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.