Russell Hoban - Kleinzeit

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.

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.

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.’