Look at you, said God. Who could be healthier?
Oh, women, said Sister. I’m talking about men. One way and another they’re all sick.
You really think so? said God. He rained a little harder. What did I do wrong? How have I failed?
I can’t say exactly what I mean, said Sister. It just sounds stupid. What I mean is, it isn’t a matter of finding a well man, it’s a matter of finding one who makes the right use of his sickness.
In Kleinzeit’s office the man pushing the barrow full of rocks on the yellow paper felt himself crumpled up by the Creative Director. It’s dark all of a sudden, he said as he dropped into the wastebasket, still feeling the tube of Bonzo in his pocket.
Corridor in the Underground
Ah! said the walls, listening to the footfalls, it’s the silence that we like, the lovely shapes of silence between the shapes of the footfalls.
There was a clean sheet of yellow paper, A4 size, lying on the floor of the corridor. None of the footsteps had made it dirty yet.
A ragged man came along, lumpily dressed, with a full red beard and bright blue eyes. He had a bedroll slung on his shoulder with a rope and carried two carrier-bags. Probably half a bottle of wine in one of them. He looked at the sheet of paper lying on the floor of the corridor, walked all round it, then picked it up, looked at both sides of it. No writing on either side. He felt it. He took a black Japanese nylon-tip pen out of his pocket. He sat down, leaned against the wall, took a clipboard out of one carrier-bag, put the paper in the clipboard, and wrote on it in a bold black hand:
MAN WITH HARROW FULL OF CROCKS
He took the paper out of the clipboard, laid it on the floor of the corridor and walked away echoing.
Here is the world, said the man on the paper. Here is greatness in me. Why a harrow full of crocks? Will there be music?
Yes, said the music. It was a little way ahead down the corridor. It was mouth-organ music, edgy, wonky, sometimes trotting like a three-legged dog and sometimes striking like a rattlesnake. It was a medley of Salty Dog, Cripple Creek, and The Rose of Ballydoo. It was put together as if the first tune had run smack into a lamp-post with the other two following close behind it.
When the red-bearded man got to where the music was he played it. He played it on a mouth organ he took out of his pocket. Out of a carrier-bag he took a filthy little peaked cap of corduroy, dropped it on the ground with the greasy lining looking up.
What a sound track, said the man on the paper with the harrow full of crocks.
Plink, said 2p dropping into the cap.
When? said a glockenspiel in a music shop.
Later, said the walls of the corridor.
Arrow in a Box
Night, crepitating slowly, beat by beat. Sister on nights now, glowing in the lamplit binnacle of her office, overlooking the ward as a captain on his bridge, watching the black bow cleave the white wave, watching the compass eye, jewelled in the dark. Thrum of the engines, heave of the sea, silent-roaring, seething and sighing. Dimness of the ward. Groans, gurgles, choking, gasping, splatting in bedpans. Stench. Groans. Curses.
Sister, not writing her report. Not reading a book. Not smoking. Not thinking. Feeling the night rise in the lamplight beat by beat.
Talk to me, said God.
No answer from Sister, tuned to the night, beat by beat ascending.
Kleinzeit awake, watching the blips on Flashpoint’s monitor: blip, blip, blip, blip. Flashpoint asleep. The distant horn sounding in Kleinzeit’s body. Not yet, O God. The stench of bedpans. A sky like brown velvet, the red wink of an aeroplane. So high, so going-away! Gone!
Suddenly the hospital. Suddenly crouching. I am between its paws, thought Kleinzeit. It is gigantic. I had no idea how long its waiting, how heavy its patience. O God.
I can’t be bothered with details, said God. Blip, blip. Blip …
‘Bowls and gold!’ cried Flashpoint, twisting in the dark. ‘Velvet and hangings, youth and folly.’
It’s happened, thought Kleinzeit. Hendiadys.
Sister was there, Dr Krishna, two nurses. The curtains were drawn round Flashpoint’s bed.
There was a terrible rushing tumbling gurgling sound ‘Burst spectrum.’ said Dr Krishna.
‘Arrow in a box.’ said Flashpoint quietly.
Nurses wheeled in a starting gate. The bellows heaved and sighed.
‘Nothing,’ said Krishna behind the curtain. ‘That’s it’
Kleinzeit closed his eyes, heard wheels, footsteps, opened his eyes. The curtains were pushed back, Flashpoint’s bed
was empty, the screen dark. Nobody.
NOW, said Hospital. HERE I AM. FEEL ME AROUND YOU. I HAVE BEEN HERE ALWAYS, WAITING. NOW. THIS. YOU.
Aaahh! groaned the bed, holding Kleinzeit tight as it came.
No, said Kleinzeit, cowering in the dark. Not a star to be seen in the brown velvet. Not an aeroplane.
What? said Kleinzeit.
Be dark, said the dark. Don’t show. Be dark.
No One in the Underground
In the middle of the night WAY OUT led to iron gates that were locked. The escalators did not go up and down, they were only steps. No one walked up them, down them. No one looked at the girls in their underwear, perpetual on the posters, THIS EXPLOITS WOMEN, said round stickers stuck on crotches, breasts. No one read the stickers.
KILL WOG SHIT, said a wall. KILL IRISH SHIT. KILL JEW SHIT. SHIT KILL. PEE KILL. FART KILL. SWEAT KILL. THINK KILL. BE KILL. LIVE KILL. KILL LIVES.
On a LEARN KARATE poster one man flung another to the mat, said in handwriting, Go on, let me fuck you.
On an Evening Standard poster a cartoon man rode an escalator on which everyone but him looked at the posters of girls in underwear. My job is stultifying, he said in handwriting.
The chill, the damp, the night rose from the black tunnels, from the concrete platforms, from the steel rails through the darkness. No one read the posters.
GRACE & BOB, said a wall. IRMA & GERRY. SPURS. ARSENAL.
ODEON, said a film poster. NOW SHOWING : ‘KILL COMES AGAIN’. They were all dying to come with him! On the poster a man in tight-fitting clothes aimed a double-barrelled shotgun from between his legs. Behind him naked girls lay stacked like cordwood. Around him ships at sea exploded, trains strafed by helicopters ran off rails, castles blew up, motorcyclists rode off cliffs, there was underwater gunplay between frogmen. Starring PRONG STUDMAN, MAXIMUS JOCK, IMMEANSA PUDENDA, MONICA BEDWARD. Also starring GLORIA FRONTAL as ‘Jiggles’. Directed by DIMITRI ITHYPHALLIC. Screenplay by Ariadne Bullish based on the novel Kill for a Living by Harry Solvent. Additional dialogue by Gertrude Anal. Music composed and conducted by Lubricato Silkbottom. Theme, ‘Suck My Lolly’, composed and arranged by Frank Dildo, performed by THE PUBIC HARES by permission of Sucktone Recording Inc. Executive Producers Harold Sodom, Jr. and Sol Spermsky. Produced by Morton Anal, Jr. Photographed in Spermo Vision, a Division of Napalm Industries. Recorded by Sucktone, a Division of Sodom Chemicals, in association with Napalm Industries, a Division of Anal Petroleum Jelly. A Napalm-Anal Release. Certified ‘X’ For Mature Audiences Only.
No one read the film poster.
Listen, said Underground.
No one listened. The chill rose up from the black tunnels.
Are you there? said Underground. Will you answer? No one answered.
Are you Orpheus? said Underground.
No answer.
Music
Kleinzeit sneaked out with no trouble at all: he went to the bathroom carrying his clothes under his robe, came out wearing his robe over his clothes, went down the fire stairs, left his robe by the door.
The moon was full like a moon in old mezzotints, Japanese prints. Delicate, dramatic. Scudding clouds, special effects. When the moon looked down it saw Kleinzeit sitting in a square before dawn. Opposite the square a music shop: YARROW, Fullest Stock.
Kleinzeit looked up at the moon. I’m waiting, he said.
The moon nodded.
It’s easy for you to nod, said Kleinzeit. You’re not the one who’s got to be a hero. Why did I tell her that was what my name meant? I’m not a hero, I’m afraid of too many things. Prong Studman, Maximus Jock, chaps like that in the films, that have that peculiarly intrepid look around the eyes and don’t smoke, you can see they’re never afraid of anything. They’re very dangerous when they’re angry too, no one takes liberties with them. That’s why they get to be film heroes, because people can see just by looking at them that they really are the way they are. Women are wild about them, schoolgirls hang up posters of them. Prong Studman is forty-seven years old, too. Two years older than I am. Maximus Jock is fifty-two. Incredible, And I’m sure he never gets sleepy in the afternoon.
Excuse me, said the moon. I’ll just put the kettle on.
Kleinzeit nodded. The day knocked three times at his eyeballs.
Morning for Mr Kleinzeit, said the day.
I’m Mr Kleinzeit, said Kleinzeit.
Sign here, please.
Kleinzeit signed.
Thank you very much, sir, said the day, and handed him the morning.
Right, said Kleinzeit. The square was wide-awake with people, had a hum of cars around it. Backdrop of buildings, rooftops, sky, traffic noises, world.
Right, said Kleinzeit, and stalked across the road to YARROW.
‘Can I help you?’ said the man behind the counter.
‘I don’t know what I want, really,’ said Kleinzeit.
‘Had you a particular instrument in mind?’ said the man. Kleinzeit shook his head.
‘Have a look round,’ said the man. ‘Perhaps it’ll come to you.’
Kleinzeit smiled, nodded. Not a horn, he was sure of that much. He looked at piccolos, flutes, and clarinets. There aren’t enough fingers in the world for all those keys, he thought, let alone the blowing part of the work. He looked at violins, cellos, and basses. At least keys are definite things, he thought. You open a hole or you close it. With strings you could get lost entirely. A glockenspiel came to him.
How do you do, said Kleinzeit.
Don’t be coy, said the glockenspiel. It’s me you’re looking for. £48.50. I’m the real thing, same kind they use in the London Symphony Orchestra.
I don’t know, said Kleinzeit.
All right, said the glockenspiel. £35 without the case. Plain cardboard box. Still the same instrument.
Expensive case, said Kleinzeit.
Professional, said the glockenspiel. Distinctive. How many truncated-triangle-shaped black cases do you see? People think what is it. Not a dulcimer, not a zither, not a machine-gun. Meet girls. They’ll be dying to know what kind of instrument you’ve got.
Tell you something, said Kleinzeit. I can’t even read music.
Look, said the glockenspiel, flaunting its two tiers of silver bars, every note is lettered: G, A, B, C, D, E, F and so forth.
G#, A#, C#, D#, Kleinzeit read on the upper tier. How do you pronounce#?
Sharp, said the glockenspiel.
Kleinzeit picked up one of the two beaters, struck some notes. The glockenspiel made silver sounds that hung quivering in the air, the first ones still resounding as the lata ones were heard. Magical, thought Kleinzeit. Spooky. I could make up tunes, he said, and write down the letters so I could play them again.
There you go, said the glockenspiel. You’re musical. Some are, some aren’t. You are.
‘I’ll have this,’ said Kleinzeit to the man. ‘What is it?’
‘£48.50 with the case,’ said the man. ‘Silly to pay so much for a case. Have it in a cardboard box for £35.’
‘I mean what is it?’ said Kleinzeit. ‘The instrument.’
‘Glockenspiel,’ said the man, tilting his head for a better look at Kleinzeit.
Kleinzeit nodded. Glockenspiel. He wrote out the cheque, carried away the glockenspiel in its case. Girls in the square looked at the case, looked at him.
Could Go Either Way
Sister lay in bed on her day off, sleeping in but not asleep. Not dreaming, not awake. Drifting. She heard halting silver notes, saw herself in a corridor in the Underground. I wonder why, she thought. Sometimes it seems as if I am entirely inside the world and can’t get out.
Talk to me, said God.
I believe in one God the Father Almighty, said Sister, Maker of heaven and earth, And of all things visible and invisible: And in one Lord Jesus Christ…
For Christ’s sake, talk to me, said God.
Last night, said Sister, when that boy died, the hendiadys case, I wanted to run to Kleinzeit afterwards and hug him, I wanted him to hug me.
How come? said God.
You know, said Sister. You know everything.
No, I don’t, said God. I don’t know anything the way people know it. I am what I am and all that, but I don’t know anything really. Tell me about wanting to hug Kleinzeit.
It’s too tiresome to explain, said Sister. I can’t be bothered to talk all the time. He wasn’t there when I got back to the ward. If he’s run away I don’t like to think about it.
Why not? said God.
You really don’t know anything, said Sister. Bath time, she said to her feet. Naked they took her to the tub.
Later, not wearing her Sister uniform but in a tight trouser-suit, she went to the ward. Chokings, gasps, oglings. Kleinzeit was back in his bed by the window at the far end of the row, staring at her down the width of the ward and seeing through her clothes as before. Dr Pink, followed by two nurses, the day sister, and young resident Doctors Fleshky, Potluck, and Krishna, was just finishing his round at the penumbra case in the last bed in A4.
‘Well, Mr Nox,’ said Dr Pink, ‘you’re looking a good deal brighter than you were the other day
Nox smiled politely. ‘Feeling better, I think,’ he said.
‘Oh yes,’ said Dr Pink, ‘I should think so. Your combustion’s much more regular than it was. We’ll keep you on the same dosage of Flamo and see how it goes.’ The group filed into Sister’s office, followed by Sister.
‘He’s got a history of partial eclipse, that one,’ said Dr Pink. ‘We may have to do another refraction.’ Fleshky, Potluck and Krishna took notes.
‘What about Kleinzeit?’ said Sister. ‘The hypotenuse case.’
‘There’s dedication,’ said Dr Pink. ‘Comes in on her day off, can’t keep away from the job.’
‘What about him?’ said Sister. ‘Kleinzeit. Hypotenuse.’
‘Well, you see what his polarity is,’ said Dr Pink. ‘Could go either way.’
‘Down?’ said Fleshky.
‘Up?’ said Potluck.
‘East?’ said Krishna.
‘West?’ said Sister.
‘Quite,’ said Dr Pink. ‘And bear in mind that when you get this kind of hypotenusis there’ll generally be some kind of bother with the asymptotes as well. We don’t want him to lose axis but at the same time we’ve got to watch his pitch. We’ll run a Bach-Euclid Series on him, see how he tests.’
Sister went to Kleinzeit’s bed by the window. ‘Good morning,’ she said.
‘Good morning,’ said Kleinzeit. Sister and he both looked at Flashpoint’s bed. There was a fat man asleep in it now. Ullage case. No monitor.
Well? said Sister’s face.
Kleinzeit pointed to the glockenspiel under his bed. ‘Yarrow,’ he said. ‘Fullest stock.’
Sister opened the case, touched silver notes softly with her fingers.
Remember, said the glockenspiel.
Remember what? said Sister.
Remember, said the glockenspiel.
Sister closed the case, sat in a chair, looked at Kleinzeit, smiled, nodded several times without speaking.
Kleinzeit smiled back, also nodded several times without speaking.
Up and Down
Nothing but large beautiful girls here, thought Kleinzeit as he took off his pyjamas and put on a gown that tied airily behind. So healthy, too. Each one seems to confine her energy with difficulty
inside her close-fitting skin. Such rosy cheeks! The room was bleak with cold hard surfaces, heavy machinery.
‘Right,’ said the X-Ray Room Juno. ‘We’re going to do a Bach-Euclid on you. We do it two ways.’
‘You mean …’ said Kleinzeit.
‘Down your throat and up your bum,’ said the comely handmaiden of the see-through machine. ‘Drink this, all of it. Cheers.’
Kleinzeit drank, shuddered.
‘Now lie here on the table on your side and spread your cheeks.’
Kleinzeit shrank, spread his cheeks, was buggered by a syringe and pumped full of something. Role-reversal, he thought. Kinky. He felt blown-up to the bursting point.
‘Stay on your side. Deep breath. Hold it,’ said Juno. Thump. Click.
‘I’m going to crap all over this table,’ said Kleinzeit.
‘Hold it, not yet,’ said Juno. Thump. Click. ‘There’s a loo next door. Not long now.’ Thump. Click. ‘Right. You can relieve yourself now, then come right back.’
Kleinzeit exploded in the loo, came back a shadow of himself.
‘Stand up here,’ said Juno. ‘Elbows back, deep breath.’ Thump. Click. ‘Side view now.’ Thump. Click. ‘All finished. Thank you, Mr Kleinzeit.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Kleinzeit. Must it end like this, he thought. After such intimacy!
He went back to his bed all worn out, fell asleep. While he was asleep the red-bearded man from the Underground got into his head.
Nice place you’ve got here, he said inside Kleinzeit’s head.
I don’t know you, said Kleinzeit.
Don’t come the innocent with me, mate, said Redbeard. He took a sheet of yellow paper out of a carrier-bag, wrote something on it, offered it to Kleinzeit. Kleinzeit took the paper, saw that it was blank on both sides.