Kleinzeit

Not Quite the Ticket

Six o’clock in the morning, and Hospital had had enough of sleep. Drink tea, it said. Patients sighed, cursed, groaned, opened or closed their eyes, came out from behind oxygen masks, drank tea.

The fat man in the bed next to Kleinzeit sat up, smiled, nodded over his teacup. From his bedside locker he took four fruity buns, sliced them in half, spread them with butter, loaded four of the halves with marmalade and four with blackcurrant jam, lined them up in a platoon, and ate them seriously, sighing and shaking his head from time to time.

‘Interesting case,’ he said when he had finished.

‘Who?’ said Kleinzeit.

‘Me,’ said the fat man. He smiled modestly, proprietor of himself. Behind him the shade of Flashpoint sat up, shook its head, said nothing. ‘I’m never full,’ said the fat man.

‘Chronic ullage. Medical science can make nothing of it. The dole can’t begin to cope with it. I’ve applied for a grant.’

‘From whom?’ said Kleinzeit.

‘Arts Council,’ said the fat man. ‘On metaphorical grounds. The human condition.’

‘The fat human condition,’ said Kleinzeit. He hadn’t expected to say that. The fruity buns had provoked him.

‘Cheek,’ said the fat man. ‘Where are your friends and relations?’

‘What do you mean?’ said Kleinzeit.

‘What I said,’ said the fat man. ‘I’ve been here for three visiting periods. Everyone else in the ward but you either gets visited or neglected in a bona fide way. You’ve seen old Griggs regularly not visited by three daughters, two sons, and fifteen or twenty grandchildren. You’ve seen me regularly visited by my wife, son, daughter, two cousins, and a friend. Now, what have you to say to that?’

‘Nothing,’ said Kleinzeit.

‘Not good enough,’ said the fat man. ‘Won’t do. I’m not one of those who see a foreign menace lurking under every bush, mark you. Nothing like that. I don’t care if you’re an atheist or a communist or a wog of any description whatever. But I’m curious, you see. The more I pry, the more I want to pry. I’m simply never full. You’re not visited and you’re not neglected. There’s something about you that’s not quite the ticket, not quite the regular human condition, if you follow me.’

‘Not quite the regular fat human condition,’ said Kleinzeit. Again he hadn’t expected to say it.

‘Not good enough,’ said the fat man. He took three sausage rolls from his store, ate them judicially. ‘No, no,’ he said, wiping the crumbs from his mouth, ‘I’m patently too many for you, and you’re simply being evasive. Childhood memories?’

‘What about them?’ said Kleinzeit.

‘Name one.’

Kleinzeit couldn’t. There was nothing in his memory but the pain from A to B, getting the sack at the office, seeing Dr Pink, coming to the hospital. Nothing else. He went pale.

‘You see?’ said the fat man. ‘You simply won’t bear examination, will you? It’s almost as if you’d made yourself up on the spur of the moment. It’s nothing to me, really. It’s only that I happen to be an unusually acute observer. Never full. We’ll let it be for now, shall we?’

Kleinzeit nodded, quite defeated. He lay low, looked away when anyone passed his bed.

He left the hospital again, went into the Underground, stood on the platform, read the walls, the posters. KILL JEW SHIT. Angie & Tim. CHELSEA. My job is stultifying. ODEON. KILL COMES AGAIN. They were all dying to come with him! CLASSIC. COME KILLS AGAIN. When he came, they went! KILL WOG SHIT. My stult is ramifying. Uncle Toad’s Palmna Royale Date Crunch. Whole milk chocolate, big date pieces, Strontium 91. Pretty Polly Tights. My wife refuses to beat me.

He looked into the round black tunnel, listened to the wincing of the rails ahead of the oncoming train, saw the lights on the front of the train, then windows, people. NO SMOKING, NO SMOKING, NO SMOKING, no NO SMOKING. He got in, smoked. ARE YOUSITTING OPPOSIT THE NEW MAN IN YOUR LIFE? said an advert. Trust Dateline Computer to find the right person for you. The seat opposite Kleinzeit was empty. He declined to look at his reflection in the window.

He came out of the Underground, turned into a street, walked up a hill. Grey sky. Chill wind. Brick houses, doors, windows, roofs, chimneys, going slowly up the hill one step at a time.

Kleinzeit stopped in front of a house. Old red brick and rising damp. An old shadowy ochre-painted doorway. Old green-painted pipes clinging to the housefront, branching like vines. Old green area railings. Worn steps. The windows saw nothing. Crazed in its brick the old house reared like a blind horse.

Be the house of my childhood, said Kleinzeit.

Wallpapers. wept, carpets sweated, the smell of old frying crusted the air. Yes, said the house.

Kleinzeit leaned on the green spikes of the area railings, looked up at the grey sky. I’m not very young, he said. Probably my parents are dead.

He went to a cemetery. Old, askant, tall grass growing, worn-out stones. A dead cemetery. I’m not that old, he said, but never mind.

The greyness had stopped, the sunlight was coming down so hard that it was difficult to see anything. The wind seethed in the grass. The letters cut in the stones were black with time, dim with silence, could have spelled any names or none.

Kleinzeit stood in front of a stone, said, Be my father.

Morris Kleinzeit, said the stone. Born. Died.

Be my mother, Kleinzeit said to another stone.

Sadie Kleinzeit, said the stone. Born. Died.

Speak to me, said Kleinzeit to the stones.

I didn’t know, said the father stone.

I knew, said the mother stone.

Thank you, said Kleinzeit.

He went to a telephone kiosk. Good place to grow flowers, he thought, went inside, put his hands on the telephone without dialling.

Brother? said Kleinzeit.

Nobody can tell you anything, said a voice from the suburbs.

Kleinzeit left the telephone kiosk, went into the Underground, got into a train. An advert said, YOU’D BE BETTER OFF AS A POSTMAN.

He came out of the Underground, turned into a mews occupied by two E-type Jaguars, a Bentley, a Porsche, various brightly coloured Minis, Fiats, Volkswagens. He stopped in front of a white house with blue shutters. Black carriage lamps on either side of the front door.

Not yours any more, said the blue shutters.

Bye bye, Dad, said two bicycles.

Kleinzeit nodded, turned away, passed a news-stand, scanned headlines, SORROW; FULL SHOCK. He went back to the hospital.

The curtains were drawn around the fat man’s bed. Fleshky, Potluck, and the day sister were with him. Two nurses wheeled in the harbinger. Kleinzeit heard the fat man wheezing. ‘I feel full,’ gasped the fat man. Silence.

‘He’s gone,’ said Potluck. The nurses wheeled away the harbinger. The curtains opened on the side away from Kleinzeit. The day sister came out, looked at him.

‘I was …’ said Kleinzeit.

‘What?’ said the sister.

Was going to tell the fat man, thought Kleinzeit. Tell him what? There was nothing in his memory to tell him. There was the pain from A to B, getting the sack at the office, seeing Dr Pink, coming to the hospital and the days at the hospital. Nothing else.

This is what, said Hospital. And what is this. This is what what is.