.

And come I did eventually to that stately old terrace, led not by forethought but the convolutions of that serpent path which after the Feydeau farce of the events at the Centre I know now I can follow in utter inviolability.

Yes, I know I shouldn’t need convincing but I was always a very good doubter.

He was just going into the building as I approached. As soon as I saw him I knew why I was there. But it wasn’t yet, not yet a while, for clocks still ticked, and bells still rang, and all the chronometrical corsetry of everyday existence still clasped me in its shaping grip. Also, he was not alone and though two might be as easy as one, the purity of my course must not be sullied by an insignificant death.

In any case, I was not ready. There were preparations necessary to make, for each step along my path is an advancement of learning, taking me from eager pupillage to equal partnership.

Two hours later I returned. Two hours because that was the time my pace along my path required for my preparations, and it was no surprise in time to find my timing perfect, for the visitor was just leaving, slipping out of the street door like the shadow he resembles, with the result that the door didn’t swing back with enough momentum to engage the lock and I was able to enter without having to ring any bell but that to his apartment.

He was surprised to see me though he hid it well and courteously invited me in and offered me a drink.

I said coffee to get him into the kitchen.

And as he turned and left me I felt my aura breathe through my flesh, as time began to slow like a goshawk soaring till it attains its motionless apogee.

Through the half-open door I see he is making filter coffee. In my book, casual and probably unwanted visitors merit no more than a spoonful of instant at best. I am flattered and touched by this courtesy.

And in return, I take just as much care with his drink, pouring a carefully judged measure from my little vial into the open whisky bottle standing by the open book and empty glass on his chairside table. No chance of interruption. I am examining his bookshelf when he comes in with the cafetière.

I see he has brought two mugs. If I were in time, I might have been disconcerted, fearful that by joining me in coffee, he will not take any more whisky till he is in another’s company who might observe his symptoms and make efforts to save him. But out of time, I sit and smile, secure in my certainty that what is written is written, and nothing can change its course.

He pours the coffee, then picks up the bottle, offers to add some to my mug. I hesitate then shake my head. I have work to do, I tell him, work that requires a clear head.

He smiles the smile of a man who does not believe that liquor affects his judgment and, to make his point, adds a good inch of Scotch to his coffee.

Poor doctor. He is right, of course. Drink no longer affects his judgment because it is his affected judgment that makes him drink. Does he yet know where his unhappiness has brought him? Does he realize how unhappy he is? I doubt it, else he might have already sought without my help the quietus I am about to give him.

He drinks his doubly laced coffee with every sign of pleasure. This is well arranged. Two strong tastes to conceal one weak, though strong in everything else.

We talk and drink. He is enjoying himself. He pours more coffee, more Scotch. We drink and talk …and talk …though soon the words that he imagines pearls come rolling misshaped to his lips and stick there, hard to dislodge, yet because all is still so clear in his mind, he thinks this mere inadvertence, too dry a mouth perhaps, easily cured by yet more drink.

He yawns, tries to apologize, looks slightly surprised to find he can’t, clutches his chest, begins to gasp. In time, I would have been surprised. I had looked to see him fall asleep, then I would have taken the cushion his head rests on and used it to send him to a still softer rest. But now I see that I am not called on to do any more, and I am not surprised. He stops gasping, closes his eyes and slumps back in his chair. Soon his breath is so light that it would hardly shake a rose-leaf down. Soon I cannot detect it at all. I place a hair over his lips then pass a few minutes washing my coffee mug and making sure no traces of my presence remain. Finished, I check that the hair has not moved. He has gone. Would that all our goings were so easy. Now I arrange him to be found as he would have wished, at his ease, with his book and his bottle, and steal away softly as if fearful of awaking him. Softly and sadly too.

Yes, this time I am surprised to detect so much of sadness in my joy, a sense of melancholy which remains with me even as I step out into the empty street and feel the tremor of time beneath the pavement once more.

Why so?

Perhaps because he smiled so welcomingly and made me real coffee instead of instant.

Perhaps because here was a man who should have been happy but for whom, as he might have said himself, life became too great a bore. …

No, not doubts, not second thoughts.

Just a sense that, no matter how desirable my ultimate destination, this journey might yet take me to places I would rather not visit.

Yes, to be sure, no one said it would be roses all the way. Yes, to be sure, death’s fine, just another turn on the path. But maybe not being born is the very best option, eh?

Talk soon.