‘My goodness,’ said the lady, ‘nobody said you weren’t, I’m sure.’
Kleinzeit showed her the form, pointed to the word.
‘Undersigned,’ she said.
‘That’s not what’s printed there,’ said Kleinzeit.
‘Dear me,’ said the lady. ‘You’re right, they’ve left out the r. It’s meant to be “undersigned”, you know. Legal, like.’ Her large firm bosom shelved at a good angle for crying on. Kleinzeit did not cry.
‘I’d like to think about this for a bit before I sign it,’ he said.
‘Please yourself, luv,’ said the bosom lady, and returned to the Administration Office.
Well? said Kleinzeit to Hospital.
Hospital said nothing, had no quips and cranks and wanton wiles. Hospital huge, bigger than any sky, grey-faced, stony-faced in the rough clothes of the prison, the madhouse, Tom o’Bedlam. Hospital waiting, treading its bedlam round in thick boots. Hospital mute, gigantic, with thick empty hands.
Now Playing
Kleinzeit standing at the bottom of the fire stairs with the glockenspiel. Suddenly he couldn’t think what time of year it was.
What’s the difference, said the traffic sounds, the sky, the footsteps on the pavement. Winter is always either just ahead or just behind.
Kleinzeit said nothing, wound his self-winding watch that no longer wound itself. The sky was an even grey, could have been morning or evening. I happen to know it’s just after lunch, said Kleinzeit.
Sister from a distance in the tight trouser-suit, looking worried, the helmet in a carrier-bag. Sister close, face cold like an apple. Autumn, thought Kleinzeit. Winter soon.
‘You know about the Shackleton-Planck results?’ he said.
Sister nodded. Kleinzeit smiled, shrugged. Sister smiled and shrugged back.
They went into the Underground, took a train, got off at the station where each of them had spoken to Redbeard. With the glockenspiel and the helmet they walked through the corridors as in a dream in which they were naked and nobody paid attention.
They stopped in front of a film poster advertising BETWEEN and THE TURNOVER. ‘I don’t know if this is a good station,’ said Kleinzeit, thinking of Redbeard, ‘but it seems to be the place I have in mind.’ He was nervous, opened the glockenspiel case clumsily. ‘You need a table for this thing, really,’ he said, sat down cross-legged, glockenspiel in his lap. The floor of the corridor was hard and cold. Autumn maybe, up on the street. Winter here. He took out of his pocket the tune he had written in the hospital bathroom.
Are we going to do it here? said the glockenspiel.
Here, said Kleinzeit, started plinking. Sister stood across from him with the shining helmet in her hand. The silver notes piled up like an anatomically ignorant skeleton putting itself together. Passers-by grimaced, shuddered, looked at Sister, dropped money into the helmet. Kleinzeit and Sister didn’t look at each other. Kleinzeit concentrated on reading the notes he had written. The inside of his head chattered and squeaked like a speeded-up tape, but he did not slow it down to listen. Sister held the helmet as money dropped in, said Thank you, wondered about the tune Kleinzeit was piling up, wondered when Redbeard was going to appear.
Kleinzeit finished the tune, played it again with fewer mistakes.
Not again, said the glockenspiel. I don’t feel well. I have a headache.
Kleinzeit improvised. Miscellaneous parts of skeletons accumulated in the corridor. Passers-by groaned. Kleinzeit got into a Dies Irae motif, depression hung like a fog over the jumbled bones, Sister ground her teeth, money dropped into the helmet. The glockenspiel, crazed, abandoned itself.
‘There was a chap with bagpipes in the street, but nothing like as bad as this,’ said a man to his wife as he dropped money into the helmet.
‘One doesn’t know what to make of it,’ she said. ‘What drives them out of doors like this?’
A young man with a guitar looked at Kleinzeit, looked at Sister, inquired with his eyes.
No, answered Sister’s eyes.
Redbeard came along smelling of wine, of urine, of rising damp and mildew, not wearing the bowler hat. He looked at Sister, looked at Kleinzeit. ‘Oh, aye,’ he said. ‘Huftytufty. Yum Yum, music, everything laid on. So fast, so quick.’
‘What?’ said Kleinzeit.
‘I’m out,’ said Redbeard. ‘You’re in. Just like that. The poster hasn’t even changed yet. Now playing: BETWEEN, THE TURNOVER, and you.’
‘That’s how it is,’ said Kleinzeit.
‘That’s how it is,’ said Redbeard. He seemed about to say more but didn’t. Ponging and lumpy with his bedroll and carrier-bags he lurched away.
Kleinzeit improvised some more. He made up a tune for whatever walked upside down in the concrete and placed its cold paws against his bottom.
From deep down, from far below, Underground said, Listen.
I’m listening, said Kleinzeit.
Remember, said Underground.
I’m doing my best, said Kleinzeit. The deep chill and the silence flowered from him like heat from a radiator. The deep chill and the silence flowed through him, glazed the air, made frost flowers of silence on the air, filmed pools of sound with clear thin ice of silence.
Listen, said Underground.
I’m listening, said Kleinzeit. From the tune for whatever walked upside down in the concrete he went on to a tune for the silence.
Not necessary, you know, said Underground.
Only for the money, said Kleinzeit. My apologies. His bottom felt frozen, one with the concrete, the silence and the rock below.
Sister stood holding the helmet, listening to the clink of money falling into it. I don’t know if this is right, she said to God.
What’s wrong with it? said God.
Is it, I don’t know, heathenish? said Sister.
You’ve got to move with the times, said God.
Are we talking about the same thing? said Sister.
One usually does, said God. I mean how much is there to talk about really. It’s pretty much all one thing, isn’t it.
I said is it heathenish, said Sister.
I know you did, said God, and I said you’ve got to move with the times.
Thank you very much, said Sister. It’s been a great help talking to you. I really mustn’t keep you from your work any longer.
I welcome interruptions really, said God. Creation isn’t the cut-and-dried thing people think it is. You don’t do it once and then it’s all done, like in that Hadyn oratorio. It’s a day-in, day-out thing. You stop for the blink of an eye and it’s all come undone, all to do again. And goodness knows I’ve blinked from time to time. And of course there are bad days and good ones just like what goes on in a world. Some days I don’t get a good idea for millennia. But you were saying.
I was saying Goodbye for now, said Sister.
Till soon, said God. It’s always a pleasure chatting to you. As people go you don’t talk badly. Mostly all I get from people is nonsense. For anything like reasonable conversation you have to go to stones or oceans.
‘I don’t think I can get myself out of this position any more.’ said Kleinzeit. ‘Next time I’m going to bring something to sit on. How much have we taken in?’
Sister counted. ‘£1.27,’ she said.
Kleinzeit looked at his watch. ‘Two hours,’ he said. ‘That’s not bad at all. Let’s have a tea break.’
They went to the coffee shop where Kleinzeit had had coffee and fruity buns with Redbeard. Sister and he had coffee and fruity buns, neither of them saying anything.
Kleinzeit’s bottom was still numb, and thinking of things to sit on he found in his mind his chair at the office where he’d been sacked. With the chair came the names of the accounts he’d worked on: Bonzo Toothpaste, Anal Petroleum Jelly, Spolia Motors International, Necropolis Urban Concepts Ltd and Uncle Toad’s Palmna Royale Date Crunch. Uncle Toad roared briefly through his mind driving the Spolia Genghis Khan Mark II on the broad clearways of the Necropolis complex scheduled to replace most of the city north of the river. Uncle Toad’s broad mouth opened and closed rhythmically on Palmna Royale Date Crunch. Uncle Toad was gone, the clearways empty. Back at the hospital the form lay on his locker: Hypotenectomy, Asymptoctomy, Strettoctomy.