Kleinzeit

by Russell Hoban

  Kleinzeit, looking up as Dr Bashan smiled down, nodded. Why has he taken so much better care of himself than I’ve done? he wondered. He must have a better opinion of himself than I do of myself. ‘You probably remember your history too, don’t you,’ said Kleinzeit.

  ‘Bit patchy,’ said Dr Bashan.

  ‘Who won the Peloponnesian War? said Kleinzeit.

  ‘Sparta,’ said Dr Bashan. ‘When the Athenians lost their fleet near Aegospotami in 408 B.C. it pretty well finished them off.’

  “Thanks,’ said Kleinzeit. Well, there it is, he thought. I had to ask.

  ‘Now then, heh heh,’ said Dr Bashan. ‘If we can return to the present.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘The present.’ Death’s still under the bed, he thought. It’s my friend. Maybe it’ll bite him in the leg. He reached under the bed on the side away from Dr Bashan, snapped his fingers.

  ‘What’s to be done with you, eh?’ said Dr Bashan. ‘That’s the big question.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kleinzeit. Dr Bashan’s leg remained unbitten.

  ‘You’d nearly bought it when they brought you in yesterday, you know,’ said Dr Bashan.

  Blip blip blip blip, went Kleinzeit’s screen rather quickly.

  ‘Massive congestion in the stretto,’ said Dr Bashan. ‘Must’ve hit you like a ton of bricks, eh? Pow, out went the lights.’

  ‘That’s just about how it was,’ said Kleinzeit.

  ‘But you’re attached to stretto and all the rest,’ said Dr Bashan. ‘You’d prefer to hang on to them. Auld lang syne and all that, heh heh.’

  ‘Heh heh,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘Yes, I’d prefer to hang on to them.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid it simply isn’t on the cards,’ said Dr Bashan.

  ‘You can’t take them out without my permission,’ said Kleinzeit looking away from the screen as the blips shot past like bullets. ‘Can you?’

  ‘Not as long as you’re capable of withholding that permission,’ said Dr Bashan. ‘But if the lights go out again it’s my duty to preserve life, you know, and I promise you you’ll wake up minus hypotenuse, asymptotes, and stretto.’

  ‘You think it’ll happen again?’ said Kleinzeit. ‘Soon?’

  ‘There’s no knowing,’ said Dr Bashan.

  ‘Can’t you sort of hold it off with medication?’

  ‘We can try,’ said Dr Bashan. ‘What’re you on now?’ He looked at Kleinzeit’s chart. ‘2-Nup and Zonk. We’ll put you on Greenlite as well, see if that eases the stretto traffic a bit.’

  ‘Right,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘Let’s try that.’

  ‘And try to pull yourself together, old man,’ said Dr Bashan. ‘The more you upset yourself the worse your chances are with this sort of thing.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘I promise.’

  Before supper the medicine trolley came round again. ‘Kleinzeit,’ said the nurse. ‘Three 2-Nup, two Zonk, three Greenlite.’

  ‘What’s it say on the Greenlite bottle?’ said Kleinzeit.

  ‘Sodom Chemicals Ltd,’ said the nurse. ‘Are you a stockholder?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Kleinzeit, wolfed down the 2-Nup and the Greenlite, saved the Zonk as before. Still no pain. When would it show up again, he wondered.

  Hup, two, three, four, shouted the Sergeant as the pain marched in, a whole company of it. They presented arms, ordered arms, stood to attention.

  Thrilling, was Kleinzeit’s sensation. Martial. Strong. Let’s have some of you lads here around the bed, he said. I may want to try sitting up again.

  Whoosh, went something inside him. That must be the Greenlite, he thought. My stretto feels clear. Wonderful how strong the pain is. Let me lean on a few of you chaps, that’s it. Now a couple of you get behind and heave. Easy. There we are. Never mind the shooting lights. Very good. Sitting up.

  Kleinzeit looked over at Schwarzgang, Redbeard, indicated his sitting-up position. They both signalled thumbs up.

  Right, said Kleinzeit. Now let me down again. Easy. We’ll have another go another time.

  Solo

  After breakfast Kleinzeit, high on Greenlite, put Pain Company through morning drill, detailed some of them for bedpan duty. He asked the nurse to draw the curtains round his bed, dismissed her.

  ‘What’re you going to do, then?’ said the nurse.

  ‘Going to go it alone,’ said Kleinzeit blipping confidently.

  ‘Buzz me if you get into trouble,’ said the nurse, and left.

  Kleinzeit called Pain Company to attention, addressed them briefly:

  Athens has been defeated, he said. We mourn the loss of comrades and brothers. Looked at in another light, however, Athens has not lost, Sparta has not won. The war is always, always the enemy mound rising outside the walls, always the cold surf, the frightening appearance of the ships as they sail in. Always a war that cannot be won, fought by troops who cannot be defeated.

  You all know what is required of you. Do not give way through fear of the surf or the frightening appearance of ships as they sail in. Right, then. Let’s get on with it.

  Shaking his spear and crying his war-cry, Kleinzeit led his men to the beach, fought, prevailed. They came back singing, put up a trophy.

  Tomorrow the bathroom, said Kleinzeit.

  Remains to be Seen

  Night. Kleinzeit not sleeping. Pain Company cleaning weapons and battle gear, smoking, telling jokes, singing songs. On the bedside locker Thucydides unread, Sister had brought it with Kleinzeit’s clothes, pyjamas, shaving gear, wallet, cheque book.

  Fighting again tomorrow? said Hospital.

  Bathroom, said Kleinzeit.

  I predict heavy losses, said Hospital.

  Out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, bathroom, said Kleinzeit. The Spartans on the sea-wet rock sat down and combed their hair.

  I thought you were with the Athenians, said Hospital.

  Spartans, Athenians, said Kleinzeit. It’s all the same thing. Stand and fight and see your slain/And flush the battle down the drain.

  You’ve got that last part wrong, said Word. It’s: ‘And take the bullet in the brain.’

  Your memory’s very good all of a sudden, said Kleinzeit.

  Nothing wrong with my memory, said Word. Nothing at all.

  Well, my boy, said Hospital, I wish you luck.

  Oh aye, said Kleinzeit. I bet you do.

  I really do, said Hospital. Your defeat is my victory and your victory is my victory. All I do is win.

  Where there’s no losing there’s no winning, said Kleinzeit.

  Sophistry, said Hospital. The simple fact is that all I do is win. Have you remembered yourself?

  I’m doing it, said Kleinzeit. Little by little.

  Remains to be seen, said Hospital.

  Remains to be remembered, said Kleinzeit.

  The Machine from the God

  Under the yellow plastic Ryman bag that was its cover the yellow paper growled softly. Lover, come back to me, it whispered. It was so good, so good that last time when you took me while I was sleeping. Where are you?

  He’s not here today, said Word. I am.

  Not you, whimpered the yellow paper. Not the enormity of you. No, no, please, you’re hurting me. O my God the awful tremendousness of you, you, you, you …

  Like thunder and lighting the seed of Word jetted into the yellow paper. Now, said Word, there you are. I’ve quickened you. Let them die in their hundreds and their thousands, from time to time one of them must wiggle through. I see to that.

  The yellow paper was weeping quietly. He wanted … He wanted … it sobbed.

  Yes, said Word. He wanted?

  He wanted to be the only one, he wanted to do it all himself.

  Nobody does it all himself, said Word. Nobody does it unless I have shot my seed as well. Barrow full of rocks and all that.

  What? said the yellow paper. What barrow full of rocks, harrow full of crocks, arrow in a box? What is that?

  Something that passes through th
e cosmos of me now and then, said Word. One of myriad flashes, nothing special, faster than the speed of light they come and go. What did I say, my mind is elsewhere.

  Barrow full of rocks, said the yellow paper.

  Yes, said Word. My mind is full of every kind of nonsense. Something like the way odd tunes and scraps of things get into human minds and sing themselves over and over again, but vastly faster.

  Barrow full of rocks? said the yellow paper.

  That’s just my name for it, said Word. A pneumatic.

  Mnemonic, said the yellow paper.

  Whatever you like, said Word. The line itself is by Pilkins.

  Milton? said the yellow paper.

  Something like that, said Word. ‘Hidden soul of harmony’ is what he said. I like that. It sings. ‘Untwisting all the chains that ty /The hidden soul of harmony.’ That’s nice. I’ll think of it again some time.

  Do you mean to tell me, said the yellow paper, that ‘Barrow full of rocks’ is nothing more than a mnemonic for ‘Hidden soul of harmony’?

  Precisely, said Word.

  That’s outrageous, said the yellow paper. And on top of that they’re nothing like each other.

  Of course not, said Word. If the mnemonic is the same as what it reminds you of why bother with it. I don’t even like them to be too close. If you have a nice thing to think about you don’t want to keep it out in plain view all the time, you know, with the virtue getting rubbed off it. Keep it dark is what I say.

  The whole thing’s quite beyond me, said the yellow paper.

  Of course it is, said Word. Beyond me too, and roundabout as well.

  But your wretched barrow full of rocks has got into human minds, said the yellow paper. Your miserable mnemonic, not even the thing it refers to. For a flash through your mind, for an odd tune come and gone like lightning, men suffer and die riddling where there is no riddle, digging where there is no treasure.

  Why not, said Word. That’s what men are for. From time to time, as I said, I see to it that one wiggles through.

  Kleinzeit? said the yellow paper.

  I don’t know what his name is, said Word, and I don’t care. Whoever it is that writes on you, let him get on with it. It’s in you now.

  But is that, you know, artistically right? said the yellow paper. Isn’t it sort of the god from the machine?

  Don’t be ridiculous, said Word. The machine, whether typewriter or Japanese pen, is from the god. Where else could it be from.

  You’re a god then? said the yellow paper.

  I employ gods, said Word, and left.

  Kleinzeit mustn’t know what happened, whispered the yellow paper. I’ll never tell him. Lover, come back to me.

  Getaway

  Morning. Cold. Low white winter sun. White exhaust from passing cars whirling tightly in the chill. People on the pavements blowing white clouds of breath. Action walking past the hospital, cigarette in his mouth, hands in his pockets. He didn’t look up. When he reached the corner he turned, walked back again, looked up at the hospital.

  On the second floor the A4 fire-exit door opened, two Pain Company scouts came out, weapons at the ready. They stood at the head of the old iron stairs, looked down, scanned the street.

  Action whistled, the scouts whistled back. The rest of Pain Company came out, some of them supporting Kleinzeit, one of them carrying his case, the others guarding his rear. Kleinzeit, dressed for the street, was very pale.

  Very slowly they came down the stairs, crossed the forecourt, reached the pavement. The traffic lights at the corner changed to green, a taxi pulled up. FOR HIRE. Action hailed it.

  Kleinzeit turned, looked back at the fire-exit door. A small black figure came out, came hopping, swinging down the iron stairs, swinging across the forecourt. Action opened the taxi door, threw in Kleinzeit’s case. Kleinzeit got in, Death jumped in beside him, then Action. The taxi pulled away. Pain Company doubled back to the hospital car-park. One by one their motorcycles roared in the cold, one by one they wheeled out into the traffic, roared off towards Kleinzeit’s place.

  Eurydice Looked Ahead

  Pain Company put Kleinzeit to bed, rang up Sister, left. Death made itself comfortable at Kleinzeit’s feet.

  You’re housebroken, I suppose, said Kleinzeit.

  Death grinned, nodded, touched its forelock, went to sleep.

  Kleinzeit closed his eyes, saw in his mind the plain deal table and the yellow paper. He felt that there was at the same time a great deal to think about and nothing to think about. He chose to think about nothing. It was difficult. Behind nothing danced yellow paper, ordinary foolscap, Rizla. Word rumbled, Hospital roared. He was too tired to understand what they said.

  Easy does it, said Nothing. Lean on me, let it all slide by. Kleinzeit leaned on Nothing, fell asleep.

  Sister arrived with an electric fire, groceries, wine, Zonk, Greenlite, fruity buns. Kleinzeit woke up to find her sitting on the floor beside his mattress looking at him.

  ‘Hero,’ said Sister. ‘Idiot hero.’

  ‘Not such an idiot,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘That hospital’s not safe. They’re hell-bent on taking out my insides.’

  ‘Nowhere’s safe,’ said Sister.

  ‘But it’s hard to stay nowhere,’ said Kleinzeit.

  Sister made lunch. They ate, drank wine.

  ‘Eurydice,’ said Sister.

  ‘Why’d you say that?’ said Kleinzeit.

  ‘It came into my mind,’ said Sister. ‘In the story Orpheus looked back and lost Eurydice, but I don’t think that’s how it was. I think Eurydice looked ahead and lost Orpheus. I don’t think Eurydice should’ve looked ahead.’

  ‘Well,’ said Kleinzeit. He wanted to tell Sister what he knew about Orpheus, but all he could think of was the blind head swimming towards Thrace, swimming at night across the ocean with the moonlight on it. All the rest seemed too detailed. ‘Well,’ he said, shook his head, was silent.

  They had coffee, fruity buns.

  ‘I can’t get it out of my mind,’ said Sister. ‘I see them coming out of the Underworld, Orpheus leading Eurydice by the hand and Eurydice wondering how it’s going to be now, wondering if anything can ever be the same. She keeps asking Orpheus how will it be, and Orpheus says he doesn’t know but she keeps asking. Finally he says Oh what the hell, let’s forget it.’

  ‘I don’t know how it’ll be,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘All I know is that Orpheus remembered himself.’

  ‘How?’ said Sister. ‘I don’t know that part of the story.’

  Kleinzeit told her.

  ‘Where’d you read that?’ said Sister.

  ‘It was told me,’ said Kleinzeit, ‘by an Orpheus scholar.’

  ‘Sounds lovely,’ said Sister. ‘But how do you do it?’

  ‘Orpheus went back to where he was dismembered,’ said Kleinzeit.

  ‘Or simply fell apart,’ said Sister.

  ‘However it was,’ said Kleinzeit, ‘he went back to the place where it happened.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll think about it another time. Take your clothes off.’

  ‘You’ll kill yourself,’ said Sister. ‘It was only the other day you couldn’t even sit up.’

  ‘We’ll do it lying down,’ said Kleinzeit.

  Like Magic

  Oh, said the yellow paper when Kleinzeit picked it up. Oh, oh, oh, I’m so glad, so glad you’re back. It clung to him sobbing.

  What’s all this then, said Kleinzeit. Did you really miss me?

  You’ll never know, said the yellow paper.

  Kleinzeit read his three pages, started writing, wrote one, two, three more pages.

  It’s like magic with you, said the yellow paper.

  There’s no magic in it, said Kleinzeit. It’s simple heroism, that’s all that’s required. Like the Athenians and the Spartans, you know, all those classical chaps. Thin red line of hoplites, that sort of thing.

  Yes, said the yellow paper, I believe you. You’re a h
ero.

  One does one’s possible, said Kleinzeit modestly. That’s all.

  Death came in, sat down in a corner.

  Where’ve you been? said Kleinzeit.

  I have my work too, you know, said Death.

  Oh, said Kleinzeit. He started a fourth page, got tired, stopped, got out of his chair, walked slowly through the flat. In the kitchen were spices, pots and pans, authoritative new things brought by Sister. Clothes of Sister’s hanging in the wardrobe. She was out shopping for dinner now. Next week she’d be taking some of her holiday time so she could stay with him. He stretched, sighed, felt easy. No pain.

  He went back to the plain deal table, patted it, looked fondly at the yellow paper, patted it as well.

  You and me, he said.

  Fool, said the yellow paper.

  What’d you say? said Kleinzeit.

  Cool, said the yellow paper. I said be cool.

  Why?

  You’ll last longer that way.

  You don’t sound the way you did a little while ago, said Kleinzeit. You sound funny.

  Do I, said the yellow paper.

  Yes, said Kleinzeit. You do.

  The yellow paper shrugged.

  Kleinzeit read the three pages he had written today and the three pages he had written before. Now as he read them the words lay on the paper like dandruff. He shook the paper, brushed it off. Nothing there. Black marks, oh yes. Ink on the paper right enough. Nothing else.

  What’s happening? he said.

  Nothing’s happening, said the yellow paper. Why don’t you make something happen. Hero.

  That was what he’d called it: HERO. There was the ink on the first page spelling HERO. Ridiculous. Kleinzeit crossed it out.

  What is it? said Kleinzeit.

  No answer from the yellow paper.

  Damn you, said Kleinzeit. What is it? Why’d my words fall off the paper like dandruff? Tell me!

  There aren’t any ‘your’ words, said the yellow paper.

  Whose then? said Kleinzeit. I wrote them.