The newcomer

There must have been a misunderstanding at the train station when L. bought his ticket, because when he woke up at the final destination he heard the name of a city he didn't even know from before. He got off the train and looked around. The train station was almost completely empty, only an old couple sitting on a bench arm in arm represented the mankind. The old man was wearing a worn-out brown leather coat, ragged boots and a leather cap with drab, cotton welt. Every item of his accoutrements seemed to be one size bigger than needed. He pointed at L. and clapped his hands. The woman who was wearing a fur as old as she herself got up and slowly started to walk in L.'s direction. As she got closer and closer to him, her eyes became wider and her mouth opened.

'Here you are. ' She said. 'I thought you would be older. Shorter. Darker.'

She raised her hand and touched L.'s shoulder.

'Now come with us.' She said. 'You made us wait for too long.'

L. turned around and walked away from the woman. 'People go shamelessly crazy when they get old.' he thought. 'I should have stayed at home. My ear infection will get worse in this wind.' He walked to the cashier; it was closed. He knocked on the glass window but nothing happened. 'I have to buy Chamomile tea.' He thought while he kept on knocking. 'It might help. And I have to call the cardiologist to cancel the appointment.'

An old man with eyes almost closed and a small, crumpled nose appeared in the other side of the glass wall.

'I've heard that you arrived.' He said to the microphone. 'I have all kinds of cigarettes. And movies too. American movies. Now, what do you have? Failures? Sacrifices? Childhood betrayals?'

L. looked around. There was no one else at the station, apart from the lunatic couple on the bench.

'There must be a misunderstanding here.' He said. 'I just want to be on the next train that will go to the capital.'

'To the capital.' The old man repeated, and raised his shoulders.

'I have to get back to the city.' L. hardened his voice, but the narrow, inspecting eyes of the man didn't promise further information. They were observing every little detail on the surface of L.

'You must be full of memories.' He said.

L. felt hunger and pain in his ear. 'I need to eat something and be in a windless place for a short while.' He thought. 'After eating I could catch a taxi to the closest train station with normal people. This day is already wasted anyway.'

He felt a hand on his shoulder again. It was the woman in the rusty fur. She leaned closer to him and whispered something that he couldn't understand as at the same time a freight train passed by. The woman held his hand and raised her eyebrows. L. felt demobilizing weakness and hunger. 'Where old people live, there is always some food and a sofa to share.' He thought. He nodded to the woman and let her lead him to a small, bronze car.

'Did you have brothers or sisters?' The old man sitting on the driving seat turned to him.

'I have a brother.' L. said. 'I haven't seen him in ages.'

'Do you remember the last time you played football with him?

L. nodded tiredly. 'What happens to the brain when people get old?', he wondered. 'Can it expire like milk?'

'What was he wearing?', the old man kept on asking him. 'Did you make jokes and drank beers after… was it a warm summer day?'

The woman stretched her hand and squeezed the old man's wrist.

'Hush.', she said. 'He just arrived.'

The old man swept her hand off, keeping his eyes on L.

'Do you remember the hands of your wife from the time when she was young?'. He continued. 'How did they look like?'

L. closed his eyes.

'Let him rest a bit.' he heard the woman's voice. The car started moving. L. tried to picture the hands of his wife, but their texture was too immaculate in his mind, like the spotless skin of women in magazines. He fell asleep by the time the car left the parking.

'It never stops raining in this town.' A child on a swing said before disappearing with the dream. L. kept his eyes closed to avoid having to continue the senseless conversation with the old couple. He heard heavy rain beating the window of the car. The noise became louder and louder, and started mixing with voices possibly of human origin. L. woke up entirely and opened his eyes. It wasn't raining. They were driving through a huge crowd of people clapping hands and drumming on the pavement with walking sticks.

'What are these folks celebrating?' L. asked. 'Is this a religious thing?'

'It isn't.' The woman turned to L. and stroked his forehead. 'They came to meet you.'

'Why would they want to meet me?' L. said and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

'They want to listen to you.' The old man said, looking in the rearview mirror. 'Now, if you let me give you some advice... Always ask what they can offer in exchange before you start talking. Even if you don't remember something, don't try to lie. They will feel it. Don't tell everything in the first days, but don't wait too long either. Memories are unfaithful like beautiful women; you fall asleep with them, and you wake up alone. Make the best out of what you have, son. It won't last long.'

'I don't understand anything.' L. said, and shook his head. 'Who are they? And what am I supposed to do?'

'Don't mind if it hurts. Pain is precious.' The woman said and showed her rickety teeth with a cheerless smile. 'Just try to remember.'

Together alone

Monday dawned warm and rainless. Peter has been lying on his bed sleeplessly for hours. The crying has started again around three o’clock. It wasn’t the aggressive or complaining crying of a baby, nor the accusative crying of the women he used to know, nor was it the cry of someone in grief. All cries he knew from before were somehow imperative, demanding solution or consolation. But this cry was in no way instrumental, in this cry only hopelessness echoed. It wasn't addressed to anyone of flesh and blood, neither to a patron saint. It was addressing the endless, empty space, without any hope for salvation, and this made it so unbearable to listen to.

If he knew that this will be going on in the neighbouring flat, he would have certainly not paid a cent for this apartment. But of course he didn’t know. When he thought about finding another flat, his headache strengthened, bawling for rest and peace. In the last couple of days he felt a tiredness he didn't know from before, a tiredness of the bones and the arteries. It took him seven months to find this apartment, seven month of calling strangers, visiting flats and driving hard bargains, seven months of constant frustration besides the never-ending struggle of anger and grief management, following the sudden death of his younger brother.

Even when the crying has stopped, trapped by his negative thoughts, Peter couldn’t fall asleep again. He woke up to drink a coffee on the balcony. By the sun rose, he felt deadly exhausted, so he went back to bed.

'Shut up, you evil beast! You make my life unbearable!' The yelling woke Peter up violently. He had to wait a few minutes for his heartbeat to slow down again.

- Silence, please. – He mumbled, before he fell back asleep.

The phone rang exactly at eight a clock. Peter's face distorted in pain. He pushed the phone under his pillow and covered his face with the blanket. The phone stopped ringing, but after a few seconds it started again, more desperate and demanding than before. Peter stretched himself and capitulated.

- Halo?

A female voice answered.

- You didn't pick up the phone when I called from my phone but you answered when it was from an unknown number.

Peter closed his eyes and sighed noiselessly.

- Are you there? – The woman asked.

- Yes. – Peter said. – I was taking a shower.

- Did you decide on what you want?

Peter's headache crept to the red, flickering level.

- No. – He said.

- Why don't you let me comfort you?

- I'm all right. – He said after some seconds of consideration.

- You have nothing else to say, after one week of silence? - She asked.

The gentle sadness in the voice of the woman created a sudden urge in Peter to hang up the phone without saying good bye.

- I'm too tired to speak. – He said. – Can I call you back later?

- Sure. – The woman said. – Talk to you soon then.

- Bye.

Peter switched off the mobile and closed his eyes again. The next time he woke up it was already eleven. People were talking in front of his door.

- My dog disappeared. – The man said. - Haven’t you seen my dog?

- I hope you will never find it. – A female voice answered, possibly the voice of an elderly lady wearing a light blue hat and holding a mahogany walking stick. - Poor dog, it will be much better alone. You have no idea what responsibility is.

- You don’t know anything. – The man said. - That dog is seriously ill.

- Why don't you put it to sleep then, for God's sake?

- Why don't you go back to sleep?

- Silence! – Peter yelled to the walls. He got up. He had the impression that something went fatally wrong in his body over the course of the night. He took a little, silver machine from the drawer of the bedside table, and measured his blood pressure. It was perfectly normal. He counted his pulse; it was all right. He went to the toilet. There was no blood in his urine. He looked at the mirror; his hair didn't turn white in the course of the night.

He packed his sport bag, had a short breakfast having great difficulties with swallowing, and got ready to leave.

When he opened the door, the dog was sitting just in front of him. There are a few moments in life, when decisions take themselves. Peter grabbed the lead of the dog, and walked down the stairs. The dog peacefully followed him. They didn't meet anyone in the stairway, nor on their street. Peter opened the back door of his car, and the dog jumped on the seat.

*

At the train station Peter bought two tickets to his home town. On the train, the dog lied down on the floor in front on Peter, and rested his big, black head on Peter's tennis shoes. He stroked the head of the dog. A woman wearing a yellow, sun shaped hat smiled at him.

They arrived to the house. Peter stopped in front of the gate and rested his forehead on the cold door post. The dog pushed his nose in a square of the fence, and sniffed the wet smell of the leave carpet. Peter feasted his eyes on the closed window shades, the scruffy garden and the 'to be sold' board, and pushed the keys back to his pocket.

He rented a single room in a hotel on the coast.

- You have to fill the dog's part too. – The country side girl at the reception said. Her voice was sharp and high, matching well her vibrating green costume. – What's his name? Or is he a she?

- Silence. – said Peter. - Her name is Silence.

- It's a strange name. - The girl said.

- It's a strange dog. – Peter said.

For the first time after many sleepless nights, Peter fell asleep smoothly.

The crying started in the morning.

- Silence. – Peter mumbled. – Silence.

A few seconds later, waken up entirely, he realized that the dog wasn't at the neighbouring flat, but it was there with him, sitting besides his bed. Peter stared in the dog's widely open mouth for some seconds.

- What is it, dog? – He asked finally. – Tell me, what is it all about?

The dog didn’t answer his question, but cried painfully.

Peter gave water to the dog and looked at the message that has been left on his mobile in the night.

‘Hey there. Call me back until two in the afternoon. I won't wait any longer.'

Peter looked at his watch; it was nine fifty-five. He set the alarm clock of his phone to half past one. Then, with the slow movements of someone who just woke up, he dressed up, grabbed the lead of the dog and opened the door. The dog peacefully followed him to the car.

- How do you want to do it? – Peter turned to the dog after he stopped the car in front of the white building. – Alone, or with someone who thinks he cares?

The dog didn't look at Peter.

- It’s the same damn thing, right? – Peter said. - It's the same damn thing.

Emilit

I thought about childhood as a period to survive. I thought that life would start when I grow up and I would be surrounded by friendly adults who would discuss food prices in calm, comforting voices, while drinking cold lemonade on a shaded terrace. I decided that once I would grow up I would never again speak to any child and that if a child would come to me on the street to ask what the time is, I would turn my back on her, and start whistling.

When I was six I was forced to go to school. Until that time I was all right with life and life was all right with me. Even my mother was all right with me at those early years, if I remember well. I never had a father. Normal little girls had fathers, sitting in the armchair of the living room and watching football.

At school I was forced to sit in one place for forty minutes, quietly, motionless. I felt an intolerable tension, as if my body was preparing to explode. I saw myself blowing up, covering the faces of my classmates with a million little particles of Emily. That is my name: Emily. I always felt disconnected from my name. It might have been accidentally exchanged in the newborn department, I thought. There was nothing Emilyish in me. Emily is a blond girl, pale skinned and blue eyed, playing with dolls and wearing a white skirt with yellow flowers. I had dark hair, dark skin and dark eyes, like a goblin. Goblins can be called Gorlak or Singra, possibly Ashanti, but not Emily. I suspected a fatal mistake had happened somehow in the newborn department. What if I was really the child of a happy and loud family with countless brothers and sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles? What if my mother had been to the hospital because of a serious flu, and by accident she was sent home with a baby? She might have been too polite to uncover the misunderstanding, as she never liked to reject authorities, such as greengrocers or a nurse. That's what I was in her life: a fatal error.

In the mornings when I stared out of the school bus window, a goblin was looking back at me from outside, with big, dark goblin eyes.
"Hello goblin". I said every morning.
"Hello goblin". The goblin said every morning.

During the breaks at school I was exposed to the endless ignorance of my classmates. They would stand in the courtyard, girls in white skirts in a circle, chatting and laughing. Once in a while I collected all my courage, and approached them. They stopped speaking, demonstrating how unwanted my company was. That was their game, the only game they played with me: the shut up game. I was standing there, puzzled. I wanted to say something but didn’t find anything to say. So I was just staring at them. That was the only game I could offer to play with them: the staring game. Who can bear it longer without blinking? I always won. So they blinked and I went back to the classroom, and sat there until the end of the break.

One afternoon, after an unbearably quiet day, I went home and switched on the television, to fill my head with noises. I chose a football game: television can scare the hell out of you if you are alone at home and it’s getting dark outside, but there is nothing less scary than a football game. Suddenly I found my father sitting in the armchair, watching the game. He had white hair and long white beard; he was a mixture of Santa Claus, Gandalf and God. I leaned my back against his calves, and watched the television with him. I didn’t say a word; I didn’t want to break the harmony of the moment.

"Why do you sit on the floor?" – My mother asked me when she arrived home. – "And why do you watch football? Normal little girls play with dolls, and never watch football".

I didn’t like to play with my dolls, because my dolls were blind and deaf. I could do or say anything to them, but they remained silent. I combed their hair and I dressed them, but they didn’t say a word and I didn’t feel satisfaction. I cut their hair short as if they were soldiers, and gave them orders to kill the enemy, but they didn’t move or say a word, and I didn’t feel satisfaction. I bit their nose, wrung their arms, pushed them under the water, but they didn’t say a word. I hid their abused bodies in the laundry, but my mother found them. I knew that I deserved to be punished, but my mother didn’t say a word, just placed them back on the shelf of my room. My dolls were staring at me accusingly, noseless, with arms untwisted, and I didn’t dare to fall asleep.

On the weekends I tried to play with my mother, but she was always busy with working, cooking, cleaning.
"Do you want me to help, mum?" I asked her.
"Go to play, Emily". She said.
"I don’t know how to play". I said.
"Every little girl knows how to play". She said.

I didn’t know though. No one ever taught me. I was sitting in my room, staring at my dolls. They stared back at me. That was what we were playing: the staring game. Who can do it longer without blinking? They always won.

My happiest day at school was when the new girl came. She was standing alone in the courtyard during the long break, and I collected all my courage to approach her. I didn’t know what to say to her, but I felt comforted already not being alone.

She smiled at me and said that her name was Joan but I can call her Joe. I laughed, and said to her that my name is Emily but she can call me Richard. She didn’t find my joke funny, but she tolerated my company all break long, and I felt full with gratitude. By the end of the day I asked her if she wants to be my best friend. She said she will think about it. I told her that I never had a best friend before, and she could come over after school one day to play with my dolls.

I was so excited to have a best friend that I got high fever on that evening and my mother didn’t let me to go to school, despite my tears and craving. I was forced to stay at home for one week. Next Monday I found my best friend in the circle of the white skirts and yellow flowers. I didn’t dare to approach her there; I had to wait for a moment when she was alone.
Finally she left the circle and entered the school building. I followed her, and found her in the bathroom, washing a spot out of her white skirt. I didn’t know what to say to her.
"Why are you staring at me? " She asked.
"I’m not staring at you. That’s all I found to say.
"Yes, you are staring at me".
"I'm not".
I wanted to ask her if she wants some magic chewing gum, I wanted to ask her if she wants to come over after school to play with my dolls, but my tongue was paralyzed.
"Stop staring at me!" – She snapped at me.
I didn’t know what to say, but I didn’t dare to look at her anymore. So I stared at the yellow flowers on her white skirt.
"Leave me alone, please". She sighed. "I’m new and I need to find friends".

She left me alone in the bathroom. I went back to the classroom and was sitting there until the geography class had started. The teacher was speaking about the mountains, the mines in the mountains, and the minerals in the mines, and I couldn’t concentrate on what she was saying. I wished she had been talking about the goblins and elves living in the mines of the mountains, but she didn’t say a word about them, as if they didn’t exist at all. I felt again the overwhelming compulsion to run round and round the classroom, to scream, to explode. Goblins know how to turn invisible. I climbed silently under my desk, and started to crawl out. I just have to reach the door and then I can start running. No one would miss me if I leave, and I wouldn’t miss anyone, so if this world is a logical world they will let me leave.

"Ms Mansfield, Emily is under my table! "A girl yelled. I wasn’t invisible anymore, the magic had gone.
-"Emily", - the teacher asked," would you share with us what exactly are you doing under the table?"
I didn’t know what to reply. I was staring at the feet of the screaming girl.
"She thinks she is a bear, she wants to crawl back to the circus". Someone whispered, and the girls were giggling. I pictured myself in the circus, crawling around with bears, jumping through flaming rings, and I had to laugh.
"You are making jokes here? You find it funny, Emily?" The teacher asked. "What will your mother say about this?"

"Why can’t you be a normal little girl like your classmates?" – My mother asked me that evening, after consulting with Ms Mansfield.
"I’m not a little girl". – I said.
If they were little girls, then I couldn’t be one.
"What are you then, if not a little girl?" – My mother asked me. "A little boy?"
A goblin is neither a he, nor a she. A goblin is an ‘it’. Emilit.
"I can be invisible". I said. " I can disappear anytime I want. Do you want me to show you?"
I held my breath and disappeared. Then I exhaled and appeared again.
"I don’t like little girls". I said to my mother. "If I will ever be a mother and I give birth to a little girl, I will leave her in the supermarket. Or exchange her for a male dog".
"Emily, Emily, Emily…" – My mother said.

The following day I was standing on the courtyard of the school, and suddenly I found myself in the centre of the circle. This was the moment I had always dreamed of, and when finally it happened, my blood ran cold.
"We will play with you". They said.
I shook my head.
I don’t want to play with you". – I said.
"You will play with us". They said. "We will play the school game. You are the teacher, and we are the students".
They gave me a piece of chalk, posted me in front of the wall, and cordoned me with their white skirts. They were waiting for the bear to perform, they wanted circus. I stared dumbly at the yellow-flowered firing squad.
I thought that the moment would never end, and that I would grow old there in the centre of the circle, but suddenly the silence exploded: they burst into screams of laughter. I stood paralyzed where I was placed, in front of the wall, in the fire of laughter.

I started screaming when my mother told me that she had asked Ms Mansfield to speak with the other little girls and tell them to play with me.
"Stop screaming". My mother said. I didn’t stop screaming. My mother went to her bedroom, locked the door and turned up the radio. I was hitting the door and screaming, until I got exhausted.
"How could she do that?" I asked my dolls. My dolls were speechless.
"How could she do that?" I asked my father. My father was speechless.

Thereafter the little girls started to play with me, and I realized how comforting my solitude was before. They took me to their homes after school, they combed my hair and dressed me, but I didn’t say a word and they weren’t satisfied. They cut my hair short and gave me orders, they bit my nose and untwisted my arms, they pushed me under the water but I remained silent and they weren’t satisfied. I was hiding in the laundry, but they found me again and placed me back on the shelf. I was staring at them, speechless, arms untwisted.

*

Then I grew up.

It took some time, but I survived my childhood. I was looking desperately for so long for those adults, speaking in calm and comforting voices, drinking cold lemonade on a shaded terrace. And when I found them, I saw that they were all wearing white skirts with yellow flowers.

Ça va?

The internal postman

In average six out of ten civil servants greet him. Two out of ten look at him. Does it mean that he is roughly invisible? Let’s make a test. Let’s move him closer to the civil servant’s table, and let him stare at the face of the civil servant at close quarters with eyes wide open.

No. He is not invisible. The civil servant nervously glances at him and asks: ça va?

Ça va.

His life can be described with these two words: ça va.

Ça va: nothing more, nothing less. In the last 20 years at the Institution, he was asked ‘ça va?’ 777 777 times. He answered ça va 777 776 times. Once he answered ‘a cheeseburger and a cola light please’, but it was more than fifteen years ago, when he was young and foolish.

Happiness was always nearby, but never there, happiness was always half a meter further.

He always had the feeling that he was a supporting actor in the movie of his life. He was occasionally wondering who the protagonist could be. Nor his wife and neither his children, they were also part of the supporting cast, and the audience is never interested in the dependents of the supporting actors. Finally he was led in to the conclusion that the protagonist of his life might be the general director. After all, all his life was centred round the general director, as one of the million planets revolving round the sun. But if the general director was the protagonist, in the movie of his own life he would be visible only for one second, as a low paid procession man, whose name is not even presented on the cast list at the end of the movie.

Once he was an assistant professor at the University, waiting for the old professors to die as this was the only perspective of the hopeful young generation to get along in the feudalistic zoo of the academic life. When he was an assistant teacher he wore jeans and T-shirts with pictures of Che Guevara, Jim Morrison and other rebels, and he always said that the only occasion he would be willing to wear a tie was if the English Queen would invite him over for tea.

He was a hopeful young man. But the money was not enough. Money is never enough! His wife gave birth to their third child, and from the low academic salary they hardly had the money to buy dental floss.

‘But why do we need dental floss at all?, he wodered occasionally. ‘I never used dental floss, and so far I was doing fine.’

*

Wake up, postman! Things change once you have a family.

*

There is a point in life when one makes a choice. He was invited to apply for a purely administrative post at the Institution. What attracted him beyond the high and safe salary was the opportunity to work for the development department of the Institution, on the field he had writen his doctoral thesis about. He believed that he could change things on this sorrowful planet. He just needs to wait until his talent will be discovered by the Institution.

*

He thought he made the right choice.

*

He did not make the right choice.

*

Poor internal postman!

*

- I have to invite the English Queen over for a tea. A man needs a suit here. – His wife murmured, while washing one child with one hand and drying another one with another hand. Meanwhile their third child was waiting clipped to the clothes-line, as her husband believed that a man’s dignity shouldn’t be challenged by any form of child care.

After some sleepless nights of discussions he finally agreed to ask for a loan from the bank to buy a suit. After all, he worked for the Institution!

*

The first day he came home from work, his eyes were shining like a dog’s nose.

- Do you know who, who, who I have met? – He was too excited to breathe properly.

- Who have you met? – His wife asked.

- I met the general director!

- And what did you say to him? - His wife asked while detaching two infants from a third one on whom they were making chemical experiments.

- I said ‘Here is your post, sir. ‘

- And what did he say?

- He said: ‘ça va.’.

- That’s really nice from a general director! – His wife said.

*

- Did you meet him again? – His wife asked him on the 777th day. His husband was sitting on the floor of the living room surrounded by his beloved maps and children, telling them stories about the mysterious land of Africa.

- Yes, I did. – He said.

- What did you say to him?

- I said: ‘One Financial Times, and one Guardian, Sir. I’m really interested in the work of the directorate. I hope to get the chance to tell you my ideas about development.’

- And what did he say?

- He said ‘Ça va.’

His wife nodded.

- So what do you think? – Her husband asked her after two minutes of silence.

- What do I think? - She looked up. – I think that’s very nice from a general director.

*

In the movie of his life he has been waiting for twenty years for one appointment with the general director. This appointment has been promised several times, but whenever it came to the appointment, something happened. In six cases the general director has been replaced and a new general director came who didn’t know anything about his existence and had one hundred and one more important people to meet before meeting him. In one case the general director died on a mission in an unfortunate yacht accident, just one day before their meeting. And in one case the general director forgot about the appointment, but offered a fancy set of post it by his secretary as compensation.

*

Happiness was always nearby, but never there, happiness was always half meter further.

Until one day happiness knocked on his door and said: ‘Grab me, sir. Hold me tight and never let me go.’

The assistant of the general director called him to come to the director’s office to present his ideas on development, as someone has cancelled a meeting, and the general director had one hour free, for him, only for him.

Only him and the general director.

How beautiful life is. How unpredictable.

The general director

To market, to market, to buy a fat pig;

Home again, home again, jiggety-jig.

*

He didn’t know anything about development in third world countries. He knew a lot about phosphor and carbon acid. He wasn’t familiar with the logic of public administration. He was familiar with the separation of oil in water emulsion. He was a chemist.

Poor general director!

*

When he was appointed to be the general director, he felt as if he was discovered by Buddhist monks as the reincarnation of the dead Dalai Lama.

‘I’m just a chemist! – he squeaked. - Leave me alone!’

‘Long live the new Dalai Lama!’

*

He received the news one day during his breakfast (cereals and low fat cappuccino) in his favourite cafeteria, that he hqd been appointed to be the new general director. This was the time he started to eat hard again. Under the first shock he ordered a meat-fetish pizza with extra bacon and king size brownies with ‘happy whipped cream’.

- Sir, it’s only half past eight in the morning! – The waiter said, almost crying.

- I need energy, son. – He said, with guilty dog look on his crumpled face. – Bring me please my happy whipped cream.

*

When he was a child, God forgive his parents for their liberal educational principals, he was the fattest kid in school. He suffered a lot from the mockery of his classmates.

‘To market, to market, to buy a fat hog;

Home again, home again, jiggety-jog.’

*

With enormous efforts he managed to produce an acceptable shape by the time he became sexually active. But he knew what all the diet champions know: if someone once was a food addict, he never can become completely clean again. There was a danger that whenever he gets under big pressure, he will start eating again.

That’s what he was: a food junkie.

*

And now, that’s what he became: a general director. Not just a simple director, but a general one. He didn’t feel very general though. He felt kind of specific. He was a chemist!

But he tried his best to stand the test. He made all the efforts to understand the dynamics and rules of development in Africa.

He made all the efforts: without avail. He was too stressed, too afraid of failing. The words he read didn’t make sense to him anymore and he never remembered what he had read. Whenever he took work home and started to read, he felt the overwhelming pressure to fill his mouth with food. The taste or the texture of food didn’t matter. What mattered was the quantity. He needed to orally fixate himself not to lift off, as if he didn’t ballast himself enough he would have flown away with the nightfall breeze.

*

He tried other ways too to fixate himself on this planet, such as smoking or sucking his thumb, but he realized that none of these solutions were compatible with his high position.

As he was constantly eating when the circumstances allowed him to eat, he started to grow. First he only ate while he was alone, but step by step he developed a method to eat publicly in an unrecognizable manner. He started to eat during meetings. While everyone was staring at the screen at a presentation, he stuffed his mouth with a soft cookie and chewed voicelessly. He learned to swallow a muffin in one piece in case someone suddenly turned to him with a question. Soon he was eating while he was sitting on the toilet, while he was dictating to his secretary, while he was making speeches about development aid, while he was participating in a conference call with heads of states. He was also eating while he was sleeping. His pockets were always full of cookies.

Once he found himself eating his dog’s snacks during a forest walk.

He lived in constant terror. Chewing and swallowing was the only way to release his mind from the fear of being exposed as a developmental imbecile. After gaining 20 kilos in two months, his doctor told him that he will die soon of obesity related diseases if he keeps on eating. He told his doctor that he is much more afraid to die in a Bigfoot attack. You never know with Bigfoot. You can meet him anytime on a dark and empty street.

*

He had no idea what he was doing as a chemist on the field of development. He thought that there must hqve been a fatal misunderstanding concerning his appointment. If he would have asked around about the former general director, he could have easily been relieved. Before he got retired, the former general director had already been working as an expert of Starvation Management, as a head of unit in Lobby Affairs, as a director of Taxation and as an advisor at the Communication and Propaganda Directorate. No one knew what his original profession was, until his retirement party, when he revealed that primarily he was a butcher. On his own admission, the best thing he could do for this sorrowful planet was a liverwurst.

But as our general director didn’t trust anyone to ask such questions from, he never got familiar with the logic of public administration, where there is no need to be advanced in a certain field to fly high. So he kept on eating. After all, he had to ballast himself: the weather is very windy in the city of the Institution.

The meeting

And finally, here they are: the internal postman and the general director. But there are two other actors too, jeopardizing the intimacy of the moment: the bored assistant of the general director and an apathetic grilled chicken.

- Sir, I have been examining the crisis which is going on in Africa from every side, – the internal postman says, - and I can clearly see that the solution for the situation is…

- Do you mind if I finish this grilled chicken while you’re giving your presentation?

- Feel free to eat, Sir.

Oh yes, he definitely feels free to eat. Actually he only feels free when he is eating. He wishes he could concentrate on what this tiny man is saying. But it’s so hard to concentrate on all these technical matters! Is there anything left in his pocket? Yes, there is a salami bar. Shall he control himself? Why would he? After all, this is just a postman.

- Do you want some salami? – The director asks the postman.

- No, thank you, Sir. – The postman says below his breath. - What do you think about my ideas?

- Oh, you finished already? What do you think, Karl? – The general director turns to his assistant.

- Sir, what this gentleman has outlined here is not in the interest of the Institution.

- No, sir, it’s in the interest of Africa. – The postman says.

- Sir, he is just a postman. – The assistant whispers, loud enough for the postman to guess his words. – He is just a postman, a no one, a developmental imbecile, how could he know? We have our clear plans for the next year already, why would we piddle with the naive dreams of an identity disordered postman?

- But it sounds reasonable what he is saying! – The director hesitates.

- Sir, who do you trust more, your assistant or a postman?

It’s not the question of trust. It’s a question of need. He needs his assistant, he is depending on him. Someone has to do the work after all. The director is exploring his pockets for some more chewable material. Tragedy in the Institution! Nothing is left in his pocket.

- I’m sorry, but I have to make an important phone call. - He leaves them behind. He hears his assistant speaking on an assistant voice. How does an assistant voice sound like?

- Sir, I’m afraid that you are stealing the time of the general director. – It sounds like this.

- I wouldn’t say that he is stealing my time… – The director would say but suddenly someone is answering his phone call.

- Sushi Empire, how can I help you?

- A family portion of magical sushi, please. – He whispers.

- Can you speak louder please? I don’t hear you.

What can he do? Risking his dignity, he raises his voice.

- Magical sushi please, super size.

When he looks up, the postman is gone.

- Do you want something more from me, Sir? – His assistant asks.

- Well, Karl, I wouldn’t mind a snack.

The internal postman – the last evening

His wife finds him on the floor, crumbled maps everywhere.

- What happened to you? – She asks him.

He points at the maps, the mess is reflecting on his gloomy eyes.

- I don’t find Africa. – he says.

- You don’t find Africa?

- It has disappeared. And I did nothing.

- Come to eat now.

- Leave me alone. I have to find Africa. It must be somewhere over here, near Europe.

- Well, you take your time then.

She closes the door, and grabs a book on her way to the bathroom.

- And anyway, – she loudly wonders, - why aren’t I the protagonist of this story?

The general director – the last evening

He sees the foggy contour of his son, sitting in front of him, asking for help with his maths homework.

- It’s easy, son. How many are twelve minus three?

- Zero. – The child says.

- No, son. Here were twelve muffins. I ate three. How many left?

- None of them left, father. – The child says. - You ate them all.

- Twelve muffins minus one muffin are eleven muffins. – The director mumbles, as if he was praying. - Eleven muffins minus one muffin are ten muffins. Ten muffins minus one muffin are nine muffins. We need more muffins. Where are the muffins?

- How many is twelve minus three then? – The boy asks.

- I don’t know son. Why don’t you look it up on Google? I’m too hungry to think. I need some energy. Bring me something from the fridge.

- There is nothing left in the fridge, father. – The child says.

- Then bring something from the freezer. Bring me the fish sticks.

- But they are frozen!

- You have to learn to respect food, son, you can’t be so choosy. Children starve in Africa. Now be a good boy and let your father eat in peace.

The child runs up the stairs, and dissappears in his room. The director goes to the freezer and brings out everything what he finds there: frozen French fries, frozen chicken, frozen vegetables. He opens the cupboard, and finds raw potatoes there, mustard, eggs, cereals. He builds up a hill on the table of all the food. He is staring at his food-hill for a while. ‘Bon appetite, Mr General Director.’ He says. ‘Enjoy your meal.’ He takes out a fish stick from the paper box. He bites into it. How tasteless life is. How frozen.

Leftover popcorn, cast list, end of movie

A big man is lying on a bed. He is so big that he fills in the room, there is no place left for superfluous furniture or hypocrite flowers.

But he is not completely alone. There is a tiny little man in the corner, on a child bed, wedged to the wall, so small, almost invisible. They are breathing to the same rhythm.

- Jiggety jigg. – The big man groans, and makes the noise as if he was chewing. – Jiggety jogg.

- A continent disappeared. – The little man replies. – And no one noticed.

The big man stretches his hand out, and holds the hand of the little man.

- Ça va? – The director asks.

The postman shrugs.

- Ça va.

The dawn arrives and opens the window of the muggy room. And the two of them, holding hands, lift off and fly away with the morning breeze.

Epilogue

- What is that? – A child asks her parents.

- It’s a balloon. – The father says.

- It looks like two men holding hands! – The child says.

- You have vivid imagination, my dear. – The mother strokes the girl’s head. – You will be a writer one day.

- In these times? – The father says. - With this unemployment rate? This is not why we pay her education. She will work for the Institution.

- I want to be a writer! – The child mumbles.

- That’s her dream. – The mother says.

- Forget it! – The father says. - Everyone’s dream is to work for the Institution.

FAILING

Irene

There is this smell of clarity in her bedroom. The bed is perfectly made, sheets are bleached and ironed. We are in the heat of foreplay and suddenly I find myself in the bathroom; she is washing and disinfecting me thoroughly. Back in her bed: she is touching me without conviction. When she is doing it orally she makes me feel as if I was committing incest with her. It's directly followed by a solid toothbrush. Then the act: a military exercise. After I leave her house she gives hygienic first aid to the bedroom, as if someone died of contagion in there. She washes the curtains and sterilizes the walls.

*

This is me, on my therapy. I'm telling my daydream, my day-mare to Edward, my psychologist. This is my second year of therapy with him.

*

- But you never touched her.

- No, I couldn't. It all ended on our second date. I couldn't touch her after seeing this day-dream.

- Do you think she was frigid?

- I don't know. She was just…German.

- Do you think that Germans are frigid?

- Well, they're not very famous for their passion, are they? That's what people say: they are rigid and accurate. They like order. Sex isn't about order, is it?

- Did you tell her about these fears of yours?

- Yes.

- How was her reaction?

- She was deeply offended. She told me that as a matter of fact she thinks about white supremacy while having sex and screams 'Heil Hitler' when she is coming.

- Then she left you.

- Then she left me.

*

In two years Irene was my sixth failure. My love life is a failure.

Do I have friends? Yes. All of them are married.

In Edward's opinion I have this condition. I think it's somewhat similar to the condition of a Tourettes patient, who all of a sudden starts to swear like a trooper, without control.

Edward says that whenever I start to get involved in a relationship with a girl, my ethnic prejudices get the upper hand of me, and I can’t control them anymore.

Well, Edward doesn't call it a condition. He calls it a 'neurosis'. I prefer the word: 'condition'.

*

Heli

There is this joke about how a friendship grows with a Finn: in the first three years she looks at her shoes while she is speaking with you. After the third year she looks at your shoes while speaking with you.

So there was this Finnish girl, Heli. She was quite relaxed and outgoing when she was spending time with me. Still I was quite nervous about taking her to meet my friends for the first time. I was deeply worried about her social performance.

- Please, try to open up! – I told her in the car. – Just relax!

- What is your problem? – She asked. – I’m completely all right. It's you who should relax.

Six friends of mine were sitting around the dinner table. Friends: the lords of life and death when it comes to a new relationship. They were engaged in an intense debate about the moral dilemma of abortion in a case where the mother has been sentenced to death.

- Say something! – I whispered to Heli.

- I would say something if you were not pushing me to say something! – She replied.

I watched her struggle to liberate her fish of bones for a while. I waited for some initiative from her. Nothing.

- You still didn't say anything. - I mumbled to my plate. – The dinner is almost over.

Her hand flinched. The fork landed on the floor.

- Tell them the story when you were a child, – I whispered, - and you were lost in the supermarket.

- For God’s sake! – She hissed.

I clapped my hands.

- Hey everyone! Heli wants to tell us a story. Go on, Heli!

Well, Heli went on indeed.

I never saw her again.

*

Edward says that I'm using my prejudices to escape from commitment.

*

Lara

I just called her 'My Norwegian fjord'. We broke up at a very sad moment in my life: on the day when my mother died. She had been cold enough to go to the hairdresser on that day.

- How could I have known that your mother would take a heart attack while I was at the hairdresser? – she argued when I demanded an explanation for her unacceptable behaviour.

- Old people can die at any moment, you know that perfectly well!

- So shall I stay at home staring at the phone and praying just in case something wrong happens to someone I know?

- At least you could have come home when I called you!

- My hair was just only half cut when you…

- The only thing you care about is your beauty!

Suddenly a picture appeared in my mind: Norwegians massacring baby whales. The babies are crying but the Norwegians don't hear it: they all have ice-floats in the place of their hearts.

- You, you… Snow Queen! – I yelled.

I shouldn't have called her a Snow Queen. She had suffered serious trauma from reading too much Andersen at the age of six, becoming aware, too early, of how cruel mankind can be. She never wanted to see me again.

*

My mother always told me: my son, you deserve a perfect girl. Where is that perfect girl you have been talking about, Mother? Was she just a fairy tale like Snow-white, Jacqueline Kennedy and all the others?

*

Dora

My Polish girl. She was beautiful, smart and kind. I was considering proposing to her, when, on one day after having sex she turned to me:

- Let’s marry! Let’s do it now! Let’s go to the municipality!

And then I had this flash in my mind. Suddenly the picture was complete. What my grandmother was always speaking about. 'Their men come here to take our jobs and their women come here to marry well and take our men! God save us from Eastern Europeans!'

Fool I was: in the name of intimacy, I told her how I felt. She was shocked, but too rational to raise her voice.

- Look, I have a PHD and a better paid job than yours. I’m really not in any need to marry well and depend on your money.

- Haven't you ever asked yourself if your well paid job could be taken by a local citizen who is now begging for money on the street and drinking from the canal? You are just trying to justify…

- I’m not trying to justify anything, I’m just trying to fix what you are ruining with an enormous speed…

Fixing, always fixing! Fixing, repairing, plumbing. I couldn't marry her. Not the daughter of a plumber.

*

Dalia

My girl from Sicily. I truly loved her. But on one night, while sleeping beside her, I had a dream:

In my dream I woke up with a horse-head in my bed.

- Who are you? – I asked the horse-head in terror.

- I’m the horse-head. – The horse-head said.

- What are you doing in my bed, horse-head?

- Well, I guess I'm just horse-heading around. Once I was a whole horse, in the good old times. My mother always told me that if I don't behave well, one day I will wake up in a bed without my body, under a sheet with an ugly guy. So finally it happened. It is indeed an awful ending.

The day after I sent a written claim to Dalia, asking for the police record of each member of her family back to the 18^th century. So this is how it ended.

*

Here I am.

Slightly bald. Slightly desperate.

*

Catarina

She was not speaking much to me lately.

I didn't know anything about the nature of Portuguese people, so I googled them up in the office and read an interesting article on the famous Portuguese melancholy, originated in the shocks of the Portuguese history.

When I arrived home, she was in the bed, reading a book. No greetings, no kisses. I had tried everything in the last few days: flowers, dinner, gifts. When maybe what she needed was just some intercultural understanding. I wanted to learn from my past mistakes. So I lay down beside her and asked her:

- Are you thinking of the past victorious discoveries of your nation, my darling?

- No, my darling, I’m just trying to read this book.

I was examining her expressionless face. She sighed and turned her back to me. I embraced her and whispered in her ear:

- Are you sad because of the loss of your colonies, my love?

- No, sweetie, I just want to finish this chapter.

I got up from the bed, went to the kitchen and made myself a tuna sandwich. She didn’t join me. I returned, held her hand and asked her:

- Do you want to sing Fado? About the empty streets of Lisbon? About the dark infinity of the ocean and the hopelessness of life? About the low gross domestic product?

- It’s almost over, just two more pages!

- Look, I know how hard it can be that once you were a big nation and now you are only a small village at the ass of Europe. But you shouldn't take this personally! It is really not your fault!

- JUST LET ME READ!

I was so worried about her!

So I called her mother and asked what kind of antidepressants she was taking when she was a child. While I was on the phone, Catarina got dressed and left the flat. She left a piece of paper on the table for me: 'I'm off to buy something for my sister's birthday. Kisses.'

I felt strange after she left. No, I wasn't worried about her walking alone on the dark streets of our bad neighbourhood. What made me a bit concerned was that she didn't have a sister.

*

And now I’m with this girl from Transylvania. Whenever she kisses my neck I start to groan. She thinks it’s a sign of excitement, so she does it again and again. Actually it's a sign of being scared to death, feeling Dracula's teeth close to my pulse.

Help me, Edward. I can’t afford to lose her. All my friends are married. And I'm getting bald and desperate.