Kleinzeit

Little Song

Running today, said the morning looking in at Kleinzeit’s window.

Kleinzeit got up. Running today, he said to the bathroom mirror.

Not me, said the mirror. No legs.

Kleinzeit put on his new tracksuit, his new running shoes.

Let’s go, said the shoes. Motion! Speed! Youth!

No speed, said Kleinzeit. And I’m not young.

Shit, said the shoes. Let’s get moving anyhow.

When Kleinzeit opened the door of his flat Death was there, black and hairy and ugly, no bigger than a medium-sized chimpanzee with dirty fingernails.

Not all that big, are you, said Kleinzeit.

Not one of my big days, said Death. Sometimes I’m tremendous.

Kleinzeit trotted off down the street. Not too much at first, he reminded himself. Just from here to Thomas More, then fifty steps of walking.

Death followed him chimpanzee-style, putting its knuckles down on the pavement and swinging its legs forward. You’re pretty slow, it said.

With glue my heart is laden, said Kleinzeit.

What do you mean? said Death, moving up beside him.

I mean life is gluey, said Kleinzeit. Everything’s all stuck together. That isn’t what I mean. Everything is unstuck, runs over into everything else. Clocks and sparrows, harrows, flocks and crocks, green turtles, Golden Virginia. Yellow paper, foolscap, Rizla. Is there an existence that is only mine?

What’s the difference if there is or not? said Death. Does it matter?

You’re very friendly, very cosy, very matey today, said Kleinzeit. How do I know you won’t start yelling HOO HOO again and come at me all of a sudden?

You don’t, said Death. But right now I feel friendly. It’s lonely for me, you know. Lots of people think I’m beastly.

Kleinzeit looked down at Death’s black bristly back rising and falling as it swung along beside him. You are, you know, he said.

Death looked up at him, wrinkled back its chimpanzee lips, showed its yellow teeth. Be nice, it said. One day you’ll need me.

Thomas More came into view with his gilded face. Walking time, said Kleinzeit. Fifty steps.

We’ve hardly got a rhythm started, said Death. This isn’t my idea of a morning run.

I’m out of condition, said Kleinzeit. I’ve been in hospital, you know. Ordinarily I trot the whole way. I’ve got to work back into it.

The fifty walking steps used up, he began to trot. The river jolted past him. Silver, silver, said the river, said the low white morning sun. Really, said the river, you have no idea. Even I have no idea, and I’m a river.

I have some idea, said Kleinzeit.

A postman cycled by. There was a white flash of sunlight centred on the bottom of each wheel-rim. The wheels of the postman’s bicycle seemed to be rolling on the two white rolling sunflashes rather than the road. Even the flashes, said the postman’s wheels, you see?

I see, said Kleinzeit. But I don’t really see the need for making a mystery of every single mystery. Especially as there’s nothing but mysteries.

Death began to go a little faster, singing a song that Kleinzeit couldn’t quite make out.

Don’t go so fast, said Kleinzeit. I can’t hear what you’re singing.

Death looked back over its shoulder smiling, but drew farther ahead as it sang. Gulls flew up over the river.

Don’t you be making a mystery out of that little song, said Kleinzeit. He trotted faster, closed the gap between them, was shocked by the heaviness that exploded in him as if he had been struck by a comet. The pavement became a wall that slammed into his face. A brief display of coloured lights, then blackness.