COMPLETED STORY
By
Robert A. Vrbnjak
* * * * *
Completed story
Copyright © 2013 by Robert A. Vrbnjak
Van Der Graaf, that unbalanced weirdo, wrote down the very last page of his new philosophical novel, a huge book which was never meant to be published and why would it be, when he wrote it just for himself?
This mysterious work he decided to name „Incomplete story.“
Van Der Graaf, a self-taught writer, the one who had never read anything; truly and honestly, long ago he tried to read something, but reaching the logical conclusion that literature was just a devious way of stretching out a couple of sensible sentences over a pile of meaningless pages of a text, he had given up any further effort. Everybody writes just for one’s own sake, knowing best what actually lies within their minds, therefore reading someone else’s wisdom represents just a vain vexation.
Taking this thought as his guiding star, Van Der Graaf turned himself into a passionate scribbler, and being secluded in the darkness of his room, he started to compose heavy words, writing numerous books which he could finally trust, and by which he attempted to explain strictly to himself, something more about life, about the phenomena surrounding him, and so on, and so forth…
Volumes and volumes of such kinds of books.
Those masterpieces, the author, of course, showed not to a soul — why would he and to whom? Why would I care for anyone’s opinion, he said, being absolutely aware that the author was his own best critic and the most grateful reader.
So, he finished the page, put down the pencil made by himself, took off the wooden shoes he carved by himself, too, and sat down on his bed made of glass refuse.
As strange as it could appear, Van Der Graaf had always been making all of his things by himself. He could have bought them, that’d be what government welfare was for! Anyhow, he always gave his paycheck to beggars. He could’ve bought everything he needed, but why would he do it anyway? This little strange man had never found a product or merchandise that he wanted to possess. Such a thing had not been not invented yet.
Whatever he used, wore, or ate… was exclusively made by himself. To give an example: sometimes his clothes would look rather appalling to people; they were actually pieces of discarded nylon bags, cardboard dug out from rubbish dumps, tin sheets of discarded white goods — saving devices… But needless to say, Van Der Graaf felt comfortable dressed like that. While scavenging around McDonald’s restaurants he found some food, but he also tended his own garden in the backyard of his house, on a small block of land used by his neighbours as a garbage-dumping place, the very same neighbors who used to turn their heads away each and every time they would see him sitting under any of the bridges pulling lice out of his hair, or while he walked across the Queen’s Square, dragging a dead dog behind him. On this tiny block of land Van Der Graaf grew cabbage, carrots, and some potatoes. He baked his own bread in a stone oven which he had built in a corner of a solitary little room.
He took off his wooden shoes, blew the candle out, and the darkness grew amid those teary walls. He was already drifting away with a first touch of a dream, when he heard banging on his door. It shook him out of his bed. Who could that be…? He never had any visitors…
He rose and opened the door. Five cops were standing there, staring at him.
“You are Van Der Graaf, aren’t you?” asked the one with a mustache and stripes on his shoulders.
“I…” stuttered Van Der Graaf, anticipating troubles.
“We have a search warrant,” the one with a mustache pulled a greasy piece of paper out of his pocket, shouting “Let’s go!”
Policemen rushed into the room, and started their search knocking down everything on their way.
“No! Please don’t! Don’t break my things!” helplessly cried Van Der Graaf. “This must be a mistake. There’s nothing here of interest to you!”
“Where is it? Where are you hiding it?” asked the mustached cop angrily.
“What?”
“What do you mean what, you silly mongrel? Don’t you play the smart arse with us!”
“But what?” once again asked Van Der Graaf and instantly got a blow in the face.
“Don’t test our patience! Where is it?”
“But…”
“Where are you hiding your brain?”
Van Der Graaf was astounded. What brain? What did they want from him?
A pair of cops, holding hands like two sweethearts, ran to the mustached one showing him a bag which contained half of a cabbage, shouting “Here is the brain! Here it is! We’ve found it!”
The mustached cop said, “Well done! Well done, R.C. Licker and U. Sucker! You’ve got it! You deserve three days off!” then he shook his finger toward Van Der Graaf “We are taking you straight to the court! You are the craziest person in the whole town!”
Hearing this, the policemen began to sing in unison, “Hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s off to the court we go…”
Everything started to happen with tremendous speed.
They packed him like salami, took him to the police station, first, where he had to sign some statement, and later off to the court.
It was around half past three in the morning when he was ushered in the great hall of justice, filled up to the last place; judge, jury, attorney and curious folk wanting justice…
Van Der Graaf, dressed only in a cardboard box, utterly terrified, stood there with moist eyes. It looked like all that was fake, made-up, he was framed, and everybody knew that, except himself, clueless totally.
If all this hadn’t been so real, it could have been a dream, but unfortunately, it wasn’t.
After a few introductory words, the judge said, “Van Der Graaf, you are the craziest man in town! You live contrary to the rules and norms we obey! You do not contribute to our community, nor do you give any charity to the church. Because of that the attorney demands the gravest punishment!”
“Yay!” cheered the crowed in the courthouse with a long applause, “Yay!”
“But… I…” stuttered Van Der Graaf. “What is my fault, I’ve never harmed anyone…”
“Let’s see what the lawyer has to say in your defense,” the judge interrupted.
The lawyer looked at the judge, at the jury, and the crowd, then in the direction of frightened Van Der Graaf, who buried his head in his hands and moaned, “But? Why me? I don’t know a thing! I have nothing to say! Don’t involve me in this matter!” then screaming like a madman, he ran out of the court.
“But what… what can I do now without any defence…” stuttered Van Der Graaf.
“Defend yourself alone! You are equipped enough to do that!” snapped the judge and the crowd started chanting, “Lynch! Lynch!”
This won’t pass without a fight, figured out Van Der Graaf and out of his misery an ingenious thought was born: out of his right pocket, sewn on the cardboard box in which he was wrapped, he pulled out a candle and matches, and from the left pocket, a glass of water. He lit the candle and gave it to the judge. While handing him the glass of water he said, “Here, your Honor, in front of all these people demanding my death, I am giving you, oh, merciful one, this burning candle; fire which is a source of life, and a glass of water, the liquid which is life itself, too. Would you now, your Honor, pour the water on the candle flame?”
Suspiciously, the judge looked at Van Der Graaf and poured the water over the burning candle, putting out the flame with a hiss.
“Wow!” cried out Van Der Graaf. “You might not be aware, your Honor, of what you have done right now. You have killed the fire with this water. You have mixed two polarities. You have put out the fire and spilt the water. You’ve destroyed two lives. With all due respect, your H
onor, we know you have been destined to judge and as you are the wisest in this court you know that only a madman can kill, and I would never call you a madman, but the wisest one here, regardless of your careless destruction of two lives. While I, for example, in spite of being the biggest scumbag would never do what you have just done. Can you, your Honor, understand the intelligence of those far below yourself, of this fanatic mob which demands my death tonight? I dare say, you can’t judge without habeas corpus, judging shamefully against the laws which protect freedom and dignity of an individual. After all, this is democracy! Your Honor, only two hours of flight from here rages a disastrous bloodshed, a war where there are already hundreds of thousands of innocent people brutally murdered. I wonder, will the criminals who have started it ever face justice! You can’t judge me just like that, for nothing, just for being different! Life is a sacred thing! Everyone’s life! So mine is, too!” he shouted, carried away breathlessly, causing an unpleasant silence in the hall, the silence which is possible to scrape off from the walls even today.
Needless to say that the monologue, his proud Socrates’ defence, fell on deaf ears, and the jury unanimously, habeas tibi, voted for the maximum penalty.
The sentence was to be carried out immediately after sunrise, and the unlucky writer spent another hour in the damp cell, watching the stars fading away, facing the dawn of his horrible end, unfair for any human being.
When the night