H. Adler - The Wall

“Good morning. What a lovely vegetable.”

“Unfortunately, it’s really just a balloon.”

I turned away and was annoyed that the woman was making fun of me. I looked around to see whether anyone had observed our exchange. No one seemed to have, but it didn’t matter, for I felt that everyone had turned against me. The crowd barely hid their joy over my disappearance. That was why it was good that we moved more easily ahead, step by step. Perhaps the police had given them a sign, but when I looked around I didn’t see them anywhere. There were a lot of people still in our way, but there was not such a crowd, the curious having given way, the thick swarm behind us not following along, but instead beginning to break up. Now we could walk faster, which made my legs feel good, me quietly thinking about what I would say to the director of the crematorium in order to get him to understand my situation.

“Director, you have to see that my time is not yet up. You’re too early, nor is it your job to read any weather map. I agree that it’s difficult, which is why I don’t resent the trouble you’ve gone to for me and my family. I don’t expect any kind of compensation, Lord knows, for a day lost is no tragedy, but I want to get this all cleared up. You think that my name is Arthur. How wrong you are! Indeed, I agree that I am called that as well. Here, underneath my photo, is my signature, and it says that in fact I am Arthur. But in reality I am called many things more. I have all the names that you could possibly think of, because I am called Adam. Please, don’t laugh, but I am the first man, the one who is still alive and who does not die. Once I was called, and I wanted to hide. But that was a long time ago. Now I will hide no longer. Therefore I stand before you. I have brought the ancient curse to the world. Yet that marks a great step forward, and you have me to thank for it. Just wait! Wait with me for the call! You will see that it’s for your own good.”

Thus I sketched out my speech and warmed to the clever ideas that occurred to me as a defense. Unfortunately, I couldn’t develop them any further, for we had come to a halt again. Near MacKenzie’s, the string of cars that rattled somewhat as they attempted to enter or leave would not yield. Vainly, Brian and Derek tried to get them to let us through. They waved their arms and shouted at the drivers, but there was no stopping them. Some even laughed openly at the pallbearers and honked their horns, letting loose a frightful din, my enraged escorts becoming angrier and shaking their fists. I couldn’t blame them for getting angry. But, finally, the noise was too much for a watchman at MacKenzie’s, for he produced a bright-red flag that he waved back and forth. That worked. The drivers braked, and we were able to cross the entrance. There was no longer anything standing in our way. The men walked quickly, for they wanted to make up the time lost. As an experienced walker, I could keep up with them, but for Johanna it was a challenge. She gasped for breath because she had to walk so fast, which was twice as hard for her, because she had put on shoes with higher heels than normal. Again, I would have been happy to take her by the arm in order to help her along. I think she would have accepted my offer, yet I hesitated, fearing that I would be rejected. Between us there was a wall, Johanna most likely going along with things in order to keep up appearances. It worried me that my wife no longer belonged to me, but since I had suffered such terrible separations many times over, I was patient. I looked at Johanna surreptitiously and remembered back. How might I have prevented all this from coming to pass?

I took out my watch. It was an old piece that steadily kept the time, its lovely second hand sweeping across the clock face. It was almost nine o’clock. Actually not that late, but who cared? Only to the pallbearers, the steadfast pair, did it matter, because they wanted to deliver me on time. I didn’t care that the cremation was at eleven. Why do people love to schedule these events in such precise fashion? Death approaches; there cannot be much time left, but even the best doctors can be off by several hours or even days. Then one is cremated and buried, and right on time. Everything done to the minute. Things get in the way, but one overcomes them. Someone glances at a watch and decides that it’s time. The guests and the personnel are happy the time has come, it having been kept, for it’s never good to be late. Death must be allowed to roam free, surprising us in the middle of life, for that is its right. Only murders are often pedantically scheduled, they needing to be carried out at particular times, even when the right of the state takes on such a task and the poor victim is executed. But I was a mistake, for I was not meant to be scheduled for a sanctioned or an unlawful murder, the men having said nothing about it. Nor is one supposed to be killed in a crematorium, for there death is devoured, not life. And what did any of this damn nonsense have to do with me? There was no reason to be walking through the city with Brian and Derek, my dumb good nature alone having let me leave my apartment with them. I decided that as soon as possible I would turn around and take note of certain markers so that later I could find my way back home without Johanna’s help. But it was a needless precaution, for we were passing through a long-familiar neighborhood. And I then recalled that there was in fact a crematorium not far from us.

We were already on Middleton Avenue and, past the railway bridge that we were now crossing, we had to turn left onto Temple Road. There stood the flower shops with their wreaths and even lush potted plants, all of it reminding me, as it captured my attention, that I should really buy something nice for my memorial. I plucked some coins from my pocket and pointed toward a flower shop. Johanna figured out what I wanted, but Brian and Derek both felt that there should be no interruption so close to the end, both of them indicating that the crematorium was just ahead.

“Couldn’t my wife go?” I asked, deciding to break the long silence.

Brian indicated that she could do as she wished, but there was nothing for me in the shop, nor could we wait for my wife.

“Why such a hurry?” I protested.

Derek, who was much more understanding, reminded me that flowers and wreaths were already on full display for me in the hall, though perhaps I had forgotten. Brian, meanwhile, had had enough of this nonsense and looked at me with contempt.

“Bloody hell, the dead should never be allowed to wander around! I knew it. Just be nice and you end up paying a price!”

Johanna motioned to the men to cease; she was afraid that such talk would upset me. I had by now lost interest in the flowers and approached the spacious display of a stonemason with a vast selection of gravestones, magnificent crypts, and modest urns. Some of the memorials were carved with loving thoughts, others were smooth and cold, but otherwise they were finished, all of it so peacefully smooth and innocent, the sugar-white marble embossed with accursed grief, carrying the weight of mortality, the column broken, the garland and ribbon, Psyche mourning with her hair in disarray, her contorted body naked. How good it is that the inclement weather at the cemetery here doesn’t wear away at her, for at the stonemason’s she is protected along with the little angels that tenderly look up, their index finger at their lips. I stood before the little angels, probably angering the men, though there was nothing they could do to stop me.

“I like it here. I’d like to have a stone of my own.”

The chief angrily tried to pull me away.

“If you touch me, I’ll scream! Let me be! I just want a stone of my own. It’s great to have such a big selection.”