Russell Hoban - Kleinzeit

I wouldn’t know, said Sister. I don’t ever talk to them. I don’t think very big.

And you’re quite right not to, said God. Just carry on as you are, and all the best to both of you. I really mean that.

Thank you, said Sister.

You’re moving into his flat? said God.

I expect so, said Sister.

What’s he got there, gas or electricity?

It’s all electric.

I’ll see if I can put off the electrical strike for a week or so, said God. Give you a chance to start off with cooker, fridge and heating all in working order. Sort of a wedding present.

That’s really very kind of you, said Sister. I appreciate that.

Well, said God, I’m off then. We’ll stay in touch.

Oh yes, said Sister. Thanks so much.

Not a bad sort, God, said Hospital. In His own fumbling way.

He’s a lot nicer than you are, said Sister.

I’m not so bad, said Hospital. I talk rough, maybe, but I’m a decent chap.

Hmmph, said Sister.

What I said about Kleinzeit not getting to keep you, said Hospital, Eurydice and all that, I didn’t mean it the way you thought. I just meant ultimately, you know, in the long run. He can have you for as long as he lasts.

Or as long as I last, said Sister. Or as long as it lasts. I’m not looking ahead.

However you like to put it, said Hospital, I shan’t interfere. I just wait about while things take their course. I’d like to give you a little present too.

That is nice of you, said Sister. I wasn’t expecting anything like that.

It’s nothing much, said Hospital. The odds were on Kleinzeit to come down with the flu next week but I steered it in another direction. I think it’s heading for Dr Bashan. Of course Kleinzeit’ll probably get it the week after. I can’t really change anything.

But an extra week without it is lovely, said Sister. Thanks so much.

Ahem, said Word. We haven’t met.

No, said Sister. I don’t recognize your voice.

No matter, said Word. I’ve a present for you too.

It’s lovely, getting all these presents, said Sister.

Wherever there’s a barrow full of rocks, said Word, you’ll be there too.

Is that a present? said Sister.

Yes indeed, said Word.

Thank you, said Sister. You’ve all been so kind.

Middle of the night. Sister in the bedroom asleep, taking a fortnight’s holiday from the hospital. Kleinzeit awake at the plain deal table in the bare sitting-room. Sister’s clock ticking on the wall, Sister’s Turkoman cushions heaped in a corner with her velvet elephant, woollen rabbit, shining helmet. Candle burning in a saucer on the plain deal table. Yellow paper pages piling up.

Hoo hoo, a hoarse whisper at the door. Anybody awake?

Is this a professional call or a social one? said Kleinzeit.

Social, said Death. I just happen to be in the neighbourhood, thought I’d look in.

Kleinzeit opened the door, they went into the sitting-room. Kleinzeit sat in the chair, Death sat on the cushions in the corner. They nodded at each other, smiled, shrugged.

Care for a banana? said Kleinzeit.

Thanks, said Death. I don’t eat bananas. How’s it going?

Can’t complain, said Kleinzeit. Couple of pages a day. Tomorrow I’ll start busking again.

You’re doing all right, said Death. I’ve a present for you.

What? said Kleinzeit. No tricks, I hope.

No tricks, said Death.

Where is it? said Kleinzeit. I don’t see anything.

Tell you later, said Death.

Kleinzeit lit a cigarette, sat smoking by candlelight There’s something I’ve wanted to do, he said. I don’t know if I can.

What? said Death.

Kleinzeit took a bottle of black ink and a fat Japanese brush out of the plain deal table drawer. He took a piece of yellow paper, dipped the brush in the ink, poised it over the paper.

You can do it, said Death.

Kleinzeit touched the paper with the brush, drew in one smooth sweep a fat black circle, sweet and round.

That’s it, said Death. My present.

Thank you, said Kleinzeit. He tacked the yellow paper to the wall near the clock. Let’s go for a walk, he said.

They went down to the river. The lights on the embankment were dark, but the street lights were still on. Night almost gone, the bridges black against a sky growing pale. Cold, the air, and wet. The river running lapping at the wall, ebbing to the sea. No moon to light the head of Orpheus wherever it was swimming. Death swung along at Kleinzeit’s side, its black back bobbing up and down. Neither said anything.

I’ll turn off here, said Death when they came to the third bridge. See you.

See you, said Kleinzeit. He watched Death’s small black going-away shape rising and falling as it swung off out of sight under the street lamps.

Russell Hoban (1925–2011) was the author of many extraordinary novels including Turtle Diary, Angelica Lost and Found and his masterpiece, Riddley Walker. He also wrote some classic books for children including The Mouse and his Child and the Frances books. Born in Lansdale, Pennsylvania, USA, he lived in London from 1969 until his death.