Redbeard performed his morning toilet, had breakfast, packed up, came out of STAFF ONLY. He dropped sheets of yellow paper here and there, took a train to the next station, dropped more paper. He took another train, went on leaving yellow paper in tube stations well into the morning. From the last station on his route he worked his way back over the same ground looking for the sheets he had dropped.
He picked up the first one he found. It was clean on both sides.
I don’t have to write anything at all, he said to the paper. Or I might write an Elizabethan love lyric. To Phyllis, maybe.
Morrows cruel mock, said the paper.
I told you I was tired of that, said Redbeard.
Bad luck, said the paper. Morrows cruel mock.
I don’t want to, said Redbeard.
Let’s get this straight, said the paper. It isn’t what you want. It’s what I want. Right?
Right, said Redbeard.
Right, said the paper. Morrows cruel mock. That’s all for now. I’ll be in touch with you later.
Prothalamion
Congratulations, said Hospital to Sister.
Why are you speaking to me? said Sister. We’ve never spoken before.
It never occurred to me before, said Hospital. Now it has occurred to me. Happy, happy, happy pair, eh? None but the sick deserve the fair, what? None but the pyjamaed win the tightly trousered, yes? I’ve seen you in those. I’ve noticed, zestfully. I’ve seen you out of them as well. Oh aye. None but the middle-aged pick the juicy young plums, hmm? Ho ho, ha ha. Barrumphh. Tsssss. Yes. Ahem.
Don’t kill yourself over it, said Sister.
Not at all, said Hospital. I thrive, I flourish, I am increased. Harf. Gurf. Ruk-k-k. Ah!
Good, said Sister. You must have a great deal to do, a great many demands on your time. You mustn’t let me keep you.
On the contrary, said Hospital. I keep you.
This is where I earn my living, you mean, said Sister.
No, said Hospital. I mean I keep you, your fairness, your firmness, your tightly-trouseredness, your plumpness, all of you. He doesn’t get you. It’s not on. You’ve met Underground?
I’ve been in the Underground, said Sister.
But not met, said Hospital. There is a distinction. One day perhaps you’ll meet Underground. Let us say at this moment, just for the frivolity of it, that I have some connection with Underground. At other moments I’ll say other things no doubt. That’s what I say at this moment. If I said think of Eurydice that would be interestingly allusive but far-fetched, would it not.
Yes, said Sister.
Hospital became high, remote, great. Its Victorian knee-braced ceiling soared like a cathedral ceiling, its grey light rose unattainable.
Think of Eurydice, said Hospital. Call to mind, said Hospital, Eurydice.
Short High
The world is mine, sang Kleinzeit. Sister loves me and the world is mine.
Cobblers, said Hospital. Nothing is yours, mate. Even you aren’t yours. You least of all are yours. Listen.
Tantara, said the distant horn. Coming closer, love. Wham! A to B with fireworks and shooting lights. Hoo hoo, called a black hairy voice offstage.
See what I mean? said Hospital.
That was a short high, said Kleinzeit.
Asymptotes
Kleinzeit, dreaming, looked back at A. So far away! Too far ever to get back to. He didn’t want to arrive at B too soon. Didn’t ever want to arrive at B, in fact. He tripped over something, saw that it was the bottom of B. So soon!
He woke up as the Flashpoint/fat man bed took on a new passenger. He was an old man hooked up to a system of tubes, pumps, filters and condensers so complex that the man seemed no more than some kind of junction fitting, secondary to the machinery in which he was only a link in the circulation of whatever was being drip-fed, pumped, filtered and condensed. Again a monitor. Very slow blips.
This time I’ll start right, thought Kleinzeit. I don’t want to lose another one. He waited until he was sure the old man’s machinery was running smoothly, then introduced himself. ‘How do you do,’ he said. ‘My name’s Kleinzeit.’
The old man moved his head a little. ‘Do,’ he said. ‘Schwarzgang.’
‘Nothing serious, I hope,’ said Kleinzeit.
‘Ontogeny,’ said Schwarzgang. ‘Never knows.’ He seemed too weak for complete sentences. Kleinzeit filled in the gaps.
‘One never does know,’ he agreed.
‘Hand … too soon,’ said Schwarzgang.
‘And on the other hand one may very well know all too soon,’ Kleinzeit agreed again. ‘Oh, yes, ha ha. You’re quite right there.’
‘Matter,’ said Schwarzgang.
‘Of course it’s no laughing matter,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘You mustn’t get me wrong. Sometimes one’s got to laugh, you know, or go mad.’
‘And,’ said Schwarzgang.
‘Laugh and go mad,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘Right again.’ He poured himself a glass of orange squash, picked up a morning paper, immersed himself in a photograph of Wanda Udders, 17, winner of the Miss Guernsey Contest. ‘“No matter how heavy the going might be,”’ Wanda was quoted as saying, ‘“I try never to lose my bounce. I’ve always known there were big things ahead of me.”’
Wonderful spirit, thought Kleinzeit. Stop hugging me, he said to the bed.
This moment is all we have, said the bed, all we can be certain of.
Don’t talk rot, said Kleinzeit. Leave me to my thoughts.
Today is the day, said the bed. Bach-Euclid results. It’s the waiting that’s so awful. They mustn’t take you away from me, it mustn’t end like this.
NUDIST PRIEST FROCKED, read Kleinzeit, and went on reading the whole story to jam the bed’s transmission. I’m no better off than that chap with the barrow full of rocks, he thought. I wrote him and there he was. Nothing behind him and rocks ahead. Wanda Udders has big things ahead but she’s seventeen. How long have I got? Maybe Dr Pink will be sick today, maybe he won’t show up. I could run away. No job. I’ve got the glockenspiel. I have to be brave, that’s part of it with her. There’s still time to run away.
‘Well, Mr Kleinzeit,’ said Dr Pink. ‘How are we this morning?’ He smiled down on Kleinzeit. Fleshky, Potluck, Krishna, the two nurses and the day sister all smiled too.
‘Very well, thank you,’ said Kleinzeit. All right, he thought, this is it. At least something definite. If he draws the curtains it’s bad news.
Dr Pink nodded to one of the nurses, who drew the curtains around the bed. ‘Let’s have your pyjama top off.’ said Dr Pink. ‘Lie on your stomach, please.’ He kneaded Kleinzeit’s diapason gendy. It lit up in brilliant colour, like a part being talked about in an educational animated film. Pain shot from it in all directions. ‘Feel that a little, eh?’ said Dr Pink. Fleshky, Potluck and Krishna took notes. The nurses and the day sister smiled impartially.
‘Sit up, please,’ said Dr Pink. He prodded Kleinzeit’s hypotenuse. Kleinzeit nearly fainted. ‘Sensitive,’ said Dr Pink. Fleshky, Potluck and Krishna took notes.
‘Had any trouble with your asymptotes before this?’ said Dr Pink.
‘Asymptotes,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘When did they come into it? I thought it was just the hypotenuse and the diapason. What about the Bach-Euclid Series?’
‘That’s why I’m asking,’ said Dr Pink. ‘I’m not worried about your diapason. That sort of dissonance is quite a common thing, and with any luck we’ll clear it up fairly soon. The hypotenuse of course is definitely skewed, but not enough to account for a 12 per cent polarity,’ Fleshky and Potluck nodded, Krishna shook his head. ‘On the other hand,’ Dr Pink continued, ‘the X-Rays indicate that your asymptotes may be going hyperbolic.’ He felt Kleinzeit here and there warily, as if sizing up a combatant hidden in him. ‘Not too happy with your pitch.’