Kleinzeit

Blipping

Blip blip blip blip. Well, there you are, thought Kleinzeit. Now I’m Schwarzgang. I have no separate existence. It hardly seems fair.

Remember, said Hospital.

What what what? said Kleinzeit. Why must everybody continually make cryptic remarks. The whole thing’s plain enough. When I wake up I’ll tell you about it. There’s no need to write it down, it’s so perfectly obvious, so simple really.

Very good, said Hospital. Now you’re awake. Tell me.

Tell you what? said Kleinzeit.

What you said you were going to tell me, said Hospital. What you said was perfectly plain.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, said Kleinzeit. I wish you’d stop bothering me.

Quite, said Hospital. Ta-ra. Keep blipping.

Wait, said Kleinzeit.

No answer. Blip blip blip blip, went the screen. If I had one of those things attached to me I’d start waiting for it to stop, thought Kleinzeit, scratching his chest where the electrode was attached. Ah, this one’s mine then.

‘How’re we feeling now?’ said a familiar face. ‘I must say you’re looking a good deal better than you were. Gave us no end of bother when you showed up, heh heh. Seemed quite determined to pack it in.’

‘You’re not Dr Pink,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘He doesn’t say “Heh heh”. Also has a different face.’

‘Dr Pink’s on holiday,’ said the heh-heh man. ‘I’m Dr Bashan.’

‘Doesn’t surprise me in the least,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘Folger Bashan?’

‘Yes. How’d you know?’

‘Just one of those things,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘You don’t know me, I suppose.’

‘I don’t, actually,’ said Dr Bashan. His grown-up ugly face was annoyingly authoritative. His teeth weren’t yellow any more. ‘Have we met?’

‘Perhaps at a party,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘It’s hard to say. Stretto your speciality, is it?’

‘As a matter of fact it is, heh heh. How’d you know?’

‘Must’ve read it somewhere. Are you famous?’

‘Finished first in last year’s Bay of Biscay race,’ said Dr Bashan. ‘You might have seen a photo of me in a yachting magazine in someone’s waiting-room.’

‘How do you know I don’t subscribe to one?’ said Kleinzeit.

‘Well, yes, of course you very well might do. No reason why not.’

‘What’s the name of your yacht?’

‘Atropos. Heh heh.’

‘Jolly name,’ said Kleinzeit.

‘Good boat,’ said Dr Bashan. ‘Well, old man, you’d best get some rest, settle in a bit. We’ll keep an eye on things, see what’s to be done with you.’ He squeezed Kleinzeit’s shoulder in a good-natured way, walked off.

He wouldn’t be in the bed and I the doctor, thought Kleinzeit. That wouldn’t be in the nature of things.

The curtains must have closed around his bed when he woke up. Now they were pushed back, and he looked at the beds across from him and on either side. The whole thing again. There were Drogue, Damprise, Smallworth. Hello, hello, hello. Nods and smiles. Yes, here I am back again, simply couldn’t stay away. Nox to the left of him, Piggle to the right. The Secret Agent on Piggle’s locker. Raj, McDougal, then Schwarzgang, still blipping. Redbeard just beyond him. Mouths moved, words came out. His mouth moved, words came out. Faces went back to newspapers, oxygen masks, sleep, coughing, spitting. The window was far away now. Mmmm, said the bed, cuddle closer, love. Kleinzeit’s fists beat feebly against its hot embrace. O God, where’s Thucydides. Not here. Home. No shaving gear, nothing. What was he wearing? Hospital pyjamas, too big, with the trousers sliding down. Ah yes, he’d been trying to catch up with Death so he could hear that little song, had very nearly done it too. Sly old chimp! Where was Sister? Still daytime, not here yet.

Nox was looking at him in a man-to-man way. He took something out from under several newspapers, passed it to Kleinzeit. Dirty pictures? thought Kleinzeit as he took it. No, a catalogue. Script lettering, silver on glossy black: Coffins by Box-U-Well. Before the pictures a foreword:

Choosing your coffin

How many times have all of us said, or heard others say, ‘I wouldn’t be caught dead in that hat/coat/suit, etc.?’ And yet how many of us, even the most discriminating, are caught dead in a coffin that does not reflect our high standards of personal taste! That is why we say: ‘A word to the wise.’ The choice is yours whether to go in the style that is personally yours or simply to be packed off at random.

Leaving this world is no less important an occasion than coming into it. Just as your parents showed their love for and pride in you by their careful choice of a baby carriage that provided as it were the setting in which you as a baby were the jewel, so you as an ‘outgoing party’ owe it to your family, friends, and business associates, to the community at large, to take your leave in a distinctive and ‘personalized’ manner.

Examine the Box-U-Well line carefully, and you will see why generations of satisfied customers have endorsed our slogan; ‘A Box for Every Budget.’ Traditional skills passed from father to son, years of consummate craftsmanship and technical ‘knowhow’ go into every Box-U-Well coffin. Whether you choose an economy model such as the ‘Tom-all-Alone’s’ or a de luxe container like ‘The Belgravia’, you are assured of materials, fittings, and workmanship of the first quality. With Box-U-Well you can indeed ‘Rest in Peace.’

Pages of gorgeous colour photographs followed. Kleinzeit examined ‘The Sportsman’, covered in genuine pigskin (Team colours inset optional), ‘The Foreign Service’, covered in gilt-stamped black morocco, watered silk lining (Flag border extra), ‘The City’, with solid silver handles hand-wrought in the shape of furled umbrellas, ‘The Trade Winds’, teak with brass fittings, manila hemp handles with turk’s-head knots. ‘Easy Hire Purchase Terms Available’, said the catalogue. Box-U-Well (Sales) Ltd., Retchwell, Herts. Mfrs of ShowTot Baby Carriages, StopTot Contraceptives, Bagdad Sexual Aids and Appliances and Firmo Trusses. A Division of Napalm Industries.

Kleinzeit gave the catalogue back to Nox. ‘I wrote the copy for this,’ he said.

‘No!’ said Nox. ‘Did you really?’

‘Yes,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘I used to work on the Anal Petroleum Jelly account. Napalm Industries is one of their divisions.’

‘Could you get a discount, do you think?’ said Nox.

‘Not any more. I was sacked.’

Nox shook his head. ‘Bad luck,’ he said. ‘Damprise thinks we may be able to get them on the National Health. He’s writing to the ministry.’

‘Where’d you get the catalogue?’ said Kleinzeit. ‘Traveller come round?’

‘Damprise’s brother-in-law,’ said Nox. ‘He said he might be able to arrange a group discount. Quite a knowledgable chap. He said we can look for burial plot prices to zoom. Speculators moving in and all that. Some big consortium called Metropolis or something like that has already bought up two or three of the better cemeteries.’

‘Necropolis,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘Necropolis Urban Concepts. That was one of my accounts too.’

‘I say,’ said Nox. ‘Quite formidably well-connected, weren’t you. Damprise’s brother-in-law says now is the time to buy, and I would have thought it’s certainly worth looking into. It’s the sort of thing one tends to put off, then there you are out in the cold.’

‘You don’t happen to have any dirty magazines, do you,’ said Kleinzeit.

‘All-Star Wank’ said Nox, gave it to Kleinzeit. NEW MODELS, NEW POSES! WANKIE-OF-THE-MONTH LUVTA DEWITT, UNRETOUCHED COLOUR SPREAD.

‘Lovely,’ said Kleinzeit, buried himself in Luvta Dewitt’s pubic hair, found Dr Bashan’s image glazing on his eyeballs from time to time. They might have retouched that out, he thought, tried to call to mind Death’s little song that he had not quite heard, became aware of what he was doing, tried not to call it to mind. Sneaky, he thought. Must be careful. No aeroplanes visible from his bed. An appalling sunny afternoon sky. When Napoleon spoke of two o’clock courage he could only have meant two in the afternoon, thought Kleinzeit. Two in the morning’s nothing compared to it. Luvta Dewitt, 43-25-37, was this year’s Miss Bristol Cities, her favourite book is the Bhagavad-Gita, she plays the dulcimer, is studying to be a dentist. Teeth, for God’s sake!

You’ve got me wrong, said Hospital. It is not my intention to eat you up.

That won’t prevent you from doing it though, said Kleinzeit.

Ah, said Hospital. Your understanding is stronger than it was. If, in the nature of things, it should happen, you will understand, won’t you, that it’s only in the nature of things.

Quite, said Kleinzeit.

Good, said Hospital. Now that we have somewhat cleared the air we can perhaps chat a little.

About what, said Kleinzeit.

About Orpheus, said Hospital. You know the story?

Of course I do, said Kleinzeit.

Tell me it, said Hospital.

Orpheus with his lute made trees and all that, said Kleinzeit. And then Eurydice in the Underworld, he nearly got her out with his music but he looked back and lost her. He wasn’t meant to look back.

It’s just as I thought, said Hospital. A lot of schoolboy claptrap. Let us look in upon Orpheus. I don’t say the story has a beginning, I don’t even say it’s a story, stories are like knots on a string. There is however a place, a time where I like to look in on Orpheus.

Go on, said Kleinzeit. I’m listening. He watched the blips on his screen, listened as Hospital spoke. There went an aeroplane, far away.

Silence, said Hospital. Silence and the severed head of Orpheus, eyeless, sodden and rotting, blackened and buzzing with blowflies, lying on the beach at Lesbos. There it is, washed up on the golden sand under a bright blue sky. So small it looks, the lost and blackened head of Orpheus! Have you ever noticed how much smaller a man’s head looks when it’s no longer on his body? It’s astonishing really.

I don’t recall that part about the severed head, said Kleinzeit.

Naturally not, said Hospital. It’s the very heart and centre of the matter. You don’t recall how the Thracian women tore him apart, threw his head into the river? How the head floated singing down the river to the sea, across the sea to Lesbos?

Now it comes back, said Kleinzeit. Vaguely.

Vague! said Hospital. What isn’t vague! And at the same time, you know, burningly clear. Quivering forever on the air. The head begins to talk. Begins to rage and curse. Day and night the head of Orpheus rages on the beach at Lesbos. I couldn’t understand most of what it was saying.

You were there? said Kleinzeit,

I was there, said Hospital. I was there because the beach at Lesbos was hospital for Orpheus. After a certain number of days the head was kicked into the sea.

By whom? said Kleinzeit.

I didn’t notice, said Hospital. It doesn’t matter. I can see it now. There was no surf, it was a sheltered beach. The head bobbed in the water like a coconut, then moved out to sea. There was a little wake behind it as it swam out to sea. It was one of those grey days, the air was very still, the water was smooth and sleek, the water was lapping quietly at the beach as the tide came in.

In? said Kleinzeit. Not out?

In, said Hospital. The head swam out against the tide. Think of it swimming day and night, no eyes, the blind head of Orpheus.

I am thinking of it, said Kleinzeit.

Think of it at night with a phosphorescent wake, said Hospital. Think of it with the moonlight on it, swimming towards Thrace. Think of it reaching the coast, the estuary, the mouth of the Hebrus. Like a salmon it swims upstream, eh?

To the place of his dismemberment? said Kleinzeit.

To that place, said Hospital. Think of the head of Orpheus snuffling in the reeds by the river at night, sniffing out his parts. It’s dark, the moon has set. You hear something moving, like a dog hunting in the reeds. You can’t see your hand in front of your face, you only hear something moving about close to the ground. You feel the air on your face, you feel with your face the passage of something between you and the river. There is a sighing perhaps, you can’t be sure. Someone unseen walks away slowly.

He’s found his members, said Kleinzeit. He’s remembered himself.

What is harmony, said Hospital, but a fitting together?

‘Now then, luv,’ said the lady with the bosom that was good for crying on. The bosom approached in a sexy motherly way. Go on, it said, cry. A piece of paper appeared in front of it: I, the undesigned.

‘What’s this, then?’ said Kleinzeit.

‘You know very well what it is,’ said the bosom lady. ‘You haven’t signed it yet and now it’s got to be signed. Dr Bashan says you’re to sign it.’

‘I think I’d like a second opinion,’ said Kleinzeit.

‘Dr Bashan is the second opinion. Dr Pink was the first. Remember?’

‘I’m trying to,’ said Kleinzeit.

‘Then sign this and let’s get on with it. You’re not the only patient in this hospital, you know. The operating rooms are booked for weeks ahead, the staff are busy day and night. I should think you’d have a little consideration.’

‘I have a lot of consideration,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘I’m considering hypotenuse, asymptotes, and stretto. That’s a lot to consider. I want to keep my angle right even if my hypotenuse is skewed, I want my asymptotes to keep approaching the curve they never meet, I want to keep my stretto even if it can’t channel entries any more. I want to remember myself.’

‘Cor,’ said the bosom lady. ‘I think they’ve put you in the wrong kind of hospital. I’ll leave it with you now and come back later.’

The paper stayed, the bosom lady went. Kleinzeit had to move his bowels. His mind sat up but he stayed lying down. He rang for the nurse. She came, drew the curtains, helped him with the bedpan.