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.'

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.