Kleinzeit

The Blood of Kleinzeit

‘Hail Mary, full of grace,’ said Sister.

Dr Krishna took his tongue out of her ear. ‘Are you coming?’ he said.

‘Sorry,’ said Sister. ‘My mind was a million miles away. You come, don’t wait for me.’

‘Has the sick millionaire arrived?’ said Krishna.

‘Not a millionaire,’ said Sister. ‘His name means hero.’

‘What do you mean, his name means hero?’ said Krishna.

‘Kleinzeit, his name is. In German that means hero.’

‘Kleinzeit in German means smalltime,’ said Krishna, thrusting a little.

Sister laughed. ‘Only a hero would say that Kleinzeit means hero,’ she said.

Dr Krishna shrank, withdrew, put his clothes on. Sister lay naked on the bed like a horizontal winged victory. Krishna’s mind heaved with longing. He took his clothes off again, threw himself feebly on her. ‘This is goodbye,’ he said. ‘One for the road.’

Sister nodded with closed eyes, thought of Kleinzeit’s blood in the phial she had held, warm in her hand. The tests had shown a decibel count of 72, a film speed of 18,000 and a negative polarity of 12 per cent. She didn’t like the polarity, it might go either way, and the decibels were on the dodgy side. But his film speed! She’d never had an 18,000 before. You can see it in those tired eyes of his, she thought as Krishna came.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ said Sister, standing at the window alone, suddenly aware that Krishna had gone more than an hour ago. It was raining gently. There’s nothing like a gentle rain, she thought. Her mind showed her a corridor in the Underground. Why that? she said, listening to the echoing footfalls, the hesitating chimes of a melody full of error. It is my opinion, she said to God, that nobody is healthy.

Look at you, said God. Who could be healthier?

Oh, women, said Sister. I’m talking about men. One way and another they’re all sick.

You really think so? said God. He rained a little harder. What did I do wrong? How have I failed?

I can’t say exactly what I mean, said Sister. It just sounds stupid. What I mean is, it isn’t a matter of finding a well man, it’s a matter of finding one who makes the right use of his sickness.

In Kleinzeit’s office the man pushing the barrow full of rocks on the yellow paper felt himself crumpled up by the Creative Director. It’s dark all of a sudden, he said as he dropped into the wastebasket, still feeling the tube of Bonzo in his pocket.