by Paul Magrs
But his mother would still be here. Still transforming herself, each morning, back into a capable, pristine nurse. He couldn’t imagine her living here without him.
‘Your mother is still in mourning,’ the robot dog told him.
This was one Saturday during that summer. It was rainy again and a warm drizzle seeped through the loose roofing of the eletronics stall.
‘But what can I do?’ Jack asked. ‘I want her to be happier…’
‘You can’t make everyone happy,’ said the dog, all philosophical again. By now, almost all of his body had been taken and cannibalised. He was mostly a heap of corroded parts and only his head and neck were in any kind of semblance of doggishness.
‘I know,’ said Jack tightly.
That teatime, though, when he met his mother, she seemed brighter and happier. She was grinning when he hurried down to their usual meeting place under the tree.
‘What is it?’
She was lugging a large cardboard box. ‘A recordable cd player,’ she beamed, her voice brittle with excitement. ‘And I’ve also bought fifty recordable cds. Eighty minutes on every one!’
They returned home that teatime and, after she’d drawn the tall shutters against the drowsy summertime rain, she followed the instructions from the manual and lashed up her new machine to the old hifi. Only then did Jack understand what she intended.
The neat digital displays of the new toy looked so strange beside the wooden panels and glass doors of the old.
‘I’m preserving them forever!’ she cried, as the first bars of the overture to Calamity Jane began. ‘Once they’re on cd, they’ll be safe forever!’
And so she sat up each night, as long as she could, for the next few weeks. Playing record after record as the neat silver discs transcribed every note and the tiny, almost invisible lasers went to work.
‘Permanent!’ he heard his mother sigh, sounding happier than she had in ages. ‘A permanent record!’
The following Saturday Jack and his mother arrived in the town centre and she had a new sense of purpose about her. Almost before they had fixed their time for meeting (it was always the same time) she went marching off to buy a new stack of blank, sheeny cds. She had run out already and she couldn’t bear the thought of everything still unpreserved.
Jack shrugged and went on his usual way, into the marketplace. His book stall first, and then he would see the robot dog. He’d grown used to their little chats, clipped and stilted as they were, smuggled in the moments when the tough looking man was out of earshot and no customers were lingering. It was a ritual.
No sooner had he shuffled up to the massed heaps of mouldering paperbacks, when someone gripped his arm hard. He yelped out and tried to drag it away.
Then he saw it was the old man who ran the stall. Through his yellowed beard the man was hissing and grinning. He could hardly get his words out for excitement.
What is it?’ Jack asked. He thought he might be having a stroke.
I’ve got it!’ the old man stammered. ‘Volume Twelve! It’s turned up! It came in with a whole boxful from someone who’s gone and died!’
Jack took a few moments to realise what he was on about. ‘Volume Twelve?’
The old man nodded fiercely. ‘The one you’re looking for! They final one!’
Somehow the bookstall man knew exactly how Jack would feel about it. And he seemed amazed at how calm Jack was being But Jack was holding his breath.
* * *
Jack had to go for a sit down after that. He took his book, wrapped in its usual paper bag, and not another word was said between him and the old man. He hurried out of the market place, and into the small graveyard by the church. He found a mildewed bench and sat down.
He hardly dared open his new parcel.
To anyone else it was just another old book. Another like the thousand of tatty artefacts heaped about on that stall. For him it represented something far more. It was the last of its kind. The last in the series. The last new one he would ever find.
All the others, he had read so much and so often: he virtually knew every story off by heart. He loved them—all those tales of mystery and gore and excitement—but they no longer held any surprises for him. They were, rather contrarily, quite comforting. He read and reread them: Volumes One to Eleven, and he had dreamed about what the fabled Volume Twelve might contain. Tb famed anthology editor. Fox Soames, had died upon its completion over twenty years ago. This really was the last of its kind.
The question was: did he even really want the book?
Of course he did, was the obvious answer. But now that he had it, pressed flat on his lap on this bench, in this graveyard overlooking the marketplace on this Saturday afternoon, he was actually having second thoughts. The book represented rather more than just completing a set. It was also about saying goodbye to something. It was an end to something important. And he didn’t even care to think about that. Instead he carefully unpeeled the parcel.
He looked at the werewolf on the cover. The great globby mess of its drool. Hardly daring to even look at the contents page yet. To see if his favourite authors were included. Always, the authors in the Books of Mayhem had old-fashioned, Edwardian names. Algernon, Rosemary, Iris. Their names recurred across volumes, and they each specialised in particular forms of mayhem. Jack loved them all equally.
Soon, soon… after the twelfth tale in the twelfth volume was absorbed and exhausted… there would be no more stories left in the world. At least, not for him. He knew nothing would ever match up to these, his favourites. And nothing would ever be the same. As he carefully opened the book (the spine was frittered and fraying, held together by a crackling strip of ancient seloptape) he knew that he was counting down to the ending.
No. He’d save it.
He closed the book and slid it back into the bag. He checked the clock on the church tower. Fifteen minutes till he had to meet his mother. And he hadn’t paid a visit to his robot dog.
Now he felt awful. In the excitement; in the rush and push of actually getting what he wanted, he had managed to forget about his friend.
He hurried out of the chruchyard, and back down into the market.
Through the crush and the heave of the mid-afternoon crowds.
Summer was in full spate now. It seemed as if the whole town was out on the streets, in the crooked alleys of the market. They wore cut-off shorts and tee shirts that stuck to their backs. They were buying outfits for their holidays; buckets and spades. They were drifting in a leisurely fashion; choosing anything that their eyes lit upon. Jack put his head down and struggled through to the electronics stall.
There were customers there. A whole family were crowding into the alcove. They were haggling over prices, buying some kind of hifi. They were talking about all sorts of technical stuff with the hard-looking man in the black tee shirt and tattoos. The father was talking loudly, knowledgeably.
Jack squeezed past, aware of the young man’s eyes upon him. He didn’t care. He was here to see his friend.
At first, he thought he’d gone. His heart jumped up in his chest when he saw that there was no robot dog in the usual place. For a second he even wished he hadn’t mucked about so long over that precious book. He’d rather have come here and known the worst.
But then he saw.
There was something left. On a shelf, just above the place where the dog used to sit. There was the blocky, complicated object that constituted his brain. Attached to it was part of the glowing visor of his eyes, and there was just enough of his vocal chords left for the dog to whisper:
‘I’m glad you managed to catch me. Just in time.’
Jack was horrified. ‘What have they done to you?’
The red visor blazed fiercely. And then Jack knew what he had to do.
He was aware that the young man was still talking with his potential customers. They were going on and on about complex matters and surely no one would notice?
‘I found it,’ he whispered
to the robot brain, as he tucked his book away in his coat and reached out with both hands. ‘I found Volume Twelve at last!’
Then he grasped the still-buzzing, still vital brain in both hands and clutched it to his chest.
‘That’s good,’ the dog whispered.
Only thing is. Jack said. ‘That’s the end of the stories, isn’t it? I mean, after Volume Twelve… there’ll be nothing left, will there?’
He was conscious, all the time, of drawing the attention of the young man. But he didn’t let that deter him. With his back turned adroitly, he stuffed the dog’s brain up the front of his jumper.
‘The end?’ came the voice sharply. ‘Not necessarily.’
Jack frowned. He turned, and started walking away from the electronics stall. All the while he was expecting the alarm to be raised behind him. He waited for the cries of ‘Stop, thief!’ But the stallholder said nothing. He went on haggling with his customers as Jack stalked away, clutching his book and his dog brain to his chest.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘There’s no end of stories,’ the dog said simply.
They moved through the market and Jack pondered They went down the gentle incline—fried foods, heel bar, pets, fruit and veg.
‘But not stories like the Books of Mayhem,’ sighed Jack. ‘Nothing like them. Nothing can match them, you know.’
‘Oh,’ said the brain. ‘I might have a go.’
Then they were out of the market, moving towards the tree where Jack’s mother was waiting. She was waving at him over the heads of passers-by.
‘She’s bought a whole boxful of those blank cds,’ Jack said. The dog started laughing. ‘Good. Well… hook me up to that machine. Hitch me up. Unleash me. Set my memory flowing.’
‘The recordable cd player?’
‘Empty me out. Download me. Tape everything I’ve got.’
‘Preserve your memory, you mean?’
‘Before the bit that’s left wears out completely.’
‘Ok,’ said Jack. ‘I will.’
‘And then,’ said the dog, sounding just a bit smug, ‘We’ll see how many stories there still are in the world. We’ll see just how many stories you haven’t heard yet.’
‘Ok,’ said Jack. ‘That’s what we’ll do. dream.
Waiting On
Today, the two of them look almost fond of each other
Some of the stiffness and formality of Monday has gone. The young waiter has watched them arrive, very slowly, every afternoon this week at the pavement cafe where he works. They take a good long while, getting themselves over the road, and into place at the table in the middle. The old priest with his walking stick, the equally old lady in her sunglasses and her upswept hair.
The waiter wonders if they’ve made a breakthrough in their new friendship, if that’s what it’s going to be. To him, as he flaps around them with the outsize menus, they seem like people who knew each other a long time ago. Recently reunited. There was a terrifying stillness and quietness between them on Monday afternoon. Today, at first, it’s easier.
The waiter has watched them. Roman August afternoons are slack. He can lean in the doorframe and think things over. He can watch as one of them—the old priest or the elegant old lady—offers a small, almost silent comment and the other will incline their head to listen. Then, with an equally short quiet retort, mildly agree. For the first couple of days, they didn’t smile at all. Now they both smile at the waiter as he breaks in to bring their coffee cups. They smile, but not at each other: at his head bent between them. He lays things out for them, almost reverently.
When they drink they take not the big long gulps of people parched for ages. Just these very cautious, very gentle sips. The way you’re meant to drink in warmer climates. You shouldn’t bolt anything. You don’t want biliousness, you don’t want wind. These two have lived a long time and know how to behave. Oh, they’ve just confounded that, the waiter thinks: now they’re chucking back their coffee and crunching up the grounds. The old priest even clinks his spoon in his cup, scraping up the molten sugar. Slurping at it. She’s looking at him thinking he looks greedy.
Everything has that sleepy look and that sleepy feeling to it, this afternoon, under the green awnings. In this street where the buildings—salmon, buttery, toast coloured brick—are half in shade. The waiter slouches, stands about, wafts himself with the spare menu. His hair hangs down—he knows—like he hasn’t bothered to comb it today. The old woman pursed her lips at him at first and he smiled as if to say; It’s the look. But he knows he’s popular with these two. The old priest leans on his cane and tries to talk to him. Sees him as the youth of today. All their fondness for everything trained on him.
The waiter decides her name is Marguerite. At first he thought she was the old priest’s sister. Helping him out of his cluttered home, getting him out and about again. Then he thought—no, not sister. Something else. Someone who knew the old man a long time ago. After the war, maybe, when the priest was just deciding to be a priest. When he was thinking of changing his life absolutely.
Marguerite has only just returned to Rome, he thinks. She has lived in Geneva, with a business man, who has died recently. She left many things behind here in Rome, the city where she grew up. Now she is remembering being with her father, outside the restaurants of Palazzo Novona and Campo dei Fiori, just yards away from this cafe He played his accordion for the crowds and she held the cup for the money. She still dreams of playing the accordion herself. And the city has changed, is changing still, and Marguerite refuses to see anything different in it. The new people and buildings just aren’t there for her. Anything new is transparent, laid over the background that she lives in. And here she is again, in her old city, with her old man. Who was a young man then, the waiter decides. A young man who loved her and she loved him.
Even now they are trying hard not to look at each other too much. She’s glad she’s dressed herself up. Her necklace, her rings, her long elegant hands resting just so on the table cloth. Her skin is almost luminous.
How the priest must stew in his regulation black, the skirt brushing the road as she leads him to his place. The waiter’s heart goes out to them when he sees them arrive. She holds his elbow and the priest moves with such delicacy. When she saw him again she was shocked at the state he was in, the state he had let himself get into and she shocked herself with the thought that god had let him down. She’d bumped into him outside St Peter’s when she was coming out and he was going in the wrong way, being helped by the security guards to the tradesman’s entrance. Marguerite was there, being a tourist, she’d been looking at the dead popes and priests bundled up in caskets and wondering if her old friend would end up on show. And there he was, being buffeted by the sightseeing crowd. Of course she’d been thinking of him when she’d been in there, in those great slabs of cool shadow, under cascades of glorious light; watching the Japanese girls in spangly tops chivvying into the chapel set aside for prayers and videotaping everything they looked at. Really, Marguerite was only there with her old friend in mind. She’d heard he was in the Vatican. From such humble beginnings. Now infirm, at the top of his field.
There was a thrill to seeing him here. They found they wanted to see each other more. Coffee in the afternoon. Learning about the years in between. It turned out he has become the stock manager for the Vatican supermarket.
The waiter smiles at this, as he thinks it. What would Marguerite think of that? No wonder she’s hardly speaking. All that time ago, forsaking her for the sake of shelf-stacking groceries. Back then he elected to subordinate all of his desires. Subordinate her and everything. Everything to God. And she’s scornful! because all he can offer at the end of it all is this: a trip to the wholesalers. He takes her that very day, to show her the work he does. He’s pathetically pleased with himself. Has a chauffeur to drive him out of town, to a warehouse where everyone knows his name. Marguerite goes with him and she watches as he goes up the aisles in his specially
reserved motorized car. He beetles and zips about in these canyons of the wholesalers, with a checklist, administering his duties. The shelves are stacked twenty high to a ceiling; it hurts her to look up at. Together they peer into tanks of live lobsters and crayfish. She watches him monitor quantity, quality. Tapping fruit, squeezing vegetables, sniffing hanks of plastic-wrapped cheese and meats. She recoils when he shows her the legs of pork. One of them is a boar’s, hanging upside down, its fur still on. It lies thick and black, and the old priest ruffles it absently. He is polite with Marguerite as he gets on with his duties, but he is absorbed in this weekly task.
It wasn’t the way Marguerite imagined their being reunited. She thought she’d see him up on the altar. With all the candles glowing, holy, invincible, perfect. As she stands at the checkout she thinks of the women she watched in the Vatican souvenir shop: squabbling and haggling over trinkets. Pushing in the queue. Then she thinks, why not? Why automatic reverence? She never believed in anything.
She looks like the kind of woman, the waiter thinks, who has never believed in anything. Respectable, elegant, that crisp, green dress, those pale hands with the strong blue veins. A woman who has done without God, who left her own country, her lover. Who gave her lover to God.
Perhaps, the waiter thinks, there was a child. Perhaps the priest never knew. She kept it from him. A child who is an adult now with children of their own. The old priest is a grandfather and Marguerite is waiting for just the right moment to let him know. To spring her revenge at last.
In the next doorway along from the cafe there is a large woman sitting. She’s there every afternoon, too. She sits beyond the cafe awnings and she bellows out her fuss and worry. She’s letting the whole world and everyone who passes by know all about her state of dereliction. Everyone pretends not to see. ‘It won’t abate,’ she shouts. ‘It never abates. Look at my ruined legs! I walk all day, every day…’ She has blackened, bloody bandages hanging from her knees and she opens them to show anyone who looks.
