Trasiency

The first book was closed in the middle and put back on the shelf in April. In May, the fourth book in a row, a Simone de Beauvoir got hidden unfinished behind other books. In June others got buried under magazines, in the depth of drawers, on top of the toilet sink, in the darkness of the wardrobe. Two were thrown behind the sofa and were found only six years later by Hubrecht de Groot, a meticulous insect eradicator.
In the Autumn, books ended up in the garbage bin, were flushed down page by page in the toilet and got stuck there with swear words and the toilet couldn't be used for two days. Some books were thrown out of the window in bright daylight, and landed on the head of perplexed pedestrians. By December only a few books were left in the flat, some cookbooks, travel guides, dictionaries and the Simon & Schuster Children's Guide to Insects and Spiders.
The new books that entered the house were very carefully chosen. Internet research was made before, bookstore keepers were asked if the certain book contained any disturbing content, and only a few books proved to be harmless.
In the winter, the movies followed the books. First it was only the sounds; in the awkward or heavy moment the movie was muted, and the characters were gawping voicelessly. That brought a relief for a short while, as any noises could be imagined leaving the wide-open mouths, noises of peace and eternity. But soon this was not enough, and the channel had to be changed. Later the television was switched off when the disturbing scenes were suspected, and by the arrival of the new Spring, it was not switched on anymore. The subscription bills were not paid and the sand piled up on top of the machine.
No more cinema tickets were bought.
And then, in the winter, the people faced the same fate as the movies.
But it was more difficult with the people. The material they contained was too messy, too random. Anything, anytime could be sounded by their voice machines, and there were no ways to switch them off or flush them down the toilet.
There were situations. Dinners were interrupted when the undesired content started streaming out from the noise holes of the counterparts, buses were left earlier than needed, excuses were constantly made as well as trips to the toilet with no return. People in cafes who audibly contained unwelcomed substance were asked to lower their voices. In one case a young architect who was complaining about his anxiety related indigestion was impolitely requested to shut his mouth. Phone conversations were ended in the middle. By then, the Ipod was in constant use; listening to unexpected conversations on the metro or in the supermarket could be avoided this way.
Still.
It was not enough.
There was no summary on the backs of the people about their content, and this was highly regretted. Anything could come up anytime. New conversational manners were invented, to keep the dialogue on the safe path. There were forbidden questions, questions that had anything to do with time, with longing or regret. Questions like: What do you think? or What are you waiting for? or Is that surely what you want? were not asked anymore.
Some questions were still allowed, such as: And how about the prices? or But what kind of music? or Did you like the ambience of that place?
But: nothing related to transiency or determination. Foreseeable illnesses. Ready made choices. Obligatory losses. Aging.
The sight of old people on the train could not be taken. Irritated lovers. An upset mother. A librarian with a stain on her white blouse. Anything that could remind one of how things can go wrong, how everything is written in advance. On how things could end. On how things will unavoidably end.
Trying to stop thinking made things worse. The toughts gained power by each attempt of pushing them away. They came back in dreams, and they came back in the dreamless hours. They came back on the metro, in the elevator, in front of the computer. They got louder and louder until there was no space left for anything else.
By meeting him, things got better for a while. Together books could be read and movies could be watched again.
But then love appeared and when love was returned by its object, the flat became too little for such strong sensations and the eyes were scintillating. And someone came across on the street and asked with annoyance,
are you still In love,
yeah, still in love,
after nine moths, the question was asked with disapproval and
still, still, still, was the answer,
oh, well, it will be over soon.
A smell on the pillow, a laughter; a laughter so wonderful that it had to be recorded and listened to over and over again.
The clicking on the inbox of emails, as if it would be done enough times, emails that had never been written would start arriving.
And the fears! The fears!
When love appeared, after a short uprising period, things got even worse.
Because of all that disturbing content! It was everywhere. A glance to the left. An old lady sitting in her pee on the bench, searching for her keys and wondering if she had ever had a lover and if this lover had ever had a name. A glance to the right, two acquaintances holding hands, absorbed by the power of their tenuous love thoughts.
Transiency it was that had to be hidden. The big book.
Step by step, things got under control. The exhibitions were previously visited and censored. The movies were carefully chosen. Invitations for parties were kept in secret.
A book closed, a walk to the bathroom, a glance to the mirror and a face getting older, loneliness growing in the stomach.
The sight of a young person, beauty looking dirty and empty.

Grapes

Nothing could hurt Mrs Lancelote anymore. She was at the final stage of a disease that had been consuming her brain with robust appetite; she was no longer able to say, think or sense anything. When her daughter was talking about her struggles with spinal hernia; when her granddaughter informed her about the alien family she found in their basement, when her husband told her how much he regreted his lack of attention over the years, Mrs Lancelote felt exactly the same thing: a minor itch in the corner of her right eye.

‘What happened to my wife’s brain so she’s not with us anymore?’, Mr Lancelote once asked doctor Samuelson in Herold's Grocery Store where they bumped into each other. Mr Lancelote popped in the store to hand in his curriculum, so he could apply for the store assistant job Herold had advertised on the entrance door. Throughout the previous six scudding decades Mr Lancelote already worked as a baker, a gardener, an elevator boy, a receptionist, a bus driver, a hall porter and a boarding school principal; still he believed the time hadn't arrived yet to lie down on the bed and bore his heart stiff.

The doctor asked Herold to give him a grape, a bowl, salt and water. Mr Lancelote thought he was preparing a medicine. Apparently he was, but not for Mrs Lancelote. He was preparing a remedy for Mr Lancelote so he could stop worrying what if his wife was suffering deep inside. Unfortunately, due to growing up with a melancholic mother Doctor Samuelson sense for comforting people wasn't highly developed. He poured the water in the bowl, put the salt in, and then the grape. Then he asked Mr Lancelote to watch carefully. The little balls exploded one by one under the osmotic pressure.

‘This happened to the brain of your wife,’ the doctor said, pleased with himself. ‘Nothing is left inside.’ But Mr Lancelote wasn’t pleased. He had hoped for something more scientific. Something more acceptable than a raisin.

Because miracles happen, every once in a while Mrs Lancelote visited the old material that once was her. At these rare occasions, Mrs Lancelote tried to tell things to her husband that she found important to tell: that if he touches the light bulbs they live much shorter and he wastes a great deal of money; that she didn't mean those hurtful things she kept on saying over the years, it just felt right to see him hurt; that even when she's away she doesn't want the doctor or anyone else to tuck suppositories in her rectum; and that it was high time for her husband to stop recharging her batteries.

But when these miraculous moments occured, Mr Lancelote was watching television so he couldn’t hear her whisper. She couldn’t speak loud, as there was a very weak connection between the raisin and her speaking organs. At these rare occasions she did feel again too for a little while. What she felt was a mind gobbling frustration. ‘A grownup accepts frustration and solitude’, that’s what her husband often told her. 'A grownup accepts life as it is.' ‘Life can kiss my grownup ass,’ she murmured at the age of seventy, and disappeared again from her worn-out body.

On that Thursday afternoon, after cleaning the store Mr Lancelote arrived home, paid the nurse, sat down next to his dead wife on the sofa and turned the volume of the television on. He didn’t notice that his wife was dead until the end of the tennis game, as for the negligent observer there was no difference at all between dead and alive Mrs Lancelote. There was not much of a difference for Mrs Lancelote either, except that she didn’t have the itchy feeling in the corner of her right eye anymore.

He didn’t want to let the ambulance people take her body away. Why would they? They could live happily together ever after, just like before. When the remainder of Mrs Lancelote was gone, Mr Lancelote called his daughter to tell her the news and asked her if he could stay with them for a little while. Her daughter told him that he had to behave like an adult in hard times, and adults can bear pain and solitude. Mr Lancelote hung up the phone, closed his eyes, and his heart stopped. He opened his eyes and to his bitter surprise he was still alive. He closed his eyes and his heart stopped again. How many times a heart can stop without breaking? He counted and infinite was the answer.

Peaches, melons, walnuts

'Fruits are like women.' Mr Lancelote explained inaudibly. 'Peaches. You treat them too hard, they loose their essence. You avoid them and don’t taste them for too long, they wizen. You have to treat them gently and give them all the attention they need. Melons. Be careful with them. They seem to be hard and tough, but once you go a little bit too far, it’s all broken, it’s irreparable. You have to give them the attention they don't demand. Walnuts. They are the toughest of all. Whatever happens, they don’t break. They keep their essence infinitely; they don’t get any older, because they were born old. You never get sweetness or softness from them, but what they promised you in the beginning, you will get until the end…’

It was a Monday night, two weeks after Mrs Lancelote's funeral. The bell rang after midnight in Herold's apartment. Herold didn't want to believe his ears, but after the third 'bing-bong' he gave in, switched off the television and opened the door. Mr Lancelote was standing in front of him in his night gown, with his fisherman's cap on his head. They lived on different floors of the same house, in the building of the grocery store.

‘Could we do the job interview now?’ Mr Lancelote asked.

Herold looked in the old man’s eyes, and decided to say nothing about how late it was. He gave Mr Lancelote hot milk, sat him on the sofa and covered him with a warm blanket. As long as he’s speaking, he can’t die, Herold thought.

'…there is a lot more to say about fruits.' Mr Lancelote finished his monologue. 'But for now, this might be enough.'

‘Tell me about your previous work experiences then,’ Herold continued with the interview. ‘I read your Curriculum and I was wondering how you could become a boarding school principal…’

Mr Lancelote blushed. Herold never saw him blushing. He never saw any old man blushing.

‘It’s not interesting.’ Mr Lancelote said.

‘Oh yes it is.’ Herold said. ‘It definitely is. Tell me, how is it possible, with only six years of education? Is there a one hit genius behind those wrinkles?’

So Mr Lancelote told Herold how he became a boarding school principal. He worked as a hall porter in the school for six years before the accident happened. His job didn't require much apart from being present at the same place all the time, representing continuity. Students came and students left, students got awards and students got dismissed, students fell in love and students fell apart, but Mr Lancelote's shadow behind the glass window was as stabile and reticent as the red brick walls of the school. To complete his main mission of killing time he built match-stick castles of seven storeys; became the undiscovered world champion of Solitaire; and learned the school policy by heart after reading it more than one thousand and eight hundred times. The accident happened following the scandalous dismissal of the previous principal, who thought that discipline should be taught to the children at every cost, tears and humiliation included. After a chain of protests the student commune forced through its initiative that the students should be allowed to appoint and elect the principal of the school. But in the anarchistic state of democratic transition no one clarified who could be appointed and who couldn’t, as no teacher dared to provoke the uproarious commune. So there he was, the experimental rabbit, the joke of the infants: Mr Lancelote, the hall porter, who was secretly appointed and who won the elections with great majority. In the middle of the students’ hysterical exhilaration, he was let to direct the famous institution for two months. The official yearbook of the school somehow forgot to mention this period, and he also didn’t mention it very often later on. His main activity at the top of his career was worrying about the certain upcoming humiliation, and praying for survival until his salary check would arrive. He could manage avoiding public appearance alluding to his arthritis for two months, until the day when the mayor came to visit the school and he had to give a speech on stage in front of all students, parents, teachers and officials. And he did. God is his witness, he did. He could still recall the words. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen. During the school day hours students are not allowed to leave the building of the school and the courtyard without permission. The appearance and the clothing of the students should be clean and appropriate. The consumption of alcohol and drugs is prohibited in all premises of the school…'

Herold laughed and laughed and Mr Lancelote couldn’t resist taking part in his unexpected hilarity. But as their laughter weakened, present crept back to the room and sat down between them.

'I'm so sorry about your wife,' Herold broke the silence finally.

'Don't be.' Mr Lancelote said. 'She's fine. She just cannot feel it.'

Herold stood up and switched off the lamp.

'I'm off to sleep,' he said.

'Good night.' The old man replied.

'What kind of fruit was Mrs Lancelote?’ Herold turned back to Mr Lancelote from his bedroom door. ‘She was a walnut, wasn’t she?’

‘No, she wasn't.’ Mr Lancelote said and smiled at his friend in the dark. 'A great bunch of grapes she was.'