Kleinzeit (19 page)

Kleinzeit ignored it, huddled under the bedclothes. All at once the streets outside seemed one vast desolation, Underground the very abyss, the thought of sitting on that freezing floor with his glockenspiel was appalling. Fleets of Morton Taylor lorries thundered past, changing gears contemptously. No window nearby, but unseen aeroplanes soared high in utter silence, bound for golden otherwheres.

‘Good news, eh?’ said Tede. ‘That’s why I always say Keep smiling.’

Klenzeit made a gesture with two fingers on the side away from Tede, picked up some yellow paper, affected to be heavily absorbed in writing. What he wrote was:

Golden, Golden, Golden Virginia,
Be my tobacco, be my sin.

Not even original. Drogue’s, that was. Was Drogue still alive at the other end of the ward? Kleinzeit had been away from there for a week now. They were all fading into the past. What was there to say to Redbeard, Schwarzgang, and the others, even if he got the nurse to wheel him to the old neighbourhood.

The bed kept arching its back, trying to slide him off. Hospital had had nothing to say for a long time. Word hadn’t dropped in either. The yellow paper was inert and lifeless in his hands. Outside the hospital the winter sunlight walked slowly past as if leaning on a cane. How had he come to this with the yellow paper, like some dreadful marriage to a frog princess who would always be a frog.

For a time there had been mystery, complexities, excitement, riddles full of promise: the yellow-paper, foolscap, and Rizla men, the permutations of barrow full of rocks, the possibilites of STAFF ONLY and its key. None of it had been explained, none of it mattered, he had no questions. He reached under the bed. No one there. He thought of the getaway with Pain Company. Those had been the days! He yawned, fell asleep.

Walking like the winter sunlight but without a cane, Kleinzeit visited the other end of the ward. No drugs for five days now, and he felt simplified, economical, stripped-down and running on the cheapest possible fuel., His vision seemed plain and dull, lacking in colour. Everything looked smaller, sharper, shabbier. Astonishing how much paint was flaking off how many things. The chairs looked more secondhand than usual. The daylight in the ward seemed as if dispensed on a National Health prescription, slowly and with a numbered ticket, to the beds patiently queued up for it. The distant horn sounded as in the Beethoven overture, then a mild flash,
A
to
B
. Oh yes, said Kleinzeit. Everything is in good order now. We have laboured diligently and’ we are back where we started from.

Like Orpheus, said Hospital.

Yes indeed, said Kleinzeit. Orpheus on the National Health. A thrilling story, I’m surprised the B.B.C. haven’t serialized it. Maybe Napalm Industries will film it. With Maximus Jock and Immensa Pudenda.

Your sarcasm is inappropriate, said Hospital.

So is everything else, said Kleinzeit, nodding hello as he passed one by one his sometime comrades. Nobody new gone. He sat down in the second-hand chair by Redbeard’s second-hand bed. Redbeard looked like an abandoned car.

‘Well,’ said Kleinzeit.

‘That’s it,’ said Redbeard. ‘Well. You are and I’m not. The well can’t talk to the sick.’

‘But I’m not well,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘I feel the same as when I came to hospital.’

‘That’s more than most of us can say,’ said Redbeard. You’re one of the lucky ones.’

‘I suppose I am.’

‘And you’ll be leaving.’

‘I suppose I shall be.’

‘There you are,’ said Redbeard. ‘Make the most of it.’

‘I suppose I must,’ said Kleinzeit. He walked slowly back to his bed, got there as Dr Pink arrived on his round with Fleshky, Potluck, and Krishna. All of them looked at him fondly, as an engine-driver might look at an engine that was being retired from service.

Pink examined him in a good-humoured way, clapped him on the shoulder when he had done. ‘Well, old chap,’ he said, ‘that’s it. We shan’t keep you much longer. You can go home at the end of the week.’

Should I tell him, Kleinzeit wondered. ‘That pain from
A
to
B’,
he said. ‘It’s back.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Dr Pink. ‘That’s to be expected, it’s nothing out of the way really. You’ll get that from time to time, but I shouldn’t worry about it. That’s just hypotenuse, you know, complaining a bit as we all do now and again.’

Well, that’s that, thought Kleinzeit. I’m not going to ask any more questions, I don’t want to know any more than I know now. ‘Thank you for everything,’ he said.

‘All the best,’ said Dr Pink. ‘Come in and let me have a look at you in six months’ time.’

‘Thank you,’ said Kleinzeit to Drs Fleshky, Potluck and Krishna. They all smiled broadly, seemed with their faces to say Thank
you,
like friendly waiters. But Kleinzeit felt as if he were the one who might be tipped.

Night. Kleinzeit asleep, Sister awake. The ward groaning, choking, sighing, snoring, splatting in bedpans. Sister in her lamplit binnacle, steadfastly pointing to her magnetic north. The sea rushing by on either side, the white bow wave gleaming in the dark.

Well, said God. Big day for you tomorrow, eh? Schwanzheit getting out.

Kleinzeit, said Sister. I don’t think I want to talk about it, I don’t want to do anything unlucky.

Not to worry, said God. You’ll have luck. You’re lucky.

Do you mean that, said Sister. Am I really? It hasn’t always seemed that way to me.

Well of course it never does, said God. I don’t say you’re
especially
lucky. Just a good ordinary everyday sort of luck. That’s as much as I’ve got myself, and I don’t know anyone who’s got more. Universe, History, Eternity, anybody you talk to these days, we’re all in the same boat.

I wouldn’t know, said Sister. I don’t ever talk to them. I don’t think very big.

And you’re quite right not to, said God. Just carry on as you are, and all the best to both of you. I really mean that.

Thank you, said Sister.

You’re moving into his flat? said God.

I expect so, said Sister.

What’s he got there, gas or electricity?

It’s all electric.

I’ll see if I can put off the electrical strike for a week or
so, said God. Give you a chance to start off with cooker, fridge and heating all in working order. Sort of a wedding present.

That’s really very kind of you, said Sister. I appreciate that.

Well, said God, I’m off then. We’ll stay in touch.

Oh yes, said Sister. Thanks so much.

Not a bad sort, God, said Hospital. In His own fumbling way.

He’s a lot nicer than you are, said Sister.

I’m not so bad, said Hospital. I talk rough, maybe, but I’m a decent chap.

Hmmph, said Sister.

What I said about Kleinzeit not getting to keep you, said Hospital, Eurydice and all that, I didn’t mean it the way you thought. I just meant ultimately, you know, in the long run. He can have you for as long as he lasts.

Or as long as I last, said Sister. Or as long as it lasts. I’m not looking ahead.

However you like to put it, said Hospital, I shan’t interfere. I just wait about while things take their course. I’d like to give you a little present too.

That
is
nice of you, said Sister. I wasn’t expecting anything like that.

It’s nothing much, said Hospital. The odds were on Kleinzeit to come down with the flu next week but I steered it in another direction. I think it’s heading for Dr Bashan. Of course Kleinzeit’ll probably get it the week after. I can’t really change anything.

But an extra week without it is lovely, said Sister. Thanks so much.

Ahem, said Word. We haven’t met.

No, said Sister. I don’t recognize your voice.

No matter, said Word. I’ve a present for you too.

It’s lovely, getting all these presents, said Sister.

Wherever there’s a barrow full of rocks, said Word, you’ll be there too.

Is that a present? said Sister.

Yes indeed, said Word.

Thank you, said Sister. You’ve all been so kind.

Middle of the night. Sister in the bedroom asleep, taking a fortnight’s holiday from the hospital. Kleinzeit awake at the plain deal table in the bare sitting-room. Sister’s clock ticking on the wall, Sister’s Turkoman cushions heaped in a corner with her velvet elephant, woollen rabbit, shining helmet. Candle burning in a saucer on the plain deal table. Yellow paper pages piling up.

Hoo hoo, a hoarse whisper at the door. Anybody awake?

Is this a professional call or a social one? said Kleinzeit.

Social, said Death. I just happen to be in the neighbourhood, thought I’d look in.

Kleinzeit opened the door, they went into the sitting-room. Kleinzeit sat in the chair, Death sat on the cushions in the corner. They nodded at each other, smiled, shrugged.

Care for a banana? said Kleinzeit.

Thanks, said Death. I don’t eat bananas. How’s it going?

Can’t complain, said Kleinzeit. Couple of pages a day. Tomorrow I’ll start busking again.

You’re doing all right, said Death. I’ve a present for you.

What? said Kleinzeit. No tricks, I hope.

No tricks, said Death.

Where is it? said Kleinzeit. I don’t see anything.

Tell you later, said Death.

Kleinzeit lit a cigarette, sat smoking by candlelight There’s something I’ve wanted to do, he said. I don’t know if I can.

What? said Death.

Kleinzeit took a bottle of black ink and a fat Japanese brush out of the plain deal table drawer. He took a piece of
yellow paper, dipped the brush in the ink, poised it over the paper.

You can do it, said Death.

Kleinzeit touched the paper with the brush, drew in one smooth sweep a fat black circle, sweet and round.

That’s it, said Death. My present.

Thank you, said Kleinzeit. He tacked the yellow paper to the wall near the clock. Let’s go for a walk, he said.

They went down to the river. The lights on the embankment were dark, but the street lights were still on. Night almost gone, the bridges black against a sky growing pale. Cold, the air, and wet. The river running lapping at the wall, ebbing to the sea. No moon to light the head of Orpheus wherever it was swimming. Death swung along at Kleinzeit’s side, its black back bobbing up and down. Neither said anything.

I’ll turn off here, said Death when they came to the third bridge. See you.

See you, said Kleinzeit. He watched Death’s small black going-away shape rising and falling as it swung off out of sight under the street lamps.

Russell Hoban (1925-2011) was the author of many extraordinary novels including
Turtle Diary, Angelica Lost and Found and his masterpiece, Riddley Walker.
He also wrote some classic books for children including
The Mouse and his Child and the Frances
books. Born in Lansdale, Pennsylvania, USA, he lived in London from 1969 until his death.

NOVELS

The Lion of Boaz-Jachin and Jachin-Boaz
Kleinzeit
Turtle Diary
Riddley Walker
Pilgermann
The Medusa Frequency
Fremder
Mr Rinyo-Clacton’s Offer
Angelica’s Grotto
Amaryllis Night and Day
The Bat Tattoo
Her Name Was Lola
Come Dance With Me
Linger Awhile
My Tango with Barbara Strozzi
Angelica Lost and Found

POETRY
The Pedalling Man
The Last of the Wallendas and Other Poems

COLLECTIONS
The Moment Under the moment

FOR CHILDREN
The Mouse and His Child
The Frances Books
The Trokeville Way

First published 1974 by Jonathan Cape

Copyright ©1974 by Russell Hoban

This electronic edition published in 2012 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

The moral right of the author has been asserted

Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
50 Bedford Square
London WC1B 3DP

Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Berlin and New York

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978 1 4088 3575 3

All rights reserved. You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

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