Thomas Glavinic - Night Work

His toothache was becoming more and more painful. He didn’t feel like making any more reconnaissance trips. He squeezed a Parkemed out of its blister pack. It stuck in his throat. He stopped at a kiosk and took a can of fizzy lemonade. Washed the tablet down.

*

He parked the Mercedes outside Steffl’s department store. While riding up in the panoramic lift he waved in all directions, the back of his hand facing out. He made himself some camomile tea and sat down at the same table as the day before. His glass of mineral water was standing there untouched. In front of him loomed the spire of St Stephen’s. The sky was blue and cloudless.

The pain eased after a while. Although his cheek continued to throb, he was so glad to be pain-free he started rocking to and fro on his chair, skimming one beer mat after another over the railings, watching them sail into the depths.

Of all the tapes he had watched in recent weeks, last night’s was probably the most mysterious. It was almost identical to the one he’d recorded three days earlier. Two tapes existed, so his suspicion that he might have pressed the play button instead of the record button was unfounded. Besides, there were three minor differences: first, the Sleeper’s gaze; secondly, the wink; and, thirdly, the voice. The Sleeper’s gaze was more piercing than Jonas had ever seen it, either in the mirror or in videos and photographs. He also remembered, quite distinctly, that he hadn’t winked at the camera the first night.

What had the Sleeper meant by that? Was it just a joke? Some kind of mockery?

He felt himself losing consciousness, lapsing swiftly into sleep. Absurd, colourful images took shape in his mind’s eye. They made no sense, yet he grasped that they followed some clear-cut pattern.

He came to with a start and peered in all directions, then jumped to his feet and made a tentative search of the whole establishment. There was no one there. No one to be seen, at least. But he couldn’t shake off the feeling that someone had been there. That was a familiar sensation, though. Imagination, nothing more.

He returned to the terrace. The sun had disappeared from view. He couldn’t see it any more, only its rays gleaming on the roofs below.

Whether anyone apart from himself still existed, in South America or Poland, Greenland or the Antarctic, was a question of the same order as the one that used to be asked about the existence of extraterrestrials in the old days.

Jonas had never been seriously interested in theories about the existence of intelligent life far from the earth. The facts were fascinating enough. When a robot landed on Mars, he, Jonas, seated at his computers in the office and at home, had contributed to NASA’s servers crashing. Eager to see the first pictures taken of the red planet, he had clicked on the browser’s ‘Go’ button every few seconds. What he eventually got to see was not particularly spectacular. He even thought that Mars resembled Croatia. But it fascinated him beyond measure that those pictures existed, that a man-made device should be taking them on such a distant heavenly body.

He pictured the probe in flight. Pictured it speeding silently through space. Unloading the capsule containing the robot. Pictured the capsule entering the atmosphere and drifting down on parachutes. Pictured it landing.

No one had seen the robot land, no one. Yet the landing had taken place. Millions of kilometres beyond the range of any human eye, a robot was trundling across an expanse of red sand.

Jonas had imagined being there and watching the robot’s arrival. He had imagined being the robot himself, remote from all that was known to humankind through its own observation. He had imagined how distant the earth now seemed, together with everyone he knew. With all that was familiar to him. Yet he was alive, capable of living unobserved by anyone.

Then, returning to earth, he had thought of the robot. How was it feeling, all by itself on Mars? Was it wondering what was happening back home? Was it experiencing something like loneliness? Rejoining the robot in his imagination, Jonas had surveyed its surroundings. A red, stony desert. No footprints in the sand.

The robot was still there now, at this very moment. Even as Jonas replaced his empty glass on the bar, a robot was slumbering on Mars.

*

Back at the flat he took another painkiller. Three Parkemeds were the maximum daily dose, but he wouldn’t worry about that if it came to it.

He was feeling shattered. He did some knee-bends and dunked his head in cold water, wondering if he ought to lie down. The missing video camera crossed his mind. He had a feeling he would see it again. If so, he would probably be in for an unpleasant surprise.

He lay down on the bed, lay there doing nothing, trying to ignore every sound. The next time he checked the time it was half past nine. The street was in darkness.

He forced himself to eat something for fear the painkiller wouldn’t work. Then he took another. Although his tooth wasn’t hurting at the moment, he was anxious to keep the pain at bay for as long as possible. His cheek was throbbing.

He felt his forehead. He probably had a temperature, but he didn’t feel like getting the thermometer and finding out for sure. He fetched himself a beer from the fridge. What would he do if it didn’t stop?

Jonas awoke with a taste of blood in his mouth. He was feeling simultaneously drunk and hung over, and his head seemed to be floating above him.

Opening his eyes, he ran his tongue over the row of teeth in his upper jaw. The tooth that had tortured him yesterday had been replaced by an enormous, yawning gap. It wasn’t just the bad tooth that was missing; its immediate neighbours had gone too. The taste of blood intensified when he put pressure on the gum.

He simply lay there for a while. The images that swam through his head were too potent and feverish to be pinned down. Questions, again and again: When? How?

He sat up. It was midday. The pillow was sodden with blood. The camera was standing where he had set it up before going to sleep. The bedroom displayed no noticeable changes. He felt his cheek. It was swollen.

He staggered and almost fell when climbing into his trousers. What was the matter with him? He felt as if he’d been on a bender.

There were some half-obliterated spots of blood on the edge of the bath. The waste bin contained nothing that hadn’t been there the previous day, and he noticed nothing out of the ordinary in the kitchen. Feeling dizzy, he sat down and tried to collect his thoughts, work out what was happening to him. He was completely drunk, no doubt about it.

He cocked his shotgun and went out into the street. The Mercedes was parked behind the Toyota, the Toyota behind the truck. The kilometre readings of all three vehicles were the same as they had been the night before.

When he went to rewind the tape he found that it had disappeared. He looked everywhere. It had gone.

He unearthed a box of Diclofenac in the medicine cabinet. The accompanying leaflet stated that it was anti-inflammatory and analgesic. It was inadvisable to take more than three tablets a day. He squeezed two out of their blister pack and washed them down with tap water, then followed them up with an Alka-Seltzer. It was years since he’d had such a hangover. He changed the pillow case and got back into bed.

Two hours later his raw gum began to ache again. He took another two Diclofenac, then heated up a tin of beef stew. He was more than once on the point of hurling his plate into the backyard, but he forced himself to eat everything up.

He buried his face in his hands after swallowing the last mouthful and gave an involuntary belch, sweating and panting in his efforts to keep the food down. He remained like that for several minutes. Then he felt better.