Kleinzeit

Ponce

Kleinzeit went to the hospital, emptied his locker, packed his things.

‘Where’ve you been?’ said the day sister.

‘Out,’ said Kleinzeit.

‘Where’re you going now?’

‘Out again.’

‘When’re you coming back?’

‘Not coming back.’

‘Who said you could leave?’

‘God.’

‘Be careful how you talk,’ said the sister. ‘There’s a Mental Health Act, you know.’

‘There’s a Church of England too,’ said Kleinzeit.

‘What about Dr Pink?’ said the sister. ‘Has he said anything about discharging you? You’re scheduled for surgery, aren’t you?’

‘No, he hasn’t said anything,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘Yes, I’m scheduled.’

‘You’ll have to sign this form then,’ said the sister. ‘Discharging yourself against advice.’

Kleinzeit signed, discharged himself against advice. He said goodbye to everybody, shook hands with Schwarzgang.

‘Luck,’ said Schwarzgang.

‘Keep blipping,’ said Kleinzeit.

When he walked down the stairs his legs trembled. Hospital said nothing, hummed a tune, affected not to notice. Kleinzeit had the half-sick feeling he remembered from playing truant as a child. At school the other children were in the place where they were meant to be, safely encapsulated in their schedule, not alone like him under the eye of whatever might be looking down. The sunlight in the street was scary. Behind him Hospital preserved its silence, stretched out neither hand nor paw. Kleinzeit had nothing to hold on to but his fear.

It’s not as if everything’s all right, he said to God. It’s not as if I’ve had the operation and now my troubles are over.

And if you’d had the operation would your troubles be over? said God. Would everything be all right? Would you live forever in good health then?

You’re too permissive, said Kleinzeit. It scares me. I don’t think you care all that much about what happens to me.

Don’t expect me to be human, said God.

Kleinzeit leaned on his fear, hobbled into the black sunlight with trembling legs, found an entrance to the Underground, descended. Underground seemed the country of the dead, not enough trains, not enough people in the trains, not enough noise, too many empty spaces. Life was like a television screen with the sound turned off. His train zoomed up in perfect silence, he got in. In the empty spaces his wife and children spoke, sang, laughed without sound, the tomcat shook his fist, Folger Bashan was smothered with a pillow, his father stood with him at the edge of a grave and watched the burial of trees and grass and blue, blue sky. The train could take him to the places but not the times. Kleinzeit didn’t want to get out of the train, there was no time there, nothing had to be decided. He dropped his mind like a bucket into the well of Sister. There was a hole in the bucket, it came up empty. He still had a month’s notice to work out at the office, he remembered suddenly. A month’s pay. He’d not even rung up to say he was at hospital. A boy and girl entered the train, wrapped their arms around each other, kissed. They have no troubles, thought Kleinzeit. They’re healthy, they’re young, they’ll be alive long after I’m dead.

I could save myself a lot of pain if I stopped living now. It’s too hard. And yet, look at the Spartans, eh? Sat on the rocks and combed their hair at Thermopylae. Look at birds, look at green turtles, crossing thousands of miles of ocean and finding the right place to lay their eggs. Look at that chap, whatever his name was, who wrote a 50,000-word novel without using the letter e. Kleinzeit thought about green turtles again, shook his head in admiration.

He got out of the train, went to WAY OUT, escalated. The girls on the underwear posters challenged with thighs, navels, bared their teeth, stared with their nipples through transparent fabrics, murmured with their eyes. Not today, said Kleinzeit. He kept his mind on green turtles, thought also about albatrosses.

‘5p more, luv,’ said the lady at the ticket-taking booth. ‘Fare’s gone up.’ That’s life, Kleinzeit noted. Yesterday it cost so much to get from here to there, today it costs more. Just like that. Who knows what it’ll cost me to wake up tomorrow.

He went to a Ryman stationer, found the yellow paper. 64 mill hard-sized thick din. Wrapped in heavy brown paper. Solid blocks of it on the shelf, each one humming quietly to itself, unknown, unseen under the heavy brown paper. Kleinzeit walked away, looked at typewriter ribbons, file folders, coloured binders, bulldog clips, postage scales, came back, bought a ream of yellow paper and six Japanese pens, tried to look unconcerned.

He went to Sister’s place, made love with Sister. After lunch they went into the Underground with the glockenspiel. Kleinzeit developed a green turtle theme. By supper time they had £2.43.

‘That’s only half a day,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘Working a full day we could probably average between three and four pounds. Six days a week that’s eighteen to twenty-four pounds.’ The ‘we’ walked out of his mouth like a baby chick, wandered off across the corridor, pecked aimlessly at the floor, cheeped a little. Both of them looked at it.

Oh, aye, said Underground. Ponce.

What do you mean? said Kleinzeit.

What do I mean, mimicked Underground. Do you think you’d have taken in anything like £2.43 alone? They look at her and they give money. Why not let them do more than look, they’ll give more money. Ponce. Do you think Eurydice passed the hat when Orpheus went busking?

‘I was making £6,500 a year!’ said Kleinzeit.

A little old ferret-faced man went past. Was it the one who’d played the mouth organ on the bridge? He said nothing, shaped a word with his mouth.

What’d he say? said Kleinzeit.

Ponce, said Underground.

Kleinzeit put the glockenspiel in its case, hurried Sister back to her room, picked up the brown-wrapped block of yellow paper, sat there holding it.

I guess I have to do it alone, he didn’t say.

I guess you do, she didn’t say. Remember?

Remember what? he didn’t say.

I don’t know, she didn’t say.