Everything like before, p.20
Everything Like Before, page 20
Carl Lange did not reply; he was utterly indifferent to that aspect of the matter.
“Sit down,” Osmundsen said.
“I’d prefer to stand.”
“I’d prefer you sat down.”
Carl Lange remained on his feet.
“Okay, as you wish,” Osmundsen said. “Lucky for you there were no witnesses to what you did.”
“I wasn’t planning on denying it.”
“Good.”
Osmundsen did not say any more; a long silence ensued. Carl Lange was fast recovering from the shame of his disgraceful behavior; indeed he stood almost feeling proud for not complying with Osmundsen’s order to sit. If only I had struck him instead of spitting, he thought. If the desk hadn’t been in the way I would have hit him, I only spat because it was the only thing I could do.
“Well, was there anything else?” Osmundsen asked.
Carl Lange was taken aback. Well, he thought, is there anything else?
“Not at this point, no” he said, “there isn’t anything else.”
He turned and left, just about managing to conceal a smile. But as he made his way through the police station his smile broadened. And when he got outside under the overcast sky he laughed, inwardly admittedly, but almost out loud. I spat at him, he thought, feeling exhilarated, that was all that was needed, right there in the police station, the first punishable offence I’ve ever committed, that was all that was needed, and now he can’t do anything to me anymore.
But his feeling of elation was short-lived, after a few minutes the final victory did not seem so final any longer. And when Carl Lange arrived home he felt an intense emptiness. He sat down still wearing his coat and hat and felt like a stranger, without ties. Now I’m finished, he thought. There is nothing else.
Chess
The world isn’t like it used to be. For one thing, it takes longer to live. I’m in my late eighties, and that’s still not enough. I’m far too healthy even though I’ve nothing more to be healthy for. But life won’t let go of me. He who has nothing to live for has nothing to die for. Maybe that’s why.
One day, long ago, before my legs became too frail, I went to see my brother. I hadn’t seen him in over three years but he was still living in the same place. “Are you alive,” he asked, even though he was older than me. I’d brought a packed lunch and he gave me a glass of water. “Life’s hard,” he said, “unbearable.” I ate and didn’t answer. I hadn’t come to have a discussion. So I finished my food and drank my water. He sat staring fixedly at a point in the air above my head. If I’d stood up and he’d continued to stare, he’d have been looking directly at me. Then again he’d probably have shifted his gaze. He didn’t enjoy my company. Or to be more precise, he didn’t enjoy himself in my company. I think he had a guilty conscience, not a clear one, in any case. He’s written twenty or so thick novels, I’ve written only a few, and thin ones at that. He’s considered quite a good author, although salacious. He writes a lot about love, mostly of the physical kind, wherever he gets that from.
He continued staring above my head, he probably felt entitled to, with twenty novels propping up his bloated behind, and I felt like cutting my losses and leaving, but that would have been silly after such a long walk, so I asked if he’d like a game of chess. “It takes such a long time,” he said, “I don’t have that much time left. You could have come sooner.” I should have stood up and left at that point, it would have served him right, but I’m too polite and considerate, it’s my great weakness, or one of them. “It won’t take more than an hour,” I said. “The game itself, yes,” he replied, “but the subsequent exhilaration, or exasperation should I lose. My heart, you see, it’s no longer what it was. Nor is yours I’d imagine.” I made no reply, having no desire to discuss my heart on his terms. So I countered: “So you’re afraid of dying. Oh well.” “Hogwash. It’s just that my lifework is not finished.” That was exactly how he put it, his pomposity was sickening. My walking stick was on the floor and I bent down to pick it up, I’d had enough and wanted to call a halt to his boasting. “Death puts a stop to us contradicting ourselves at any rate,” I said, although I didn’t expect him to understand what I was referring to. But he was too high and mighty to ask what I meant. “I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said. “Offend me,” I repeated quite loudly – I was understandably rather irked – “I don’t give a damn about what little I’ve written and what little I haven’t written.” I got to my feet and delivered quite the little speech for him: “Not an hour passes without the world ridding itself of thousands of idiots. Think about it, have you considered how much stored idiocy disappears in the course of a day? All those brains ceasing to function, because that’s where all the stupidity resides. And still so much stupidity is left, because someone has written it down in books, and that’s how it’s kept alive, as long as people read novels there will be lots of stupidity – certain novels, the majority of them.” And then I added, perhaps rather vaguely, I have to admit: “which is why I came to play a game of chess.” He sat silently for a while, right up until I was leaving, then he said: “That was a lot of words, serving little purpose. But I’ll do what I can with them, I’ll use them, I’ll put them in the mouth of an ignoramus.”
That was my brother for you. Incidentally, he died the same day. I was more than likely the one to hear his last words, because I left without replying, which no doubt he didn’t like. He wanted to have the last word of course, and he got it, but he probably would have liked to say more. When I recall how worked up he was, I can’t help but think that the Chinese have a dedicated character for dying of exhaustion during intercourse.
We were brothers after all.
Carl
When my wife was alive, I used to think about how much more room I’d have when she died. Just imagine all her underwear, I thought, three dresser drawers full, where I could have space for my copper coins in one, my matchboxes in another, and my corks in the third. As it is now, I thought, everything is just a mess.
Then she did die, a long time ago now. She was a demanding person, but God rest her soul, she finally gave me peace. I emptied drawers, shelves, and cupboards of her belongings, making lots of empty space, more than I could use. And what is empty is empty. So I smashed up a couple of cupboards. But that left me with an emptier room instead of two empty cupboards. It was a rather rash thing to do but, as I said, it was a long time ago, and I was a lot younger then.
Anyway, a few weeks or maybe months after carrying out this ill-considered extension of the room’s emptiness, I received a surprise visit from my second-oldest son Carl. He was looking for a shawl his mother had owned, wanted to give it to his wife as a memento of his childhood. On discovering I’d thrown it out, he became cross. “Is nothing sacred to you?” he yelled. And this coming from him – a businessman who makes his living from buying and selling. I felt like cutting him short, but held my peace, after all, I am complicit in bringing him into existence. “What was so special about this shawl?” I asked instead, in a conciliatory tone. “Mom crocheted it while she was expecting me. She was particularly fond of it.” “Ah, I see. It came into being at the same time as you. You were perhaps her favorite son?” “I was, as it happens, yes.” “Oh, it hardly just happened,” I replied, beginning to lose patience with him, he was the spitting image of her and just as incapable of recognizing the natural order of things. “Well, the shawl is gone for good,” I said. “You can take comfort in knowing that only what is lost can be possessed forever.” Drivel of course, but I thought it would appeal to him. However, I was wrong. I had forgotten for a moment that he was, after all, a businessman. He took an almost threatening step toward where I was sitting, and launched into an angry but boring tirade about my insensitivity. He concluded by saying that at times he couldn’t understand how I could be his father. “Your mother was a respectable woman,” I replied, but he didn’t catch my point – why did I have such slow-witted children? “You don’t need to tell me that,” he said. His face had grown quite red by this stage and it suddenly struck me that he might have a weak heart, he was sixty years old after all, and to avert possible misfortune I said I was sorry about the shawl and that had he come sooner he could have gotten everything his mother left behind. I still believe that this was a very conciliatory thing to say, but his face grew even redder. “You mean you’ve thrown out everything?” he shouted. “Everything,” I replied. “But why?” I didn’t want to tell him so I said: “You’d never understand.” “What an inhuman thing to do.” “Quite the contrary. I made a conscious decision and acted upon it, which is practically the only thing that makes us specifically human.” It was of course pure semantics on my part but he didn’t even seem to have heard what I said. “Then there’s no reason for me to be in this house,” he shouted, he had gotten into the habit of shouting, indicating perhaps that his wife had gone deaf, personally I have extremely good hearing, it can be a downright nuisance at times, certain noises have become a lot louder than they used to be, as well as which completely new ones have come along, from pneumatic drills and suchlike, I wouldn’t mind being deaf. “I hear what you’re saying,” I said, “but don’t see any follow-through.” Then he finally left, and about time, otherwise my patience might have run out. That said I do have more patience than I used to, it’s old age I suppose, old people put up with a lot.
My Goodness
One summer, on a day it wasn’t raining, I felt like getting some exercise, taking a walk around the block, at least. The thought cheered me up, I suddenly felt in better humor than I had in a long time. The weather was so warm that I thought I’d change into short underpants, but when I went to look for them I remembered having thrown them out in a fit of melancholy the year before. But the idea of short underpants had taken hold, so I cut the legs off the ones I was wearing. You never get too old to quit hoping.
It was strange to be outside after such a long time, although naturally I recognized my surroundings. I’m going to write about this, I thought, and suddenly became aware of a growing erection, right there on the pavement, but it didn’t matter because my trousers had deep, roomy pockets.
When I made it to the first corner – it took time, the spirit was willing but my legs were weak – I decided I didn’t want to walk around the block after all. Since it was summer, I wanted to see some greenery, a tree at the very least, so I continued straight ahead. It was hot, as hot as when I was a child, and I was thankful for the short underpants. And with my erection deftly under control, I felt fine. That might sound like an exaggeration, but that’s how it was.
When I had walked almost three buildings along I heard someone call my name. Even though it was an old voice I didn’t turn around, so many people are named Thomas. But the third time I heard it I looked in the direction the voice was coming from – it was such an unusual day, anything could happen. And indeed, on the pavement opposite stood old Lector Storm. “Felix,” I shouted, but I was so unaccustomed to using my voice that it wasn’t much of a shout. We had a lot of traffic between us and neither he nor I dared to cross the street, it would have been stupid to lose my life from joy when I had managed to survive so long without it. So the only thing I could do was shout his name once more and wave my cane. It was a big disappointment, but he’d seen me and called my name and that was some consolation, despite everything. “Goodbye, Felix,” I called out, and began to walk on.
But when I finally made it to the next crossing he was suddenly standing there right in front of me, so I’d been feeling sorry for nothing. “Thomas, my old friend,” he said, “where in the world have you been?” I didn’t want to tell him so instead I said: “The world is large, Felix.” “And everyone is dead or almost dead.” “Yes, life takes its toll.” “Well said, Thomas, well said.” I didn’t think it in the least bit well said, and so in some kind of effort to merit his praise, I said: “As long as we cast a shadow, there’s life.” “You’re not wrong, there’s no end to evil.” That was when I began to wonder if he’d gone senile, and I decided to test him. “Evil isn’t the problem,” I said, “but foolishness, take young men on large motorcycles for instance.” He looked at me for a while, then he said: “I’m not sure I quite understand what you mean.” I’d no desire to rub his face in it, so I casually remarked: “Well, what is evil?” He was of course at a loss, he was not a theologian after all, and I hastened to add: “But let’s not talk about that – how are you?” I’d obviously put him in a bad mood, because he studied his watch for a long time, then said: “I become more and more lonely with every person I meet.” It was not a particularly nice thing to say but I pretended not to notice. “Yes,” I said, “that’s how it is.” I realized that if I didn’t hurry up and say goodbye, he’d beat me to it, but I wasn’t fast enough and he did: “But I’ve got to be getting on, Thomas, I have potatoes on the boil.” “Of course, the potatoes,” I replied. Then I put out my hand and said: “Well, if we don’t see each other again—” I let the words hang in the air, it was exactly the kind of sentence that was best left unfinished. “Yes,” he said and shook my hand. “Goodbye, Felix.” “Goodbye, Thomas.”
I turned and walked home. I hadn’t seen any greenery, but my goodness, what an eventful day.
Café-goers
One of the last times I went to a café was on a Sunday in summer, I remember it well because nearly everyone was without a jacket and tie, and I thought: perhaps it isn’t Sunday after all? The fact I thought that is the reason I remember it. I was at a table in the middle of the premises, and around me a lot of people were sitting eating cakes and open sandwiches, mostly one to a table. It looked quite lonely, and since I hadn’t talked to anyone in a good while I was of a mind to do so, if only to exchange a few words. I thought long and hard about how to bring this about, but the more I looked at the faces around me the harder it seemed, as though everyone’s eyes were unseeing. The world really has become a depressing place. But I’d gotten the idea into my head of how nice it would be if someone said a few words to me, so I kept thinking, it’s the only thing that helps. And after a while I knew what to do. I dropped my wallet onto the floor, acting as though it happened unintentionally. It lay beside my chair, visible to several of those sitting nearby, and I saw many sidelong glances in its direction. I had thought that one or maybe two of them would have gotten to their feet to pick it up and hand it to me – I am an old man, after all – or at the very least call out to me, say something along the lines of: “Excuse me, you dropped your wallet.” If only we could stop hoping, just think of the many disappointments we’d be spared. Finally, after several minutes of sidelong glances and waiting, I pretended to suddenly discover I’d lost it, I didn’t dare wait any longer, was afraid one of those people looking at the wallet out of the corners of their eyes was going to jump up, pounce on it and make for the door. After all, no one could be sure how much money was in there, old people aren’t always poor, sometimes they’re even rich, that’s the way of the world: those who steal when they’re young or in their prime are rewarded for it in their old age.
So that’s how café-goers are these days, I learned that much, you live and learn, whatever good that might be, right before you die.
Maria
One autumn day I happened to run into my daughter Maria on the pavement outside the watchmaker’s shop; she’d grown thinner but I’d no difficulty recognizing her. I can’t remember what I was doing outdoors, but it must have been something important, because it was after the banisters on the staircase had broken, so I had actually stopped going out. Anyway I met her, and even though I know better, for a moment I thought: what a strange coincidence that I should go out on today of all days. She seemed happy to see me, because she said, “Father,” and shook my hand. She was the one I used to like best of all my children, and when she was small she’d often tell me I was the best father in the world. Then she’d sing for me, out of tune it must be said, but through no fault of her own, she got that from her mother. “Maria,” I said, “is it really you, you look so well.” “Yes, I’m drinking urine and eating raw vegetables,” she replied. I couldn’t help but laugh, and it’d been a long time since I had. To think I had a daughter with a sense of humor, a slightly cheeky sense of humor at that. Who would have thought? It was a special moment. But I was mistaken, you’re never too old to be stripped of your illusions. My daughter gaped at me and the light in her eyes seemed to fade. “You’re making fun of me,” she said, “but you’ve no idea.” “I thought you said urine,” I replied, which was the truth. “Yes, that’s right, urine, I’m like a different person.” I didn’t doubt that, it made sense, you couldn’t possibly be the same person once you started drinking urine. “I see,” I said, in a conciliatory tone, I wanted to change the subject, maybe talk about something pleasant, you never know. Then I noticed she was wearing a ring, and I said: “You’re married, I see.” She looked at the ring. “Oh, that,” she said, “I only wear it to keep pushy men from making advances.” Now that had to be a joke, I quickly calculated that she must be at least fifty-five, and she didn’t look that good. So I laughed again, for the second time in a long while, and in the middle of a sidewalk at that. “What are you laughing at?” she asked. “I think I must be getting old,” I replied, when I realized I’d been mistaken yet again. “So that’s how it’s done these days.” She didn’t answer that, so I don’t know, but I hope and presume my daughter is not particularly representative. But why did I get children like this? Why?
We stood for a moment in silence, and I was thinking it was time to say goodbye, an unexpected meeting shouldn’t last too long, but then she asked if I was in good health. I’m not sure what she meant but I told her the only thing wrong with me were my legs, which was the truth. “They won’t take me where I want to go any longer, my steps are getting shorter and shorter, soon I won’t be able to budge an inch.” I don’t know why I went on to her so much about my legs, and as it turned out, it was stupid of me. “Age, I suppose,” she said. “Of course it’s age,” I said, “what else would it be?” “But I guess you won’t need to use them much longer.” “Really,” I said, “is that so?” She picked up on the irony, to her credit, and got annoyed, but not at herself, because she said: “Everything I say is wrong.” I had no answer to that, what could I have said, instead I swayed my head in an intentionally noncommittal way, there are far too many words in circulation, the more you say the greater your chances of being wrong.
