John Berger - Lilac and Flag

If Murat had known that, a hundred metres away, Sucus in a white coat was waiting for clients who never came, he would have taken up his crutches and gone to share his thoughts with the young worker who had saved his life.

Nothing is more improbable, he would have told Sucus, than the way we walk. I’ve learnt this, now that I’m a cripple. The foot moves with great independence and yet is helpless alone. One leg goes as far as it can, then, almost immediately, it has to stop, it has to wait for its partner to relieve it. I watch all day between the buses. Forgotten knees — the most ignored part of the body until they hurt or refuse to flex — forgotten knees flexing, legs bravely striding out, waiting for relief, striding out again, waiting, striding out — and this every two seconds in order to move a body, step by step, across the earth. I watch them between the buses, Newborn. The one-legged man is worse off than the man without legs at all. Sit with me, you’ll learn how the feet of a mother running after her child, smack the ground. How the feet of old men implore the tarmac. How the feet of the hungry shuffle. How porters’ feet move slowly to earn their living. The poor use their toes, the rich don’t. Hands are continually feeling for other hands. But the foot is singleminded, obstinate, dumb, attentive to only one thing — the arrival and passing of its partner. Like this mankind goes forward …

But Murat did not know his young friend was so near. After several hours Sucus got up, went to a kiosk, and bought two sheets of writing paper. On one side he wrote in large letters: HIGH BLOOD PRESSURE = HIGH RISK and pinned the sheet to his white coat. Nobody stopped.

After an hour he turned the sheet over and wrote: BE GOOD TO YOUR BLOOD. An old man in boots without laces came up and said, Yours is young! Sucus got to his feet. Fuck you! said the man. Nobody else stopped.

Sucus unfolded the second sheet of paper and wrote: A TEST IN TIME SAVES YEARS. People passed, eyes averted, nobody stopped.

On the last side he wrote: ONLY IOOO ZLOTI!

Within five minutes a young boy pulled at his sleeve and hissed, On Alexanderplatz no price-slashing unless you want your fucking face slashed!

Sucus raised his eyebrows without betraying any expression. The boy, teeth clenched, nodded in the direction of the other blood-jobbers. Sucus spat on the ground, packed his instruments, took off his white coat, folded up his chair and followed the ambling crowd.

He came to the statue of the sailor and the fountain. The water flowing over the mermaid’s breasts as she asked for news of the Great Conqueror made Sucus think of Zsuzsa wanting to call their daughter Jeanne. If their child was a boy, he decided, they would call him Alexander. The more opportunities are taken away from men, the more they dream of being fathers.

On the spot, only a few paces from the statue, Sucus unfolded his chair and stood up on it. His instruments at the ready, he surveyed the crowd. He spotted a group of well-dressed sightseers with cameras. They were buying grain to feed the pigeons.

Hey, lady! Hey, lady-in-the-hat! he shouted, I’ll do you for nothing, and your friends can watch. Come and see. Takes two minutes. Roll up your sleeve, lady. Don’t be shy — you shouldn’t be shy with shoulders like yours! Do you suffer from migraines? I do. And I’m telling you, here’s the answer! Let me read your blood pressure — systolic and diastolic — names like music, aren’t they? I’m offering you a test, I’m offering you a reading.

A pigeon alighted on his outstretched arm.

I’m offering you a free check-up, let me take your blood pressure!

She glanced at him for a fraction of a second, and he read in her eyes that it wasn’t a blood test she wanted. The pigeon flew off his arm.

Let me listen to your heart, lady, and I’ll tell you your future … I’ll tell you whether it’s going to be better or worse. You want to know, lady, where the great Alexander is?

Somebody tapped on his thigh. He looked down and saw Raphaele, the portrait-man, goggling up at him.

Last place I expected to see you, said Raphaele.

And you’re still painting the ceiling?

You never kept your promise, jammy.

I promise nothing.

You promised to come round — in exchange for the drawing I gave you. I told you I wanted to draw your trouser snake, didn’t I?

Get lost!

I’ll tell you something, jammy, I’ll give you a tip. You haven’t chosen the right pitch for your particular art here. You’ll never make it on Alexanderplatz. You look too young for medicine. You’d have to grey your hair. Try around the Sankt Pauli. The custom’s less choosey down there. They just want to hear if they can last the night. Without your white coat though. Hospital around Sankt Pauli means punishment, it doesn’t mean care. Down there, with no white coat, you’d have a chance.

I saw the marten this morning. He was running. He never runs blindly. He considers each mound in the garden before he jumps over it or skirts around it. When he skirts around, he keeps very low to the ground. Pointed, slim, and the colour of a flame. As cunning as he’s quick. It was three months since I’d seen my marten. Where he lives I don’t know, but it can’t be far from the house. We live side by side but invisible one to the other. When our paths do cross, it’s the result of an accident or a mistake. This morning he was being pursued by a dog. The marten, his skull as thin as a hen’s egg, is a sign of danger.

THE DAY WAS young. The fortunate who had jobs were going to work, the roads into Troy were crammed with traffic, those still in bed were mostly there alone, many dreaded the new day, the sun dazzled the sea. In the Cauchy Street police station the Superintendent was leaning back in his revolving chair, listening to a man whom he didn’t want to see. Hector’s appearance was changing for the worse. His face was becoming puffier and the backs of his hands with their black hairs were swollen. When I looked into his eyes, I had the impression that the tides of the sea were flowing through them, that he was adrift. It was his last week of work.

So, how did you know who it was? he asked his visitor.

I’m used to seeing people, the man said, I do it all day long.

Hector nodded and looked up blankly at the framed portait of the President above the door.

The question came to my mind as soon as I spotted her, continued his visitor.

The question?

Is this woman a terrorist? It’s not a thing I usually ask myself. I’m not a Police Superintendent like you. But there was something about this woman — his hand searched in the air for a word — which impelled me to ask it.

Where do you work?

At the Job Distribution Centre in Swansea. I’m due to retire at the end of the year.

It happens to us all, said Hector.

I can’t wait, said the man.

So you thought she was a terrorist?

Yes, I didn’t know who she was then. I just thought she was a terrorist.

So?

It was the way she was sitting.

Do terrorists sit in a special way?

The man on the other side of the desk now felt in his jacket pocket and produced a box of sweets which he held out to the Superintendent.

Since I gave up smoking, I eat these, would you like one?

Inside the box, the sweets were like brightly coloured Lego bricks with which, if you had enough of them, you could probably build a spaceship, or a telephone booth. Their colours were lemon-yellow, gold, rose-pink, black, mahogany-red.

No thank you, said Hector.

Inside they’re licorice.

Suddenly Hector thought of heroin. Who would think of looking twice at such sweets?

I’ll put the box here, said the man, in case you change your mind. He placed it on top of a radio transmitter on the desk.