Ivan Vladislavić: The Folly

After just one game, which he won, Nieuwenhuizen said, “It’s been a long day, I’m falling asleep on my feet.” Malgas thought that an invitation to stay over would follow, but Nieuwenhuizen added, “I’ll walk you to the door.”

On the doorstep they shook hands, although Malgas would have preferred a manly embrace.

“Beautiful place you’ve got here, Otto.” He managed to get it out in one piece. “Sleep well.”

“Cheerio.” The door clicked shut.

For a long time Malgas stood on the welcome mat, stamping his feet and rubbing his hands together, and hearing again and again the key grating in the lock and the tumblers tumbling. This signalled some new phase of his life, of that he was sure, and finally it came to him: companionship.

He looked at the doorbell and the burnished knocker. He listened to Nieuwenhuizen banging around upstairs, closing windows and drawing curtains. He heard him going from room to room, he heard him coming downstairs. Surely he would sleep in the master bedroom? He felt him stooping into the room under the stairs.

“My room!”

Malgas was beside himself.

“He’s paying tribute to me again. No, it’s more than that: It’s an act of solidarity!”

This possibility was so distracting that the new house faded away in an instant. The plan was revealed, and so was Nieuwenhuizen, snuggling down in the ash-heap.“Otto?”

Mrs opened a drawer in her dressing-table and found that it was full of sand.

“It’s Him. It’s come to pass: He’s everywhere. It’s not healthy to be near Him, to breathe His emanations, but you can’t help it.”

The contagion settled thickly on armrests and working surfaces. No amount of dusting would drive it away. Mrs gave up. She lay on her bed with a scarf soaked in Dettol and almond essence tied over her face. She listened to her knick-knacks jumbling themselves up in the cabinets. When the din became unbearable she dragged herself to the lounge to watch television. It was cold comfort, but she persevered with a melancholic submissiveness.

The box brought nothing but unrest and disorder, faction fights and massacres, even blood-baths, high-pressure systems and cold fronts, situation comedies and real-life dramas, hijackings, coups, interviews with VIPs, royal weddings, exposés, scandals, scoops, conspicuous consumptions, white-collar crimes, blue-collar detergents, epidemics, economic indicators, peace talks, heart-warming instances of bravery and kindness to strangers, advertisements for dogfood and requests for donations. Each new atrocity struck Mrs like a blow, and she thrashed about in the La-Z-Boy like a political prisoner.

Malgas took two instant dinners in crimped aluminium containers from the deep-freeze and arranged them, with sprigs of parsley, on a plastic tray depicting the Last Supper in three dimensions. He carried the tray through to the library. Nieuwenhuizen was gazing into the flames, a dog-eared old volume open on his knees, forgotten. Malgas displayed the dinners and said, “What’s it to be tonight?”

“What’s the difference?” Nieuwenhuizen barely glanced at the offering.

“This is a trout,” Malgas said patiently, “and this is a cottage pie.” The names of the dishes were in fact printed in violet letters on the cardboard lids.

Nieuwenhuizen waved a dismissive hand.

“The trout has been deboned,” Malgas persisted, “and stuffed with shredded spinach and chopped walnuts, flavoured subtly with marjoram butter, freshly ground pepper and a squeeze of lemon. Essential mnrls and vtmns — are you with me? — 30 % of the RDA. The cottage pie is more basic.”

“You choose.”

“The cottage pie is also known as a shepherd’s pie, for some reason now lost to us. It consists of minced meat baked under a shroud of mashed potatoes. Or it will when I’ve put it in the microwave.”

“I don’t care. Just do it.”

“I know! It was made with mutton, once upon a time, sheep would die of exposure, bad shepherds, and potatoes are cheap and freely available.”

Nieuwenhuizen burst from his chair like a jack-in-the-box and writhed out of the room. The old volume, launched carelessly from his lap, flapped through the air and crash-landed in the fire. Malgas leapt to the rescue with the tongs, then thought better of it and left it to burn.

“I’ll bake you both and we’ll go halves,” he said to the dinners and hurried them back to the kitchen.

Mr Malgas stopped going to work. He lost weight and he began to smell, because he wouldn’t eat and he wouldn’t bath. All he would do was keep Nieuwenhuizen company.

And Mrs, despite her better intentions, found that she could do nothing but observe. Her loneliness and lack of self-esteem pressed in upon her and her health declined. She wasn’t allowed to do the ironing anymore. She wouldn’t dust. The Hoover had given up the ghost. Day after day, week after week, she had to watch them going through the motions.

On a typical morning Mr went next door at dawn. He looked in the letter-box. BEWARE OF THE DOG! He marched boldly towards the plan, which sad to say was now a pale and tatty shadow of its former self, and stepped into it. He waved his hands around, shuffled sideways, walked, knocked, buzzed, tweaked, fiddled with the air, opened it and went inside.

“Otto!”

“Cooee!”

“Cookalooks!” Mrs cried, and bit her tongue so hard it bled. Nieuwenhuizen turned over in the ashes, stretched, rose, opened

the door under the stairs and shook Mr’s hand. Side by side they began to walk. They walked up and down and on the spot. They went in circles and seated themselves on the ground. They spoke briefly. Three times Nieuwenhuizen got to his feet, threw himself into the air, and allowed his limbs to rattle down like pick-up sticks. Mr followed his example, laughing good-naturedly even while he was bruising himself and spraining various parts of his body.

Then Nieuwenhuizen excused himself and sloped away to a corner of the plan, where he leant on the air and stared into space. Mr took off his clothes. He rubbed sand and ash all over his skin and scraped it off with sticks and stones. He danced around. He put on his clothes again and went and stood next to Nieuwenhuizen, staring out. They walked together, arm in arm, and stopped, walked apart and waved to each other, lay down on the ground like a pair of brackets, and went to sleep.

Malgas dreamt that he and Nieuwenhuizen were flying at a great height (side by side).

When they awoke they sat together again in a triangle of string, like toddlers in a play-pen, staring and talking. Then they stood up, patted themselves, and walked all over the show, each according to his own inclinations, careful to avoid the camp, going in circles, hopping, turning left and right, until they were reunited at the front door, whereupon they shook hands and shouted out greetings.

“Farewell!”

“Sweet dreams!”

Mr stepped out of the plan and walked to the street. He looked in the letter-box and came home.

“Your food’s in the warming-drawer,” Mrs said. “Probably spoilt.”

“I’m not hungry,” said Mr with a wan smile. “I couldn’t eat a horse. Not even a pony.”

“You should put something in your stomach. Your clothes are hanging on you.”

“I’ve eaten.”

“You look like death warmed up,” she said, trying to wipe the smile off his face, “and you smell like bonemeal. We’ll be digging you into the flower-beds one of these fine days. For the phlox.”

But Mr was too happy for words. He drifted through his house as if it wasn’t there. He lay down in a dark corner of the pantry and fell asleep with a smile on his lips.

Mrs wanted to describe what he’d been up to, but she couldn’t get a word in edgeways.