Russell Hoban - Kleinzeit

‘I don’t know how it’ll be,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘All I know is that Orpheus remembered himself.’

‘How?’ said Sister. ‘I don’t know that part of the story.’

Kleinzeit told her.

‘Where’d you read that?’ said Sister.

‘It was told me,’ said Kleinzeit, ‘by an Orpheus scholar.’

‘Sounds lovely,’ said Sister. ‘But how do you do it?’

‘Orpheus went back to where he was dismembered,’ said Kleinzeit.

‘Or simply fell apart,’ said Sister.

‘However it was,’ said Kleinzeit, ‘he went back to the place where it happened.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll think about it another time. Take your clothes off.’

‘You’ll kill yourself,’ said Sister. ‘It was only the other day you couldn’t even sit up.’

‘We’ll do it lying down,’ said Kleinzeit.

Oh, said the yellow paper when Kleinzeit picked it up. Oh, oh, oh, I’m so glad, so glad you’re back. It clung to him sobbing.

What’s all this then, said Kleinzeit. Did you really miss me?

You’ll never know, said the yellow paper.

Kleinzeit read his three pages, started writing, wrote one, two, three more pages.

It’s like magic with you, said the yellow paper.

There’s no magic in it, said Kleinzeit. It’s simple heroism, that’s all that’s required. Like the Athenians and the Spartans, you know, all those classical chaps. Thin red line of hoplites, that sort of thing.

Yes, said the yellow paper, I believe you. You’re a hero.

One does one’s possible, said Kleinzeit modestly. That’s all.

Death came in, sat down in a corner.

Where’ve you been? said Kleinzeit.

I have my work too, you know, said Death.

Oh, said Kleinzeit. He started a fourth page, got tired, stopped, got out of his chair, walked slowly through the flat. In the kitchen were spices, pots and pans, authoritative new things brought by Sister. Clothes of Sister’s hanging in the wardrobe. She was out shopping for dinner now. Next week she’d be taking some of her holiday time so she could stay with him. He stretched, sighed, felt easy. No pain.

He went back to the plain deal table, patted it, looked fondly at the yellow paper, patted it as well.

You and me, he said.

Fool, said the yellow paper.

What’d you say? said Kleinzeit.

Cool, said the yellow paper. I said be cool.

Why?

You’ll last longer that way.

You don’t sound the way you did a little while ago, said Kleinzeit. You sound funny.

Do I, said the yellow paper.

Yes, said Kleinzeit. You do.

The yellow paper shrugged.

Kleinzeit read the three pages he had written today and the three pages he had written before. Now as he read them the words lay on the paper like dandruff. He shook the paper, brushed it off. Nothing there. Black marks, oh yes. Ink on the paper right enough. Nothing else.

What’s happening? he said.

Nothing’s happening, said the yellow paper. Why don’t you make something happen. Hero.

That was what he’d called it: HERO. There was the ink on the first page spelling HERO. Ridiculous. Kleinzeit crossed it out.

What is it? said Kleinzeit.

No answer from the yellow paper.

Damn you, said Kleinzeit. What is it? Why’d my words fall off the paper like dandruff? Tell me!

There aren’t any ‘your’ words, said the yellow paper.

Whose then? said Kleinzeit. I wrote them.

‘I,’ said the yellow paper. That’s a joke, that is. ‘I’ can’t write anything that’ll stay on the paper, stupid.

Who can, then? said Kleinzeit.

You’re being tiresome, said the yellow paper.

Goddam it, said Kleinzeit, are you my yellow paper or not?

Not, said the yellow paper.

Whose then? said Kleinzeit.

Word’s.

What happens now? Whatever can.

HOW — CAN — I — MAKE — WORDS — STAY — ON — THE — PAPER? said Kleinzeit very slowly, as if talking to a foreigner.

They’ll stay if you don’t put them there, said the yellow paper.

How do I do that?

You don’t do it, it happens.

How does it happen?

You simply have to find what’s there and let it be, said the yellow paper.

Find what’s where? said Kleinzeit.

Here, said the yellow paper. Now.

Kleinzeit took a blank sheet, stared at it. Nothing, he said. Absolutely nothing.

What’s all the fuss about? said Death looking over his shoulder.

I can’t find anything in this paper, said Kleinzeit.

Nonsense, said Death. It’s all there. I can see it quite clearly.

What does it say? said Kleinzeit.

Death read something aloud very softly.

What’s that? said Kleinzeit. Speak up, can’t you.

Death said something a little louder.

I still can’t understand a word you’re saying, said Kleinzeit. He felt an overpowering regret for the shimmering sea-light and the smile of the china mermaid in the aquarium that was gone. Then he felt suddenly like a glove with the hand inside it slipping away. Quite empty, as everything smoothly disappeared in utter silence.

Blip blip blip blip, went Kleinzeit. The curtains were drawn, Sister sat by his bed in her Sister uniform, looking at his face.

Under the bed Death sat humming to itself while it cleaned its fingernails. I never do get them really clean, it said. It’s a filthy job I’ve got but what’s the use of complaining. All the same I think I’d rather have been Youth or Spring or any number of things rather than what I am. Not Youth, maybe. That’s a little wet and you’d hardly get to know people before they’ve moved on. Spring’s pretty much the same and it’s a lady’s job besides. Action would be nice to be, I should think.

Elsewhere Action lay in his cell smoking and looking up at the ceiling. What a career, he said. I’ve spent more time in the nick than anywhere else. Why couldn’t I have been Death or something like that. Steady work, security.

Spring, wrapped up in a quilt in a freezing bedsitter, found her fingers too stiff for sewing, left off trying to mend her gauzy working clothes. She gazed into the unlit fire, picked up the newspaper, read about the gasmen’s strike.

Youth, slogging through a ditch, heard the bloodhounds baying on his trail, sobbed and slogged on.

Hospital had no complaints. Hospital, having breakfasted, lit a cigar, puffed out big clouds of smoke. Ahhh! sighed Hospital. Ummmh! Everybody up! Drink tea.

Everybody upped, drank tea. Kleinzeit opened his eyes, saw Sister. She kissed him. He saw the monitor screen. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Blipping again. What happened?’

‘I found you on the floor when I came back from shopping,’ said Sister. ‘So I thought we might as well go on duty together.’

‘Ah!’ said Kleinzeit. ‘I was trying to read what was in the yellow paper.’ He reached weakly under the bed. You there? he said.

Here, there, everywhere, said Death. Like Puck.

Why must you be so artful, said Kleinzeit. Why can’t you stand up and fight like a man or at least like a chimp, instead of trying on all those tricks.

I wasn’t trying on any tricks, said Death. I give you my word.

That’s precisely what you did, said Kleinzeit. You gave me your word and out went the lights. Dr Bashan’s last remarks popped into his mind, his promise that if the lights went out again he’d wake up minus hypotenuse, asymptotes and stretto. Kleinzeit felt himself all over, couldn’t feel anything missing. ‘Have they operated on me or anything?’ he said to Sister.

‘No,’ said Sister. ‘It was a hyperacceleration of the stretto, and Dr Pink wants you to settle down before he decides what to do.’