The moment Errol awoke, he realized what day it was. He heaved a sigh
and got out of bed, walking gingerly to the window. His left knee was
sore, worn before its time. But it wasn't a big deal. The pain subsided
with movement. He’d be fine in fifteen minutes. He drew the curtains.
Early spring. March. The lawn smooth as green velvet. One single bird,
a thrush of some kind, was furiously prodding the soil. Errol smiled,
faintly. The zest for life in animals always touched him. Their
eagerness seemed so much greater than his had ever been.
He looked up at the sky. Azure and cloudless. By
some weird coincidence the day nearly always brought finer weather than
the day before and the day after. Errol had often marveled at that.
Perhaps it was only his imagination. Perhaps not. Perhaps it was real.
Then it was the stuff that religions were made of, special effects of
the sublime. A supreme being behind all of this, benign or evil, or
both, with hosts of angels and devils, saints and demons, all
impossible to tell apart. Anything might be possible then. But
throughout his life he had never experienced anything supernatural. So
it was probably his imagination after all.
He wandered back into the room, switched on the tv. The morning program
had not started yet. A black-and-white test card filled the screen.
Oddly, the absence of color never became normal. Even after decades it
still felt like a loss.
He went into the chilly kitchen and put on the kettle to boil some
water. First he checked the gas meter. It was very low, so he took a
coin from the little stack on top of the meter, and dropped it into the
slot. From a small, carefully locked cupboard he took his morning
ration. One slice of bread, with a small patch of cheese, so thin that
it was almost translucent, and his one personal extravagance, a teabag,
costing more than the daily wages of a skilled laborer, but well worth
it. After he had slowly eaten his bread, savoring every bite, he poured
hot water into his mug, dangled his teabag a few times and took the mug
in both hands, relishing the warmth and the savoury steam that wafted
up from it. Taking his brew along, he returned to the living-room,
walked to the window, opened the casement and sat down on the sill.
The street looked pleasant in the sunlight. Although the houses were
only small and basically the same – simple brickwork cubicles with
pitched roofs – most occupants had made a lot of work of their little
gardens, which gave the whole a park-like atmosphere. Just across the
road one of his neighbors, Mrs Vanbuytene, was already outside to do
some gardening. She was a wisp of a woman, in her late sixties, but
still very dapper. She had been a schoolmistress until a few weeks ago,
when she failed her medical because of poor eyesight. With growing
sadness he watched her. She had also been his schoolmistress, had
taught him to read and write, many years ago. She was on her knees, in
a denim overall, paring a rosebush. Although she was wearing thick,
dark-rimmed glasses she had to bring her face so close to the branches
that her nose almost touched them. Errol feared for her fate today and
it almost brought tears to his eyes. He looked away.
In the corner of his garden the magnolia was
blooming. A gust of cool, fresh air wafted its fragrance into his face.
Not too far off he heard a horse approaching. Its irons clanged on the
cobblestones. He waited a moment to see, always enjoying the sight of
horses, having been an ardent rider in his youth. But when the big
black shire came in view pulling a sexton’s cart, he immediately turned
away and slammed the window behind him. He irked himself. So silly to
baulk at the inevitable. But he could not help it, especially when he
heard the horrible sing-song chant of the wagoner: “Bring out your
dead, bring out your dead”.
He shook his head. He had raised the matter at the
department many times, but the Guild of Sextons was too powerful. They
knew that few were willing to take over their wretched handiwork (not
only collecting the departed, but also dealing swift coups de grace
whenever needed) and it had made them arrogant and willful. They pretty
much did as they damned well pleased.
Just then a trumpet blast from the tv announced the morning broadcast.
A young woman, cut off at the waist, read the news.
“It’s that time of the month again, dear viewers,”
she said, with an airiness that bordered on the obscene. “Let’s go over
to our Jessie, outside the Department of Population. How does it look
today, Jessie?”
“Not too good, Pamela. Spring, you know. This time
of the year always brings the same problems. Too many arrivals, not
enough departures. The surplus is still above 8,000. Of course the
end-of-month activities will reduce this figure, but probably not by
more than half. So, it's going to be a pretty nervous noon for many
people."
Errol shrugged. The news meant little to him. His status was reasonably
safe and ultimately he did not care all that much whether he lived or
died. Age had caught up with him. At 52 he was already weary of life,
especially the modern version. It had become unbearably frugal.
Everything was severely regulated and controlled, either compulsory or
forbidden, supplies rationed to the very last item, behavior closely
monitored and, upon the slightest violation, brutally punished.
Apart from the hours of queueing for absolutely everything, he most
detested the endless exhortations to question one's right to exist. At
that very moment, following the news, a message from the government was
broadcast on tv, three little pigs dancing on their hindlegs, singing
in squeaky little voices:
There’s a time to live
And there’s a time to die
Don’t be greedy, don’t be needy
When it’s time to say goodbye
He muted the sound. Bad taste, bad manners. He’d never understand why
things could not be handled more sensitively.
He walked away from the tv, too restless to watch.
He never knew what to do with himself these mornings. Perhaps a legacy
from the past, when he'd be a nervous wreck till noon because his
status skirted the minimum and he still very much wanted to survive.
He did some chores, but his little, single-room
house offered few. So, after he had tidied the kitchen, changed the
sheets on his foldaway and raised the bed out of sight, he was at a
loss again.
On TV the morning game had come on. Bloodiest
spectacle of the month. Not his cup of tea. In spite of his revulsion
he could not help watching one down. He was always fascinated by the
near perfect, muscular bodies of the young athletic men, naked but for
a loin-cloth, facing each other in two opposing lines, wielding spiked
clubs in iron-clad fists. A trumpet blasted and the teams collided, to
the roar of the crowd. In a brief, brutal orgy of violence the two
teams of magnificent males battered each other into a tangle of
squirming invalids, drenched in blood, mercifully colorless on the
black-and-white screen. Only eight remained standing. Side by side they
walked in triumph down the field to the scoring line, cheered on wildly
by the fans. Their new status would last them a natural lifetime.
Behind them sextons dragged away the remains of the others, slitting
the throats of those still living, as the next group of players trotted
out into the field.
Involuntarily Errol checked the figure in the top
right-hand corner of the screen. 7843. As he looked the numbers
changed, dropping to 7820 rising to 7824 and dropping to 7718.
He went over to the window again. Mrs Vanbuytene was still pottering
about among the shrubs. Just as he wanted to turn back to the tv, he
saw a familiar figure approach on a bicycle. Jeans, black leather
jacket, dark, glossy chestnut hair. His heart swelled. Michelle, his
only daughter, dearly beloved but badly estranged, not heard from in
months and now, all of a sudden, coming this way. He curbed his
excitement. Perhaps she was only passing by. But no. She stopped in
front of the house and got off her bike, a bit awkwardly. His joy was
instantly marred by the sight of her swollen belly. She looked
unmistakably pregnant. He gasped with shock and hurried to the door as
fast as his dodgy knee would let him.
She was already halfway up the garden path when he
tore open the door.
"Michelle!" he shouted.
"Hi dad," she shouted back, stopping, to assume a
theatrical pose, spreading her arms, palms outward, and thrusting out
her round belly to show it off, meant as a comical gesture, but with a
wry twist to her smile.
"Pretty dumb, eh?" she said, as she lowered her head
slightly to look up at him from under a fringe of her dark bangs. "Are
you very mad?"
He shook his head.
"Just delighted to see you," he said, heartfelt.
She trotted the last few steps, flung her ams around
his neck and hugged him tightly. She smelled of cheap soap and a hint
of sweat. He savored the moment, reluctant to let her go. She made no
attempt to unclasp him, enabling him to enjoy her embrace a little
longer. Finally they parted.
She looked up at him, more warmth in her big,
mocca-brown eyes than he had seen in years. She had a striking face,
broad and strong-boned, but softened by a delicate nose and full,
curvaceous lips, which were often pursed in a faintly disdainful smile.
Her pale skin was beginning to show the first hair cracks.
"How are things, dad? You look a bit tired."
"I'm fine. How about you, and where's Bart?"
"Gone," she said, with a dismissive shrug of her
shoulders. "Taken last month."
" Really? Oh my God. Why didn’t you call me?"
"I didn’t want to worry you. And besides. I'm okay
with it. You were right all along. He was a jerk. It's amazing how much
you learn about people once they're dead."
He gently laid an arm around her shoulder to lead
her inside. She responded immediately by throwing an arm around his
waist. It felt wonderful.
"I'm sorry, dad," she said softly. "It wasn’t my
idea to neglect you so. I would have come, but Bart always got in the
way. He was jealous and possessive and controlling. Things are
different now."
"And the child?"
"His. Alas. That's not going to do my status any
good."
"Surely he wasn’t as bad as all that?"
"Pretty bad…. hey…," she caught sight of the TV,
"You've got the game on. What's the score?" She hurried ahead, lowered
herself carefully on the couch in front of the set and seemed instantly
absorbed in the action. It pained him to see her take such interest in
the brutal spectacle.
"I don’t know, I wasn’t really watching," he said
softly.
She looked back, and smiled, a bit ruefully.
"Sorry dad, I had forgotten what a softie you are."
"No matter. How about a nice cup of tea?"
She giggled.
"Still the magic potion?"
He nodded.
"Sure. A good cuppa never did anyone any harm."
"No, I'm not thirsty. Later, perhaps."
He went to the kitchen, slowly. His dash to the
front door had taxed his knee. It smarted. Still, he wanted to get away
from Michelle. He needed a moment to absorb everything. It was all a
bit much. Her sudden appearance, the double shock of Bart's death and
her pregnancy, and, looming in the background, the inevitable approach
of noon. He checked his watch. 11:30 already. It made him feel a bit
sick. Pregnancy was no longer the kiss of death it used to be, but
still lowered a woman's status. Babies were not exactly welcome in a
world that could barely feed those already born.
When he entered the living room again with his cup of tea, Michelle was
sitting with her head bowed, not watching the game at all. Her
beautiful, reddish brown hair hung in a sleek veil before her face. She
did not appear to have heard him return. He stopped to look at her. My
little girl, he thought fondly. She looked very sad. It pained him. He
cleared his throat. She shot upright, quickly brushing her eyes with
the back of her hand. He pretended not to have noticed.
"Here we are," he said cheerily, "One steaming mug
of liquid magic. Sure you don’t want any?"
She smiled faintly. Her eyes still moist.
"Yeah, I'm sure."
She pretended to watch the game, but he could tell
from her lack of reactions that she was not really watching. He drank
his tea in silence. He knew how easily she might crack in her present
mood. She could be very tough, but also very fragile when pushed too
far. And this was far. Now and then her eyes wandered away from the
screen. There was little to see. The living room was very sparsely
furnished, with few ornaments. Her attention was caught by a photo of
her mother, his late wife, propped on the mantelpiece, half hidden
behind the clock.
"I really don’t understand why you leave that
hideous picture up there," she said. He looked. He seldom did. In fact
he had almost forgotten that it was there. The photo was a nasty piece
of work, indeed. His wife in her gladiator's outfit. She wore a special
Thracian helmet that left the face uncovered. Her torso was enclosed by
shiny copper armor, modeled into a female shape but with grotesquely
exaggerated breasts. She brandished a sword and had a snarl on her
face. A deep gash disfigured her left cheek.
She and he had grown painfully apart during the last
year of her life, when she became a prize-fighter. Unable to forego
luxury any longer she had chosen the short but very lucrative career of
a female gladiator. It had all but broken him. He had suffered her
choice as a personal failure, deeply hurtful, humiliating and
unmanning.
She fought remarkably well and survived eleven
bouts, before being cut in half by a Viking axe girl. He had never gone
to watch, waiting at home, distraught at first, but less and less, as
the mix of worry, shame, anger and neglect did its abrasive work. News
of her death actually came as a relief.
"It's the only one I 've got," he said.
She shrugged.
"Perhaps it's fitting, in a way. Come sit with me,"
she patted the couch beside her.
He did. She snuggled up to him. Only now it did not
feel half as good as before. There was a sense of desperation in her
embrace, the clinging of a frightened child. No wonder. The moment of
truth was approaching.
He tried not to think of the threat of losing her.
But fear began to stir within. His heart felt like it was slowing down,
like a heavy pendulum swinging to and fro. Almost noon. On TV the game
was over. A man had come on, undoubtedly a preacher of sorts, urging
people to take their own lives, for the good of others. Thankfully the
sound was off.
"Want to hear that?" he asked.
She shook her head.
In silence they watched the man's mummery. He
was making a lot of gestures and grimaces. Dozens of expressions came
and went on his face. Too many to be believable.
"Was life always like this?" Michelle suddenly asked.
"Like what?"
"So horrible."
He guffawed.
"Oh, my child. It was worse, many times worse.
During the food wars every day was like the last day of the month. You
never felt safe for a single second. We had gangs of cannibals, you
know. They could strike anywhere, anytime. Strange though it may sound,
life has changed infinitely for the better."
"Big deal."
"Well, it is, actually."
The man disappeared. His place was taken by a clock,
one minute to twelve, with a large hand moving jerkily from second to
second.
Michelle's hand slid into his. He held it gently.
"Here we go," she said.
The screen began to fill up with the numbers of the
doomed. Five columns moving upwards. Errol did not have long to
wait. He had a number in the lower 40,000s. When its slot had passed,
Michelle gave him a quick little kiss on the cheek. That only made
matters worse. They had a long way to go before her number might come.
His throat was parched, in spite of the tea.
"What's your number?" he asked, hoarsely.
"Don’t you know?"
"I used to. But not anymore."
"6,621,389."
"Ah, yes, I remember."
The atmosphere became surreal. Outside all was silent, apart from
little birds chirping harshly in the springtime sun. Errol sat beside
his newly regained daughter in a kind of trance, eyes locked to the
screen. Nothing else mattered. He was keenly aware of Michelle's agony.
She had trouble breathing, shivered occasionally, perspired more than
usual.
As the numbers went up, the grip of her hand on his
became ever tighter. Her nails were digging into his skin. He did not
care.
When number 6,620,000 and something appeared, she
began to tremble. Errol tensed. The very next number was already far
above hers. She gave a little shriek, instantly smothered. He burst
into tears. Thank god, thank god, he thought, although no believer in
any deity.
For several minutes they sat motionless, side by
side, only their hands touching. Hers had relaxed, just lay on top of
his.
She was the first to move, gave his hand a gentle
rub and got to her feet, a bit unsteadily. She gazed down at him,
unsmiling. There was a haggard look about her, as if she had just run a
marathon.
"That," she said, "was without a doubt the worst
television program I have ever seen."
He grinned through his tears.
"Sure was," he said. "Happy end, though."
She closed her eyes briefly.
"What an ordeal." She gave her head a brisk little
shake and walked away, to the open window.
He did not quite know what to do. She hated
sentimentality. He had always had trouble finding the right tone,
sympathetic but not too mushy. He decided to let her be.
She stood at the window, one arm raised
horizontally, against the window frame, resting her forehead upon it.
She was on the skinny side, especially her legs. This made her bulging
belly look unreal, like a basketball under her shirt. Suddenly she
righted herself.
"Is that Mrs Vanbuytene, across the street?" she
asked.
Errol rose and joined her. The old lady had indeed
appeared again, dressed in her Sunday, church-going outfit:
camel-colored winter coat, French baret, small handbag under her left
arm.
"Yeah, that's her."
"Wow, impressive, at her age."
"She was a very valuable schoolteacher."
"Was?"
"Yeah, she was dismissed a few weeks ago. Failed her
medical."
"Oh dear. That explains it."
Errol felt his misery return. Mrs Vanbuytene was
also carrying a pillow. That could only mean one thing. Her face was
pale and solemn. Slowly she walked to the side the road, bent over to
put down the pillow on the ground and lowered herself on her knees. She
clasped her hands together and began to pray. The sun flashed in her
thick eyeglasses. She looked much smaller than before, Errol thought.
"How sad," said Michelle. "Looks like her number
came up."
Errol nodded, his joy blighted.
In the distance the familiar clatter of horses'
hooves became audible. Sextons again. This time there were two heavy
horses, Percherons, grays, magnificent animals, glossy and dappled,
their long white manes intricately plaited. They were pulling a huge
black hearse, about 20 feet long. It was made of an antique shipping
container of corrugated steel, painted black. The word LINES was still
faintly visible on the side. On the box sat two men, dressed in long
black coats and top hats. One was even wearing a greatcoat with
elbow-length cape. They looked like something out of Victorian times.
"Trust the sextons to put on a tasteless show,"
Errol said.
"I think it's rather cool," said Michelle. "Never a
dull moment."
Errol did not want to watch, but he did not want to
leave Michelle either. Stopping, the container mercifully hid the
little old lady from view. One of the sextons climbed down. He
unbuttoned his coat and swept it back, to reveal the long, webbed
handle of a Japanese sword dangling by his side. He drew the sword,
made a few slashing motions with it and walked leisurely around the
horses. A moment's silence followed. One of the horses snorted. The
other one clawed the cobblestones, impatiently. Then the muted,
horribly graphic sounds emerged from behind the container. The swoosh
of the blade slicing the air, the chop and, finally, the clatter of
bone on stone. Errol had to take a deep breath not to gag,
cursing himself for his squeamishness. Why couldn’t he get used to it?
Everybody else did. Michelle stood watching intently, even straining
her neck from to left to right to catch a glimpse.
There were some more, indistinct noises and the
sexton came back, wiping the blade of his sword with a bloody rag. He
lept up on the coach-box and the hearse moved away. Behind it, on the
lawn, between handbag and beret, lay the pillow, still dented with the
imprint of the old lady's knees. A dark pool of blood had formed on the
sidewalk.
"I could do with that cuppa tea now, dad," Michelle
said.
Her show of indifference annoyed him, but he said
nothing. Slowly he returned to the kitchen. The pain in his knee was
all but gone.