Russell Hoban - Kleinzeit

‘Why?’

‘Something I read in the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, from Bede. About man’s life being like the flight of a sparrow out of the wintry dark into a warm and brightly lit hall. It flies in through one door and out of another, into the cold and dark again. I don’t want to go back to travelling for Speedclox when I get out of hospital. I don’t know what I’ll do but I won’t do that.’

‘Have you a spare Rizla?’ said Kleinzeit. ‘I’d like to try one.’

‘Of course,’ said Drogue. He gave him a little red packet of them. WORLD’S LARGEST SALE, said the packet. Kleinzeit wrote on a Rizla:

Rizla, world’s largest sales are thine,

Rizla, smoke a little song for Kleinzeit.

He put the Rizla in his pocket, gave the packet back to Drogue.

‘Keep it,’ said Drogue. ‘I’ve got more.’

‘Thanks,’ said Kleinzeit, ‘but I’d rather not. I’m a yellow-paper man, you see.’

‘Ah,’ said Drogue. ‘Yellow paper. You’d say that was universal, would you.’

‘No question about it,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘Same as ordinary foolscap and Rizla.’

‘Ah,’ said Drogue, ‘yellow paper and foolscap may be universal in their way but they’re not universal the way Rizla is.’

Running today, said the morning looking in at Kleinzeit’s window.

Kleinzeit got up. Running today, he said to the bathroom mirror.

Not me, said the mirror. No legs.

Kleinzeit put on his new tracksuit, his new running shoes.

Let’s go, said the shoes. Motion! Speed! Youth!

No speed, said Kleinzeit. And I’m not young.

Shit, said the shoes. Let’s get moving anyhow.

When Kleinzeit opened the door of his flat Death was there, black and hairy and ugly, no bigger than a medium-sized chimpanzee with dirty fingernails.

Not all that big, are you, said Kleinzeit.

Not one of my big days, said Death. Sometimes I’m tremendous.

Kleinzeit trotted off down the street. Not too much at first, he reminded himself. Just from here to Thomas More, then fifty steps of walking.

Death followed him chimpanzee-style, putting its knuckles down on the pavement and swinging its legs forward. You’re pretty slow, it said.

With glue my heart is laden, said Kleinzeit.

What do you mean? said Death, moving up beside him.

I mean life is gluey, said Kleinzeit. Everything’s all stuck together. That isn’t what I mean. Everything is unstuck, runs over into everything else. Clocks and sparrows, harrows, flocks and crocks, green turtles, Golden Virginia. Yellow paper, foolscap, Rizla. Is there an existence that is only mine?

What’s the difference if there is or not? said Death. Does it matter?

You’re very friendly, very cosy, very matey today, said Kleinzeit. How do I know you won’t start yelling HOO HOO again and come at me all of a sudden?

You don’t, said Death. But right now I feel friendly. It’s lonely for me, you know. Lots of people think I’m beastly.

Kleinzeit looked down at Death’s black bristly back rising and falling as it swung along beside him. You are, you know, he said.

Death looked up at him, wrinkled back its chimpanzee lips, showed its yellow teeth. Be nice, it said. One day you’ll need me.

Thomas More came into view with his gilded face. Walking time, said Kleinzeit. Fifty steps.

We’ve hardly got a rhythm started, said Death. This isn’t my idea of a morning run.

I’m out of condition, said Kleinzeit. I’ve been in hospital, you know. Ordinarily I trot the whole way. I’ve got to work back into it.

The fifty walking steps used up, he began to trot. The river jolted past him. Silver, silver, said the river, said the low white morning sun. Really, said the river, you have no idea. Even I have no idea, and I’m a river.

I have some idea, said Kleinzeit.

A postman cycled by. There was a white flash of sunlight centred on the bottom of each wheel-rim. The wheels of the postman’s bicycle seemed to be rolling on the two white rolling sunflashes rather than the road. Even the flashes, said the postman’s wheels, you see?

I see, said Kleinzeit. But I don’t really see the need for making a mystery of every single mystery. Especially as there’s nothing but mysteries.

Death began to go a little faster, singing a song that Kleinzeit couldn’t quite make out.

Don’t go so fast, said Kleinzeit. I can’t hear what you’re singing.

Death looked back over its shoulder smiling, but drew farther ahead as it sang. Gulls flew up over the river.

Don’t you be making a mystery out of that little song, said Kleinzeit. He trotted faster, closed the gap between them, was shocked by the heaviness that exploded in him as if he had been struck by a comet. The pavement became a wall that slammed into his face. A brief display of coloured lights, then blackness.

Blip blip blip blip. Well, there you are, thought Kleinzeit. Now I’m Schwarzgang. I have no separate existence. It hardly seems fair.

Remember, said Hospital.

What what what? said Kleinzeit. Why must everybody continually make cryptic remarks. The whole thing’s plain enough. When I wake up I’ll tell you about it. There’s no need to write it down, it’s so perfectly obvious, so simple really.

Very good, said Hospital. Now you’re awake. Tell me.

Tell you what? said Kleinzeit.

What you said you were going to tell me, said Hospital. What you said was perfectly plain.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, said Kleinzeit. I wish you’d stop bothering me.

Quite, said Hospital. Ta-ra. Keep blipping.

Wait, said Kleinzeit.

No answer. Blip blip blip blip, went the screen. If I had one of those things attached to me I’d start waiting for it to stop, thought Kleinzeit, scratching his chest where the electrode was attached. Ah, this one’s mine then.

‘How’re we feeling now?’ said a familiar face. ‘I must say you’re looking a good deal better than you were. Gave us no end of bother when you showed up, heh heh. Seemed quite determined to pack it in.’

‘You’re not Dr Pink,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘He doesn’t say “Heh heh”. Also has a different face.’

‘Dr Pink’s on holiday,’ said the heh-heh man. ‘I’m Dr Bashan.’

‘Doesn’t surprise me in the least,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘Folger Bashan?’

‘Yes. How’d you know?’

‘Just one of those things,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘You don’t know me, I suppose.’

‘I don’t, actually,’ said Dr Bashan. His grown-up ugly face was annoyingly authoritative. His teeth weren’t yellow any more. ‘Have we met?’

‘Perhaps at a party,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘It’s hard to say. Stretto your speciality, is it?’

‘As a matter of fact it is, heh heh. How’d you know?’

‘Must’ve read it somewhere. Are you famous?’

‘Finished first in last year’s Bay of Biscay race,’ said Dr Bashan. ‘You might have seen a photo of me in a yachting magazine in someone’s waiting-room.’

‘How do you know I don’t subscribe to one?’ said Kleinzeit.

‘Well, yes, of course you very well might do. No reason why not.’

‘What’s the name of your yacht?’

‘Atropos. Heh heh.’

‘Jolly name,’ said Kleinzeit.

‘Good boat,’ said Dr Bashan. ‘Well, old man, you’d best get some rest, settle in a bit. We’ll keep an eye on things, see what’s to be done with you.’ He squeezed Kleinzeit’s shoulder in a good-natured way, walked off.

He wouldn’t be in the bed and I the doctor, thought Kleinzeit. That wouldn’t be in the nature of things.