An Evening at Joe's

by Gillian Horvath

High up in the "Gods" of the amphitheatre, a tiny figure caught his eye. He couldn't see what or who it might be but progress down the steps was evidently made difficult by the things they were carrying in both hands.

  "Are you listening to me... you self-important little shit... did you hear what I said?... "

  He turned and looked at her. She was crying now, her mascara had started to run and her lipstick had smudged slightly and suddenly he was back in the apartment they had shared before the divorce and he had just come home and he'd found her drunk on the Afghan carpet and crying, just like now. The gynaecologist's test results lay opened on the table... and he'd said nothing. He'd left her there, angry that she'd drunk so much, impotent in the face of such pain, physically unable to do what was required.... "Unfortunate choice of phrase... try again, try again.... " That was the problem... she'd needed comfort and he couldn't give it. "Just an arm about her shoulder, for God's sake, a hug, a comforting word, what sort of husband were you?" Life is full of such defining moments, stitches in time, ships lost for a ha'porth of tar, a tender kiss and a loving word and perhaps they could have carried on. But no, he'd gone for a walk and waited for her to sober up and pull herself together!

  "My God, What have I done? I... I... I am so very, very sorry." He looked up to say more but she had gone. He jumped up and looked frantically about him. "Margot! Margot! Come back... I'm sorry... please forgive me!... " His words dissonated in wave upon wave rising to a deafening crescendo and then slowly subsiding until all that remained was the fleeting shadow of a phrase, "Forgive me, forgive me.... "

  "Now do you understand why you are here?"

  The words came from behind him and made him jump. He turned to see who had spoken and was greeted by the sight of a thin, disheveled man wrapped in filthy, ragged clothes with wild hair and a long, matted beard carrying a variety of plastic carrier bags in each hand and descending the steps with some difficulty. He was about twenty yards away, but the curious thing was that the voice seemed to have come from inside his head. The man stopped a few steps from the bottom and put his bags down.

  "Ah, dear, so many steps, so many steps. Better sit down and catch my breath for a moment." The tramp put his bags on the steps either side of him and as he sat down he pulled a huge red handkerchief out of one of his overcoat pockets and wiped the sweat from his face. "Heh, heh, nearly didn't make it you know. Such a busy day. Still... I'm here now, that's all that matters." After a few adjustments to his coat and having run his fingers through the matted strands of his hair, he looked up at him and smiled.

  "Remember me?"

  "What are you doing here?"

  Seemingly oblivious of having been addressed he carried on, "What do you think? Will I do?"

  He stood there for a moment, confused by the rather dislocated nature of the conversation. "I beg your pardon?"

  "I know the clothes are in a bit of a state and the whiskers could do with a trim, but books and covers, you know, books and covers."

  "Did you hear what I said?"

  The tramp was searching one of the carrier bags and didn't seem to be paying much attention. Eventually he seemed to find what he was looking for and pulled out a little black book. The corners of the cover had been worn down to the cardboard underneath and the spine was falling apart, the whole being held together by a thick elastic band which he took off. He was flicking through the pages rapidly, licking his thumb and forefinger every so often, when he seemed to remember something and looked up.

  "Hm? I do beg your pardon, did you say something?"

  "I asked you what you were doing here."

  The hairy face looked back at him and leaning forward with an air of complicity he winked and said, "Everybody's got to be somewhere. Here seemed as good a place as any." He turned his attention back to the tattered book in his hands. "Now I know it's in here somewhere, but where exactly, that's the point. Don't want to open the wrong one by mistake... better double-check... let me see... aha! Blue bag, red and white stripes! That's it! You're my last one today." He started to rummage in one of the bags, talking to himself all the while. "Bit of a tricky one, old man, but we do like a challenge, don't we?"

  "Excuse me. I... I... "

  The tramp stopped his search and turned to look at him. "Well pipe up, don't be shy."

  "I'm a little bit confused, you see. Or maybe you don't... oh, dear! It's so damnably difficult to explain. I mean, I sense I'm here for a reason but you've taken me a bit by surprise and so, as there's no one else to ask and er... and... I was wondering, do you have any idea why I'm here?"

  "Ah! the eternal question... why are any of us here, laddie? Hm?" The piercing blue eyes were smiling mischievously and as he tapped an elegant finger against the side of his nose he looked from side to side as if to check that the coast was clear and said in a loud whisper, "Perhaps we're here to find out!" He let that hang in the air for a moment and then, turning back to the plastic bag he reached in and brought out something wrapped up in old newspaper.

  "You wouldn't happen to have the time on you now, would you?"

  He looked at his watch and found that the second hand had stopped moving. He shook his wrist and then put it up to his ear but again heard nothing.

  "Heh, heh, heh. That wasn't a question, you know... merely an observation." He started to untie the string from around the parcel, deftly dealing with a couple of difficult knots with his long, well-kept nails and then started unwrapping the newspaper. He straightened the first sheet out on his knee and held it up to the moonlight.

  The Daily Telegraph No. 28 043

  LONDON THURSDAY. May 3 1945 and Morning Post

  Printed in LONDON and MANCHESTER Price 1£/2d.

  BERLIN FALLS: GARRISON LAYS DOWN ARMS

  "Momentous day to be born, wouldn't you say?"

  He just stood there watching him as he continued to unwrap each sheet of newspaper and once in a while read out a headline that caught his eye. "Ah yes, the Hungarians... put up quite a fight, I seem to remember. You'd have been eleven then, wouldn't you? Now, let me see, Cuba, Belgian Congo... " He seemed to have lost interest in the various articles themselves and now was merely checking the headlines as if he was going through some sort of inventory.

  "I'm sorry, but what has all this . , ."

  The tramp waved a hand vaguely in his direction as if he shouldn't be disturbed and carried on in a barely audible murmur, "Algiers, De Gaulle, first man in space! Heh, heh, that's what they think! ... Kennedy assassination, Martin Luther King... te dum, te dum, te dum...." And so he went on, muttering to himself, sometimes pausing when a headline caught his eye, but constantly going back to the tattered black book to check a detail or to write something down with the little stub of pencil that he'd produced from yet another pocket in his coat. Every so often he would gather some of the smoothed out sheets into a rough pile at his feet and then having referred once more to the book he would continue to sort the remaining pages. This went on for a few minutes during which time his impatient companion paced up and down looking about nervously until finally he could stand it no longer.

  "Forgive me, but you don't seem to appreciate the seriousness of my situation."

  The tramp turned a fierce look upon him and said, "That is precisely where you are wrong! These things cannot be rushed... i's dotted, t's crossed, that's the only way. Don't want to lose you on a technicality, do we?"

  "What on earth are you talking about... and... and while we're about it, who are you? Hm?"

  He fidgeted slightly and looked rather awkward and then finally replied in a reluctant voice, "We're not supposed to say, the manual says it's on a need to know basis and... well... you're the wrong side of the line. According to the manual you don't need to know."

  He could feel the blood rising in his face and his eyes were nearly popping out of his head with frustration as he tried to form the flood of words in his head into a coherent reply but in the end all he could manage was, "What? ... I don't believe... "

/>   The tramp suddenly stood up and pointed a long finger at him. "Be quiet!... We haven't got long and I'm sure you'll forgive me if I'm a little short with you but the social niceties have a time and a place and this is neither. Now... what is that?" He had taken away the final sheet of yellowed newspaper, letting it fall to the ground, and now, in his hand, he held out what appeared to be an unfeasibly large egg-timer in an ornate wooden frame. "Go on," he said, "have a look at it and see if you can tell me what it is."

  "Well... it's an hour glass, of course."

  "Come on... come on... you can do better than that... have a good look...."

  He turned the object around in his hands. It was beautifully crafted and looked very old indeed. It was one of the largest he had ever seen, being about twelve inches long and five inches wide.

  "Hell's bells, laddie, for Pete's sake, we haven't got all night... what is unusual about it would you say? Hm? Hm?"

  He held the glass up to the quicksilver light of the moon and turned it round and round and then the expression on his face changed to puzzlement as he gently shook the frame in front of his eyes. A look of surprise flashed across his face. He turned it upside down and shook it more vigorously.

  "Well, anything to report?"

  "The, er, the sand appears to have, er, solidified in the glass."

  "That's better... and? And?"

  He returned his attention to the object in his hands and upon further inspection he saw that on the underside of one of the wooden bases there was an old-fashioned label with some writing on it in faded black ink. Out of habit he felt for his reading glasses in his shirt pocket but then remembered they were resting on his bedside table back at the hospital, so he brought the label close up to his face and read the following words:

  Charles Morris Born May 3rd. 1945.

  Deceased...?

  The seed of a suspicion that all was not as it seemed had germinated and started to grow as he looked at his name... it was his name... what...?

  "What is his name doing there stuck to the underside of an old hourglass, he is wondering... hm?" The bright blue eyes were looking at him keenly, waiting for his reaction.

  "I don't... I don't quite..."

  "Of course you don't, that's what I'm here for. By the way, you are literally holding your life in your hands... so don't drop it, there's a good chap. That is your glass. We're all given one at birth with varying amounts of sand in them and when the sand runs out... well... need I say more? And you're looking at your sand now and you're perplexed because it's not moving... but, you see, it can't move until you leave... and you can't leave until you've found out why you're here, can you? Bit of a conundrum, what?"

  All of a sudden everything began to get darker. A blustery wind had sprung up and a few isolated drops of rain had started to slap down in the sand of the arena as they both looked up to be greeted by the sight of storm clouds, heavy with moisture, cutting across the face of the waning moon.

  "Quick, help me!"

  He looked back to see the tramp scurrying around the arena chasing a few sheets of newspaper that had been blown away by the ever-strengthening wind.

  "Come on! We mustn't lose any, that's very important. This is not a time to bugger up the paperwork!"

  After a few minutes they had managed to gather them all and they were folded neatly and put away in one of the bags. A low rumble of thunder sounded menacingly close as the tramp turned to him and raised his voice above the noise of the wind.

  "It's about to start... how do you feel?"

  "What's about to start? What do you mean?"

  "That's why you're here, isn't it! To fight? You're here to fight for your life, laddie!"

  The arena was lit for a split second by a blinding flash of lightning and as he began to shout back his reply his words were drowned out by a massive crash of thunder overhead which shook the arena and resonated deep down in his chest. This heralded the onset of the rain which now fell heavily, driven wildly in all directions by the violent wind and as he anxiously looked about him the moon was eclipsed by a storm-blackened cloud and the world went dark.

  "Where are you?" he screamed in panic. "Are you still there?"

  He wondered if his voice had carried above the howling of the wind and when the reply came it was as if from far away.

  "I'm still here... can you hear me?... beware, it's about to start... be on your guard! And remember, the Devil is in the detail! Good luck!"

  At that moment the sky was rent by a jagged split of intense violet lightning and a couple of seconds later the amphitheatre was shaken again by a massive crash of thunder. It was at this moment that he felt a shiver of an uneasy feeling behind him run down his back. He turned but in the darkness could see nothing. The downpour had plastered his hair against his skull and was running down his face and into his eyes, obscuring his vision. He was shivering in his drenched clothes and it was all he could do to keep on his feet as the wind grew stronger and stronger and the clouds above him writhed like vaporous snakes in a boiling sea. He was afraid and he knew it but he was also aware that he had started to feel angry, as if someone or something was playing games with him and he was becoming irritated. And then a brilliant explosion of lightning fissured across the sky and its livid light blinded him momentarily. When he opened his eyes again the blood drained from his face and his heart missed several beats.

  The moon had temporarily asserted its presence in the battle for the sky and its troubled light shone on a pale grey figure at least seven feet tall sitting astride a pale grey horse with a white mane which shook its head and pawed the earth impatiently. The figure was clad from head to foot in heavy armour and the shield it carried was plain black with a single, vicious-looking spike thrusting out from its centre. His eyes were drawn back to the knight's head. The helmet was plain black and resembled a steel mask that followed the contours of whatever face lay behind. He strained his eyes for any hint of what lay behind the glistening steel but all he saw was darkness. The horse's head and muzzle were protected by a steel plate which curled up slightly at the edges and a steel spike protruded between the eyes. A caparison of black edged with a pattern of skulls was blown by the wind about its legs and the whole combined to create the effect of a malevolent unicorn. Heavy plumes of condensation issued from the horse's nostrils and it fidgeted and twisted from side to side as if impatient to get on with the job in hand. The wind had, if anything, got stronger and yet he thought he could hear something, someone calling his name. He turned and saw the tramp standing about fifty yards away. Like a decrepit ancient prophet with the wind tugging at his bedraggled hair and beard he now held aloft, and was shaking vigorously, a large thick book in his left hand.

  "Beware! Beware! The fourth seal... beware the fourth seal."

  Lightning strobed its static flash several times followed by a deafening explosion which drowned out the tramp's words, but as the sound abated he heard the words repeated, "Beware the fourth seal, the Lamb broke open the fourth seal and I heard the fourth living creature say, 'Come!' I looked, and there was a pale-coloured horse. Its rider was named 'Death,' and Hades followed close behind."

  The horse and rider had started to move forward and after twenty yards or so they stopped. The knight extended his gloved hand in the man's general direction and beckoned him to step forward. He stood there terrified, shivering more from abject fear than the energy-sapping cold of the rain but underneath, deep down he could feel an eruption of anger in his chest. It was at the core of him and far away but it was unmistakable. Again the knight beckoned and turned his horse as if he expected him to follow as a matter of course. But he stood his ground and waited, outraged almost by the presumption that he would follow meekly without question. The horse and rider paused and then wheeled round. The rider made an impatient gesture with his arm this time and he spoke for the first time. "Come!" This was all he said, one little word and yet the tone of the voice resonated with venomous intent.

  He felt as if he w
as in the eye of the storm as the rain and the wind lashed his body but he was standing firm and his heart was pumping strongly as a burst of anger adrenalised him into action. "No! No, I won't come just like that! I bloody won't, do you hear me? I'm supposed to be here to fight, so fight, damn you!"

  The horse and rider stood without moving and he trembled at his own temerity as he wondered what would come next.

  "That's the stuff, laddie! Books and covers, books and covers. Remember the daffodil, remember! Break stone, move mountains, believe, believe!"

  A roar came from the other side of him and he saw the knight draw a huge sword with inverted spikes quilloned a third of the way down its blade and the horse reared and as its hooves pawed the air its eyes and nostrils shone with a sickly, bloodshot glow. "My patience is at an end! Come! Now!"

  At last, this was what everything had been leading up to, the final defining moment, the cusp upon which all possibility turned. He looked to the tramp for guidance but all he heard were the words, "It's up to you now, laddie! It's up to you!"

  For a moment he stood there, anger and frustration and adrenaline coursing through every cell of his body, looking for an outlet, a release, and then it came to him. He was still holding the hourglass tightly and he looked at it again closely in the moon's intermittent light. He held his breath. "That's it!" he whispered. "That's the point, that's why I'm here!" His face burned as the realisation dawned on him and he felt his outrage about to burst forth. "You bastard! You cheat! I'm not going anywhere without a fight! Look! Look at this and tell me my time has come!"

  The knight spurred his horse forward and his words filled the stadium with deep, malicious intent. "Your time is now because I say it is now. It is written and so it must be!" He dug his spurs into the horse's flank and with sword aloft and a terrible cry they charged. He clenched his fists and trembled as the bile rose in his throat. A wave of emotion was erupting within him and as he looked at the hand that had held the hour-glass he saw it was now grasping a flaming sword. The knight was about seventy yards away and covering the ground quickly. His breath came short and fast and a spasm of wrath convulsed his body. He started to run towards the knight, and from his very entrails there came a defiant cry, as if all his pain and frustration and ire had built up behind a huge dam wall which had now begun to crumble and the flood had been unleashed. The two protagonists were twenty yards apart and as he saw the knight bearing his considerable bulk down upon him he heard him laugh the deep mocking laugh he had heard before and it infuriated him. He gripped the hilt of his fiery sword and raised it above his head and as he made to cut at the knight who was almost upon him he closed his eyes against the expected impact.