Kleinzeit (4 page)

Kleinzeit stood in front of a stone, said, Be my father.

Morris Kleinzeit, said the stone. Born. Died.

Be my mother, Kleinzeit said to another stone.

Sadie Kleinzeit, said the stone. Born. Died.

Speak to me, said Kleinzeit to the stones.

I didn’t know, said the father stone.

I knew, said the mother stone.

Thank you, said Kleinzeit.

He went to a telephone kiosk. Good place to grow flowers, he thought, went inside, put his hands on the telephone without dialling.

Brother? said Kleinzeit.

Nobody can tell you anything, said a voice from the suburbs.

Kleinzeit left the telephone kiosk, went into the Underground, got into a train. An advert said, YOU’D BE BETTER OFF AS A POSTMAN.

He came out of the Underground, turned into a mews occupied by two E-type Jaguars, a Bentley, a Porsche, various brightly coloured Minis, Fiats, Volkswagens. He stopped in front of a white house with blue shutters. Black carriage lamps on either side of the front door.

Not yours any more, said the blue shutters.

Bye bye, Dad, said two bicycles.

Kleinzeit nodded, turned away, passed a news-stand, scanned headlines, SORROW; FULL SHOCK. He went back to the hospital.

The curtains were drawn around the fat man’s bed. Fleshky, Potluck, and the day sister were with him. Two nurses wheeled in the harbinger. Kleinzeit heard
the fat man wheezing. ‘I feel full,’ gasped the fat man. Silence.

‘He’s gone,’ said Potluck. The nurses wheeled away the harbinger. The curtains opened on the side away from Kleinzeit. The day sister came out, looked at him.

‘I was …’ said Kleinzeit.

‘What?’ said the sister.

Was going to tell the fat man, thought Kleinzeit. Tell him what? There was nothing in his memory to tell him. There was the pain from
A
to B, getting the sack at the office, seeing Dr Pink, coming to the hospital and the days at the hospital. Nothing else.

This is what, said Hospital. And what is this. This is what what is.

The next day Hospital unsheathed its claws, sheathed them again, made velvet paws, put its paws away, shifted its vast weight from one buttock to another, crossed its legs, played with its watch chain, smoked its pipe, rocked placidly.

Shall I tell you something, my boy? said Hospital.

Tell me something, said Kleinzeit, scuttling like a cockroach away from one of the rockers as it came down to scrunch him.

Yes, said Hospital. Did it upset you when I ate up Flashpoint and the fat man?

Kleinzeit thought about them. What had their names been? Still were, in fact. The names didn’t die, the names sailed on like empty boats. The fat man’s name had been, and still was, M. T. Butts. Flashpoint’s name was what?

Did it? said Hospital, smoking its pipe.

What? said Kleinzeit.

Upset you that I ate them.

Elevenses, I suppose, said Kleinzeit.

You understand things, said Hospital. You’re clever.

Ever so, said Kleinzeit, looking for a mousehole small enough for him.

Yes, said Hospital, and became one infinite black mouth. Didn’t even bother with teeth. Just an infinite black mouth, fetid breath. Kleinzeit backed into a mousehole. If the hole is this big the mice must be like oxen here, he thought.

Tell you something, said the mouth.

Yes, tell me something, said Kleinzeit.

You may have flats and houses and streets and offices and secretaries and telephones and news every hour, said the mouth.

Yes, said Kleinzeit.

You may have industry and careers and television and Greenwich time signals, said the mouth.

Yes, said Kleinzeit. That’s nice copy. That really sings.

You may even have several pushbuttons on your telephone and nothing but sheaves of ten-pound notes in your pocket and glide you may through traffic in a Silver Shadow Rolls-Royce, said the mouth.

It’s building nicely, said Kleinzeit. But don’t overbuild. Hit me with the payoff now, you know.

The mouth yawned. I forgot what I was going to say, it said.

Cheerio, then, said Kleinzeit.

Cheerio, said the mouth.

The red-bearded man found another sheet of yellow paper. Clean on both sides.

Where were we? he asked the paper.

Borrow fool’s pox? said the paper.

I don’t remember, said Redbeard. Ibsen said, or was it Chekhov?

Either one, said the paper.

Either one said that if you’re going to show a revolver in a drawer in Act One you’d jolly well better do something with it by the end of Act Three.

That’s drama, said the paper. This is yellow paper.

Right, said Redbeard. I’m tired of that lark then. Tea?

With two sugars, please, said the yellow paper.

Redbeard walked through the corridors of the Underground, turned here, turned there, came to a door that said STAFF ONLY, took a key out of his pocket, unlocked the door. The room had nothing in it but a light-bulb hanging from the ceiling and a sink against the wall.

From his bedroll and carrier-bags Redbeard took an electric kettle, a china cup and saucer, a spoon, a knife, a packet of tea, a packet of sugar, a pint of milk, a half pound of butter, a jar of strawberry jam, and four fruity buns. He plugged in the kettle, made tea, ate fruity buns with butter and strawberry jam.

Sticky is good, said the yellow paper.

Remember that, said Redbeard.

It’s part of me now, said the yellow paper.

The room shook to the sound of the trains, shrank with the chill from the black tunnels of the Underground.

Redbeard spread newspapers on the floor, spread his bedroll on the newspapers. Kip time, he said.

In the afternoon, said the yellow paper. Feel guilty.

I do, said Redbeard. But I’ m sleepy. I’m tired. It’s hard for me to stay awake in the afternoon.

Borrow fool’s pox, said the yellow paper.

Give over, said Redbeard. I can’t keep my eyes open.

He that had the key to this room last, said the yellow paper.

What about him? said Redbeard. Never mind, said the yellow paper. What about him? said Redbeard again. Never mind, said the yellow paper. Ha ha. Borrow fool’s pox?

Redbeard wrote the words on the yellow paper.

It’s hard graft with you, said the yellow paper. You’re not up to much. One line a day is very slow action.

Redbeard lay down, closed his eyes, fell asleep.

Underground from its black chill spoke. Is he Orpheus?

No, said the unsleeping yellow paper. He’s not.

While Redbeard was sleeping Sister in the tightness and roundness of her tight trouser-suit came into the Underground. This is the place, she thought. This is the place my mind showed me the other day, and there was music. She paced up and down the corridor, trying to call back the music she had heard in her mind.

Redbeard, waking, packed up his bedroll and carrier-bags. Blinking and heavy he came out among the footsteps and faces, the posters and the writing on the walls. He walked until he came to the place where his music was, in front of a film poster, BETWEEN, said the poster, NOW AT LAST, THE SEARING STROY OF THE LEGG SISTER.
‘Nothing can part us,’ they said, little knowing what was to come!
ALSO SHOWING, THE TURNOVER.
‘I’m sick and tired of looking at the ceiling!’ she said.
Low salaries impair the
potency of the working class, said handwriting on the poster. Not in Streatham, said other writing. Handel’s organ is always upright, said other writing.

Redbeard took his cap out of the carrier-bag, flung it on the ground. He played
Yellow Dog Blues
on his mouth organ. Footsteps and faces went past. Nothing but copper in the cap.

Sister went past. Redbeard took his mouth off the mouth organ, said ‘Yum yum.’

Sister did not respond. Her Sister shoes took her past, turned her round, brought her back again, pacing thoughtfully.

‘Lost something, Yum Yum?’ said Redbeard.

Sister shook her head, turned and walked the other way. There was music, she thought. But not this music. Other music. Her mind went to Kleinzeit. Why Kleinzeit? I‘ll think about that when the time comes, she thought.

‘That’s at least iops’ worth of listening you’ve done already,’ said Redbeard. ‘All authentic ethnic material, too.’

Sister dropped 5p in the cap. ‘I was only listening with half an ear,’ she said. Hospital, please, she said to her shoes. They took her there.

After the lights were turned off in the ward Kleinzeit took his glockenspiel to the bathroom, closed the door. There was a wheelchair parked there with a hole in its seat for going to the toilet. Kleinzeit sat in the wheelchair with the glockenspiel resting partly on his knees and partly on the rim of the bathtub. He took the lid off the case. There were two beaters, but he thought it best to start with one. From a pocket of his robe he took a piece of folded notebook paper and a Japanese pen.

Right, said Kleinzeit to the beater. Find notes. The beater plinked awkwardly.

How about a little foreplay, said the glockenspiel.

Kleinzeit made foreplay with the beater.

Nice, said the glockenspiel. Do that some more. Nice.

Kleinzeit did it some more, wrote notes as he found tunes. After a time he played with both beaters. Soft silver sounds hung quivering over the bathtub.

Nice, said the glockenspiel. So nice. Aaahh!

Kleinzeit made afterplay with the beaters.

I like the way you do it, said the glockenspiel.

You’re very kind, said Kleinzeit.

Sister knocked at the door.

‘Come in,’ said Kleinzeit.

‘This is the music then,’ said Sister.

Kleinzeit shrugged modestly.

Nobody said anything. He sat in the wheelchair with his beaters. She stood by the door.

She sat down on the rim of the tub, next to the glockenspiel, facing Kleinzeit. Her right knee touched Kleinzeit’s right knee. So glad, said their knees.

She fancies me, thought Kleinzeit. No mistake. She really does. Why me? God knows. His knee began to tremble. He didn’t want to exert pressure and he didn’t want to lose ground.

Why Kleinzeit? said God to Sister.

I don’t know, said Sister. A memory came to her: when she was small she had smeared toothpaste on her eyebrows.

‘What have you done to your eyebrows then?’ her mother had said.

‘Nothing,’ said Sister from under the crusting toothpaste.

‘I don’t mind so much what you’ve done to your eyebrows,’ said her mother, ‘but don’t you be telling me you’ve done nothing or it’s to bed without supper you’ll be going. What’ve you done, then?’

‘Nothing,’ said Sister, and went to bed without supper. Her mother brought her supper to her later, but Sister never admitted the toothpaste.

Kleinzeit exerted pressure. Sister returned the pressure. Both sighed quietly. Kleinzeit nodded, then shook his head.

‘What?’ said Sister.

‘Bach-Euclid,’ said Kleinzeit.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Sister.

‘Ha,’ said Kleinzeit.

‘Do you want to know?’ said Sister.

‘No,’ said Kleinzeit, ‘but I don’t want not to know either. I wish I hadn’t come here, but if I hadn’t come here …’

Quite, said their knees.

‘When will Dr Pink tell me the results?’ said Kleinzeit.

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Do you know?’

‘No, but I can find out. Shall I?’

‘No.’ Kleinzeit squirmed in the wheelchair. It was almost tomorrow already. He had trusted his organs until they had started up with that pain … He hadn’t felt the pain for a day or more, come to think of it.

Tantara, said the distant horn. Thinking of you always. Flash:
A
to
B.

Thank you, said Kleinzeit. Where was he? Trusting his organs, then they’d started up with that pain. Now the X-Ray machine knew what they were doing, the X-Ray machine would tell Dr Pink, and Dr Pink would tell him.

Why did you have to bring in strangers? he said to his organs.

We didn’t go running to Dr Pink, did we, said his organs. We were willing to keep it between ourselves, weren’t we.

I’d rather not discuss it, said Kleinzeit. I don’t like the tone you’re taking.

Hoity toity, said his organs. They began to tingle, ache, grow numb, and scream with pain at random. Kleinzeit hugged himself in panic. They’re not my friends, he thought. One takes it for granted that one’s organs are one’s friends, but when it comes to the crunch they seem to have no loyalty whatever.

I’m here, said Sister’s knee.

I hate you, said Kleinzeit’s knee. You’re so healthy.

Do you want me to be sick? said Sister’s knee.

No, said Kleinzeit’s knee. I didn’t mean that. Be healthy and round and beautiful. I love you.

I love you too, said Sister’s knee.

Kleinzeit put the glockenspiel on the floor, got up from the wheelchair, kissed Sister.

Morning in the Underground. Footsteps and faces thick and clamorous without speech, overlapped like fish scales, echoing in the corridors, dismantling the emptiness left standing by the night upon the platforms. The motionless stairways stirred, escalated. From the tunnels lights shot forward and the black cried out, woke Redbeard in STAFF ONLY.

Redbeard performed his morning toilet, had breakfast, packed up, came out of STAFF ONLY. He dropped sheets of yellow paper here and there, took a train to the next station, dropped more paper. He took another train, went on leaving yellow paper in tube stations well into the morning. From the last station on his route he worked his way back over the same ground looking for the sheets he had dropped.

He picked up the first one he found. It was clean on both sides.

I don’t have to write anything at all, he said to the paper. Or I might write an Elizabethan love lyric.
To Phyllis,
maybe.

Morrows cruel mock, said the paper.

I told you I was tired of that, said Redbeard.

Bad luck, said the paper. Morrows cruel mock.

I don’t want to, said Redbeard.