The Beautiful Fall

by Hugh Breakey

  I parked the next two screws between my lips. I had to wedge this platform against the side of my neck to pin it in place against the wall; then I twisted until I could get both hands in position and sank the screws into the wall. The solid wood held fast. In a moment I’d have to buttress it with some more brackets, but for now I could step back and massage my aching neck.

  Never mind the aches and pains; I smiled to myself. Even without the dominoes, the platform looked impressive. It sat a little above hip height, with a long ramp running down the wall to link it with the dominoes on the floor.

  There was now a sense of being inside a larger construction, as if a blueprint had sprung to three-dimensional life. It would look better again once a few other platforms were connected to it, all populated with standing lines of dominoes.

  I worked and lunched and worked some more. It was slow going, especially in comparison with the recent days, but by the time the sunlight through the back windows had dimmed, two platforms extended out from the right-hand wall.

  Finally, I could start setting up some dominoes—and at least this involved a little creativity. I’d pencil-marked the walls and measured up the platforms weeks ago; now I was just screwing them into place.

  That got me thinking. In a way, it wouldn’t be an intrusion on the achievement to have help with this. The thing that mattered in the work was the creativity and skill in designing and laying out the dominoes. The choreography, not the construction. If the help I got from Julie was just menial work on the scaffolding rather than on the dominoes themselves, it wouldn’t stop them fulfilling their purpose…

  But none of that changed the deeper reality. With only nine days—soon to be eight—left before the forgetting, now was not the time to start making friends.

  I returned to setting up the dominoes on the first platform, trying to enjoy being freed from the boring work and able to turn to decisions about creation, flow and timing.

  By the end of the day, dominoes filled the first platform and all the intersecting ramps, standing in ranks like an invading army spreading out from the floor and advancing to the higher ground.

  Enough. My neck and shoulders were aching. I went through my evening chores, and dropped into bed exhausted.

  Day Eight

  Last night I tossed and turned, sleepless. Julie’s words replayed over and over in my head.

  ‘I’m new here.’

  THEY SHOULD be my words, not Julie’s. It was my curse, after all. To be forever new.

  Of course, Julie just meant she was new to the city: a new job and a new apartment. But every six months, my whole self was new. New to everything.

  I couldn’t do much more about my situation. My ‘birthday’ would happen in eight days, and it was not the kind of thing you could share.

  I’d have to hope that the dominoes, the exercises and the journal would get me through it.

  But I could do something about Julie’s. She was alone in a new city, with no one to spend her birthday with. She probably didn’t know anyone else. After all, most of her other grocery deliveries would be to elderly people with mobility challenges, not young shut-ins like me. So I could mean the difference between her spending her birthday alone or with someone. It wasn’t like she was inviting me to be her best friend. Just to be company.

  I pushed the tangle of sheets away and sat up. Calling her was still an option. I could say it took me overnight to check up on the rules for setting domino records. It was tempting. As I stripped off my pyjamas and pulled on exercise shorts, I considered the possibilities. The kitchen clock had the time at 6.47. I fished her card out of the records box and placed it beside the telephone.

  Then I dropped to the floor and into my push-ups, weighing up my options. People remembered birthdays. I could still recall candle-glow and sugary cake from my childhood. If I did this thing—or if I refused it—the memory might live on for years in Julie’s mind, long after my own memory was gone.

  I pressed harder into the push-ups. Faster. The kitchen floor zoomed in and out of focus. Julie’s invitation presented something new. An opportunity to change the outside world. In eight days, my time would be over, the baton passed to my next self. But here was something that would endure beyond me, outside the reach of my four walls.

  Push-ups spun into crunches, stomach muscles beginning their slow burn. Today it just felt like fuel for the fire. I increased the pace. I couldn’t be a proper friend to anyone—not ever, and certainly not with a mere eight days left before the forgetting. But I could do this one thing.

  My torso wrenched with each rep. I bounced to my feet, and over to the doorway for the chin-ups. With just eight days to the forgetting, accepting the invitation was risky. I couldn’t ignore that. Suppose she showed up unannounced in eight days’ time, when I was stripped clean of memories, before I had read the journal or anything: still just so much mental plasticine. She’d be able to shape me into whatever she wanted.

  I paused, shaken by the thought. To have someone else with me at the time of the forgetting would be the ultimate loss of control. The surrender of everything I was working so hard to build.

  From chin-ups to burpees, and then on to lunges, squats, calf-lifts, planks. Still the temptation itched at my mind. To reach out into the world and make it change in this one, tiny way. To make it better.

  Heat radiated through my chest and shoulders; sweat ran down my arms. The pain felt right. Deserved. A just punishment for being so inept yesterday handling Julie’s invitation.

  The risk could be managed. I could leave instructions on the door the day before the forgetting, if it came to that. Don’t open! Don’t let anyone in. I could do this.

  Bathed in sweat, I made the call.

  ‘Hi, Julie. It’s Robbie here. Robert Penfold. From your delivery yesterday.’

  A pause. ‘Hi, Robbie.’

  ‘You were right yesterday. I checked on the rules and it’s okay to have help on the platforms. Just not the dominoes themselves. I had that wrong. Sorry.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘So if you’d still like to come over and help, if you haven’t planned anything in the meantime, then that would be great. No problem.’

  ‘Sure. I haven’t planned anything.’

  ‘How about after lunch?’ I figured if we worked through the afternoon, that would be enough time for a proper birthday event, without totally destroying my schedule.

  ‘That’s fine. I’ll see you then. Thanks.’

  ‘Great. Oh—and happy birthday.’

  Satisfied I’d done the right thing, I headed off to shower my sweat away.

  It had been a tough workout, and I could still feel my body humming with energy as I left the shower, the muscles of my shoulders and torso clenching as I towelled myself off. In the bathroom mirror, my body shone, muscles and veins carving the skin.

  Was it just vanity, this self-scrutiny? There was certainly a sense of exhilaration in observing the way my body was changing as I stepped up the morning exercises. The body fat shaving away; the muscles gaining size and definition. I looked forward each day to some little improvement. A subtle curve; a shadowed indentation.

  At first I’d revelled in the knowledge that these changes would survive into the future, beyond the next forgetting. Then, as the months passed, it felt like I was uncovering something deeper. What had looked like a body—any old body—was more like a sheet of skin covering a secret design: an ancient blueprint hidden beneath. Every day I’d look, and remind myself about the parts of me buried so deep that the forgetting could never touch them.

  If that was vanity, fine. I would take my victories where I could get them.

  Anyway, normally all this was safely tucked away under my shirt. Except Julie had seen. Muscles, she’d called me. Was it possible Julie looked at me as something more than a potential friend? And if she did, was it a problem? I’d been trying to ignore any desires Julie aroused in me—they were useless at best—but if she had any similar feelings, she
would have no reason to push them away.

  The worry seemed silly, arrogant. But I replayed that strange moment on the day of the fire when she looked back at me. I still didn’t know what to make of that. If there was any possibility Julie’s feelings went beyond a wish for a brief, friendly visit, then I would be crazy to risk inviting her over. The whole point of my solitary life was to make sure I stayed in control at that critical moment just eight days away. Panic gripped my chest. What had I done?

  I took a deep, steadying breath and studied my reflection from top to bottom. It wasn’t easy to know what another person might find attractive. There were some obvious positives. Tall. Fit. Solid across the shoulders and chest, lean from the waist down. Nice posture. But my hair wasn’t great: too long, and untidy. I’d started off cutting it myself to save some money and the result had led me to stop cutting it at all. My clothes—old jeans and shirts, worn sneakers—were unlikely to fan the flames of anyone’s desire and my material prospects, as an unemployed recluse, were underwhelming. Then there was my talent for sparkling conversation.

  Okay, so much for that. I turned away from the mirror and went to find a clean shirt and jeans.

  I was halfway through laying down the dominoes for the remaining platform when it occurred to me I didn’t have anything for Julie’s birthday. I couldn’t invite someone over for their birthday and not have a gift.

  I had no idea what she would want or where to get it. I didn’t have time to wander the shops looking for inspiration; I couldn’t afford much anyway. But there was a bottle shop at the end of the block. I’d passed it every day when I used to take afternoon walks. I even wandered in one evening, looked over the shelves, ticking the mental boxes where I recognised the names, and found I knew a chardonnay from a shiraz. My tongue almost tingled with the tastes as I rolled the terms over in my mind.

  A bottle of champagne, then. I tried not to worry about the cost. If Julie didn’t know anyone else here, then it might be the only present she would get. It seemed a shame there wouldn’t be a cake, but the kitchen clock kept ticking away, counting down the hours, and I had to get back to the dominoes.

  I ate a sandwich for lunch, tidied the kitchen and brought in the chair from the balcony so there were two at the kitchen table. The outside chair had seen better days. A lot of them, by the look. As well as general wearing from the weather, it suffered from one leg bent out of shape. Even after I brushed away the dust, the rusty metal and faded paint still looked drab. I didn’t have time to deal with the problem, so I just draped an old pillowcase over the back of it and propped up its dodgy leg with a folded piece of cardboard.

  Next I sorted out all the equipment my past self had left me. One corner of the kitchen floor soon housed square wooden boards, long thin bridges, buttresses and piles of screws. And my tools: the cordless drill and drill bits; spirit level, screwdrivers.

  It was almost time. Having been working and walking around all morning, I needed to change my shirt. I tossed the old one in my laundry box and picked my newest-looking shirt off the wardrobe hangers. Well, not my newest-looking shirt. My eyes strayed to the far side of the wardrobe. Perhaps a birthday celebration demanded something special. I pushed all the faded cream shirts to the side, revealing one that looked altogether out of place. The shirt was a soft satin, almost slippery to the touch, with black press-studs instead of buttons. At first glance, the fabric appeared purple, but wherever the material folded, it seemed to turn a dark crimson. It looked like it cost more than the rest of my wardrobe combined. Hell, it looked as if it cost more than my apartment. Why did I own this? Had I bought it for some special occasion? There was nothing about it in the letter or the mementoes.

  Rat-tat-tat!

  Julie’s knock echoed through the apartment. The shirt slipped from my fingers like quicksilver and fell back into place.

  Some other day, some other life. I pulled on the best of the others and buttoned it up on my way to the door.

  Julie met me with a smile, a sunny greeting matched by a bright summer dress with a yellow print.

  ‘Happy birthday!’ I returned her smile with my own best effort and held open the door.

  ‘Thanks. And thanks for inviting me over. I come prepared.’

  She did indeed. In one hand she held a professional-looking toolbox made of hard scuffed plastic and big enough to carry my little collection of tools twice over. Her other hand held a paper bag: something from one of the nearby bakeries.

  She bounced in with a spring in her step—it must be nice to think of birthdays as a time to celebrate rather than an obstacle to be survived—and I showed her into the kitchen. Her dress splashed colour and curves as she strode through my black-and-white world. She put her handbag and the paper bag on the bench, saying we’d get to it when we broke for afternoon tea. Excellent. The break would provide the perfect opportunity to present my little gift.

  Julie set her toolbox down next to my spread-eagled pile of equipment and tools. She kicked off her shoes and crouched down, her naked feet pressing against the floor.

  Not naked. Bare. Bare feet.

  ‘All right.’ Julie rubbed her hands together. If I’d had any worries she’d been just using the set-construction line as an excuse to get invited over, they were soon put to rest. She looked the very picture of enthusiasm, nodding with an air of expertise as she took in each piece of equipment.

  Maybe this would work out okay. The more we focused on the dominoes, the more we might get something worthwhile done. And the less I’d need to struggle with small talk.

  ‘That’s a shiny new piece of machinery.’ She reached out and picked up my cordless drill. My predecessor had bought it for me, but so far as I could tell had never used it himself. ‘We can keep the drill bits in yours and the screw bits in mine.’

  ‘Yes, good.’

  She put the drill down and opened her toolbox. The top folded out to reveal two neat plastic shelves with little compartments sitting above a wider space. Its scars and grime gave it an air of long use. The way a real toolbox should look. Julie rummaged through the compartments, coming out with a set of short screwdriver heads that could fit into the drill. I wondered why my past self hadn’t thought to get them. You could put a screw into a wall stud in seconds with that set-up.

  Julie hauled out a bulky leather tool-belt with a pocket like a holster for her cordless drill and strapped it around her cotton dress. My heart pounded with a sudden surge of naked desire. I coveted that belt.

  Duly decked out, we went back into the dominoes room. I explained where the platforms were meant to go, and how the bridges would connect them. She prodded me with questions at every point.

  I’d thought an extra hand might make things go easier; I hadn’t counted on getting skilled guidance. I picked an easy, low-lying platform to begin the work but Julie turned out to be quite the expert. She taught me the trick of lubricating the screws by spitting on them before you put them in, how to space out the fixtures buttressing the platforms, and to keep my elbow raised as I used the drill, so the hole went in square.

  ‘How do you know all this stuff?’ I stood holding the platform and Julie’s old drill. She sat crouched on the other side, working underneath the platform where we were attaching the struts. ‘You said set construction?’

  A half-nod. She had two screws stuck in the corner of her mouth and the long line of her neck was exposed as she tilted her head to see under the platform. Her stance was deep and low, her bare feet splayed wide across two of the stepping stones. It made putting up the platforms a minor exercise in contortion. The yellow dress stretched against her body as she hunched and twisted herself around to drill in the screws under the platform. She plucked one of the two screws from between her lips and pressed it against the pre-drilled hole. The drill buzzed.

  ‘Right,’ she mumbled with the screw held between her lips. ‘For theatre shows. I still do a bit of set design and construction for stage. I have a BA in it.’

  ‘
So what exactly does that qualify you for?’

  She plucked the second screw from her mouth and set it into position. ‘Helping clueless strangers assemble domino platforms, smartass. Hand me some more screws.’

  I fished them meekly out of my pocket. She plucked them from my palm and the drill whizzed to life once more. Party dresses and power tools. There was no rational reason for that combination to jumble my thoughts.

  ‘So you can imagine my excitement when I saw an opportunity to use my expertise in the real world,’ she continued, her voice muffled under the platform. ‘Unless some passer-by experiences a sudden need to block a Shakespearean soliloquy, this is as good as it gets for me.’ Her drill whined once, twice, and she unfolded herself from her position. ‘Moment of truth.’ She released the platform and stepped back.

  My hands held the platform for a moment longer. They seemed almost glued to it—as if the concern for the dominoes had taken over the muscles themselves. After all, I hadn’t checked the final fastenings myself on this one. And the earlier ones had been buttressed in the corners, which made them more solid.

  Julie looked across at me, eyebrows raised. One deep breath; I pried my hands off the platform. It held fast. Not so much as a wobble. Okay. Relief flooded my chest, and an involuntary smile spread across my face. Julie grinned back at me. Probably she saw my smile as one of achievement, rather than relief.

  As we moved on to the second platform, the work began to fly by. This time we had a bit of a system: a knowledge of who did what and when. As soon as we were done, my hands released in time with Julie’s. Again, the platform held fast.

  I checked the kitchen clock and blinked. The first platform had taken only a little over an hour, once we were all set up. But that couldn’t be right. It would mean the second platform had taken barely thirty minutes.

  Thirty minutes for an entire platform! Impossible. I checked the time twice. If this rate could be sustained for the next couple of hours, I would—