Gruenberg
02-08-2005, 22:47
In the kitchen, the bacon hissed in the pan, spitting filmy bubbles of fat into the thick, hot air. Through in the second room, shadowy figures embraced hurriedly, their faces barely more than thin yellow shadows in the sputtering, greasy light of the low tallow-fat candles. There were no words: instead, everything was said in the final touch of her slender fingers on his cold wrist. Good bye. He nodded, tucking the package further into the sweaty recesses of his jacket. The waxy brown paper crackled against his ribs. A pat on the shoulder from a huge and hair-gloved hand, a slow wink, the tiniest chinking of two empty glasses: even had they dared speak, they would not have known what to say. The door creaked on the fine rust of the hinges like a blade on bone, and he swept off into the cold, dusty morning air.
He walked quickly, the high-pitched winds that whistled round the vast monolith that provided the spectacular backdrop to this dark, littered, hopeless street picking up the edges of the long coat and flapping them into his calves. He couldn’t pause at the end of a street: once, he would have laughed at living in a country where stopping was a crime. But now, he merely flicked one final glance: he could never return, whatever happened. And they wouldn’t want him, in any case – they had never trusted them. They think I don’t believe in anything, his grinding teeth said.
Flap, flap, flap. He pounded on, careful to faintly check his pace whenever he began to spill forward from a brisk walk into a suspicious jog. The supermarket where they bought – or stole – whichever scraps of food were furthest out of date. The grim Gruen-O-Laund whose owner sold heroin in his back room. The grim music shop with the harmonium that always looked like it could eat a man. The huge billboards advertising prospects of land and wealth in the south. He crossed roads – one, two, three, four – and then took the second left. Was it the second – what if it was the third? Turn back, and he was dead. He walked on, allowing himself the tiniest sigh of relief as he caught sight of the electronics store, immediately regretting as an enquiring flash of spectacles from the cafe darted up at the puff of white air. Right, right, over three more blocks.
At the paper check, he fumbled so much the guard asked him to hurry up. He picked himself up, package clenched up in his armpit so tightly he could feel it reverberate off his pounding heart, and brushed the blood from his temple. Mumbled apologies. But they cleared him. And they didn’t check him. Now, though, he couldn’t even risk that sigh. Two more paper checks as he wove onwards right, left, four blocks over, second left, the smaller bridge, at each one his gloved fingers steadying more, the beads of sweat draining more quickly from his brow.
And then there it was. The high, gleaming towers. Row upon row of thin, grille-covered windows. The staggering opulence of the long slate roof, perpetually threatening to sag under the weight of jewelled statues, of gold leaf, of the grotesque intricacy of the inscriptions. The East Temple. This was it. He stopped to read the listings at the cinema. So he couldn’t go back – but he could go on. Find some quiet farmstead...they were always advertising life in the south, anyway...there would be some way...he hadn’t even done anything.
No. He had waited too long, worked too hard. He was too angry. He slipped the cigarette from the packet, and idled slowly along the streets, pausing next to the piled bin to light it. The flame sputtered for one agonising second, and then flared up. He joined the line at the bus stop, behind a decrepit old hag with a dead chicken poking from her wicker basket. He’d lit the cigarette, already. Had he fucked up again? No, this was the right time, the right place. It was them...what if it had all folded? No. It had to happen.
The short, balding man at the head of the bus stop queue rocked on his feet anxiously. He had an important sales meeting to be at. Why were the buses always so late? They took enough taxes already, didn’t they? A tall, elderly gentleman, evidently fairly well off, paused to read the headlines from the papers piled up at the corner of the high apartment block. He dropped it again, shaking his head in mild amusement. A couple of people slid from the queue, realizing it would be quicker to walk – he’d have to do the same in a minute. Another one left: this time the tall, sweaty, twitching young man with blood on his head – not that that meant anything – who’d just arrived. He collided with some rambling drunk, but still helped him back to his feet. He too stopped at the newspaper pile, flicking through the first couple of pages for a minute. The small man stormed off – this was too much. He would write an angry letter of complaint. And then burn it.
The young man headed towards the market stalls. First the third, then the seventh. The bitter wash of fear in his belly was swelling out, and he had to check his breathing. He didn’t pat his pocket – he didn’t need to – and he clasped the tiny note so hard between his fingers he feared it would crumble into dust. He browsed over the thin carrots, the flat, rotting fish. The small, dull onions. He didn’t look at his face – perhaps her face, he really didn’t look. He took the bag, one salob, and passed over the handful of jangling coins, this time looking up. It was a he, and his face didn’t blink as he slid over the note. As he moved on, he heard a curse as a row of onions clatter into the street. Now. The seventh stall. Past cauliflowers, past soft tomatoes, pausing at the boisterous cloth-merchant for a second, on to the dirty, misshapen potatoes. Again, not a blink or twitch in the – this time it was a her – face. Two salobs. And a rattle in the bag.
And, finally, he had the bags. He walked quickly now, too quickly probably, but it was getting busier. He saw the last paper check. The shake of the hands was back, but he set his jaw. He grumbled him onwards. Back two blocks, eighth shop along. He slowed at the first two tailor’s shops, and then headed into the third. Quickly round, before pausing to rub the fabric on a suit. He nodded to the assistant. Yes, he’d seen the game: 41-12. The third cubicle.
Assembling a bomb took hours. Plugging four final parts together, digging out the fuse pressed deep into the potato with the fine triangle scratched in it, taping it over, all of this after practising two hours a day, in absolute black, for four months, took seconds. He was too quick in fact, and had to scuffle about with the suit for a believable extra minute. Everything tucked back up in one bundled roll, the waste shovelled down with the vegetables. He walked out again. Another time, maybe, and a lighter colour.
He couldn’t help rocking his heels on the curb for an instant, drawing the sweet breath, then frantically giving thanks for the bakery and its faint waft of warm cooking. He checked the time – too quick still. So he bought a small, hot bundle of flaking pastry and meat, savouring the dribble of gravy as he finally spotted the slow procession. Two monks salting the air with great swings of the incense burners, a hooded priest chanting, and then the open cart, drawn by sighing oxen, two white-garbed figures sitting atop with open arms. Every passing man, woman, or child passed up a silver coin or a small parcel. The stallholders hurried out with arms full, shovelling their produce on. The cart was heavily-laden, and about to head back through the mighty golden gates, swinging slowly open. And now he had dawdled too long with his pastry – he had to be quick now. He almost risked running.
He skipped into public toilet on the corner, the pretence nearly over as he scooped to pick up the bag from the third cubicle, slamming the package down to the bottom underneath the clothes. One final look at his watch. 60 seconds, it had to be. He could just hear the pat-pat of the hooves. Perfect. He squeezed together the electrodes, sealing the connection with a tab of thick black tape. 59, 58...what if he tripped? He shovelled the red jumper over, desperate to cover the last black corner. It was too heavy...what if they held it? 52, 51...
He headed out. The cart was nearing its one last slow turn in through the gates. But that was good: they were getting frantic, piling items on regardless. One woman lost her baby to the rabble, screaming as it was flicked aside by the priests, yet still stopping to receive the blessing. He could run now, at last stretching his legs in the freedom of it. He could hear the blessings now: ‘the fruit of your loins’ at the apples, ‘the toil of the earth’ at the turnips, ‘the glory of study’ at the books. Clothes, he mumbled. 37, 36...pushing it on, he saw a black glint from a bag of bread rolls. Oh...
‘The comfort of warmth.’ He nodded his head, and turned, almost colliding with a hurried, sweat-soaked young girl, hair plastered to her pale forehead. Her bag swung into his knee, hard and sharp. Their eyes locked for a second. Of course. All this...for just one? He couldn’t help smiling, but then set off briskly. ‘Hay’, he heard her mumble. 29, 28...28 on his. And the others? He picked his feet up. 22 at the creaking of the gates, the last cry of despair. The girl was already gone. Seventeen now, sixteen. He walked on, faster harder, head slowly rising. It was almost in there now. Guards cautiously emerged as the cart rumbled towards the black gates. Twelve, eleven, ten, nine. A quick walk now, so quick he barged into a woman, spilling her bags onto the floor. He stumbled on, ignoring her curses. Six, five, four, three.
The metal detectors went ballistic, a loud harsh crying ping that rent the air like thunder. But as his first foot broke forward into a terrified sprint, he felt the bassy rumble. It was slightly too quick for his – he didn’t how many there were. And then the sound, a vast wall of angry noise that swept past him, flattening the small child in front of him. One. He didn’t hear his go – he couldn’t – but he felt it.
And he was off, running so hard his knees threatened to pound into his gut. As his hearing returned he could hear his ragged pants of breath, like the howls of a dog after blood, and then another shriek of metal crashed out, seeming to prick open his ears fully, suddenly awash with the screams and cries, staggering moans of death, gasping accusations. The street dipped away and he thundered down to the left, weaving round shocked shoppers, rooted to the cobbles. The noise faded again as the rapid thumping of blood in his ears returned. His mouth tasted like ash, he couldn’t feel his hands, and all he could hear was the thump, thump, thump of it all. He sprinted on, long past his last breath, his chest raging like someone was sliding a saw across his ribs. On across the road as cars screeched around him. One more colossal boom echoed out, judging by the ducking terror of the women running from the alley – to him, the soft pop barely registered. Two on, fourth left, right, three blocks on.
By now his brain had reconnected. How many were dead? How many were dead that mattered. Fuck this country, he almost screamed out loud, for bringing me to thoughts like that. Were they chasing him? He had to look now, he had to know. He peered back, losing his step instantly, sliding along, the tarmac burning his thigh like an iron. But...the street was bare. He looked on. There was no one.
He got up, this time merely jogging, all the time wheezing ferociously? Where was he? If he’d gone the wrong way, he should just take the pill now. No, it looked right...was that it?
He clapped his hands to his mouth as he rounded the corner. He couldn’t scream – they’d hear. They had to be close. But it was so...joyous. The lorry, its engine purring lightly, its cargo squawking manically. He swept up the thick back lining at the second attempt, his arms completely drained, and scrambled in amongst the chickens that twirled up agitatedly around him. One pair of eyes stared out in the dark. But he couldn’t say anything. Who was it?
The lorry went from purr to roar, and he felt the sick of jolt of the hydraulics. The floor battered up, the chickens strangely seemingly more settled by the sudden jolt, and the lorry rolled out, and on. It was twenty minutes – he counted every second, before the eyes loomed out. A young girl, even younger than the one he’d bumped into, this one’s long blonde tresses matted to her skull. Her eyes, thin and sinister in the dark, were wide and bloodshot in the open. She crouched down beside him.
“There were seven.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I don’t think the others...”
“No.”
She was shaking harder than the sides of the truck. Brushing a hen aside, she sat, and he felt her cold hand curl round his.
“Are you a Christian?”
“No.”
“Good.” She withdrew a thin silver chain from the recesses of her dark shirt, a tiny red star at the end. “I’m a communist. Are you? Or...well, what do you believe in?”
They thought he didn’t believe in anything back at the house. He took a breath of stale, rancid air. She leaned her head onto his sagging shoulder.
“No. I believe in nothing.”
He walked quickly, the high-pitched winds that whistled round the vast monolith that provided the spectacular backdrop to this dark, littered, hopeless street picking up the edges of the long coat and flapping them into his calves. He couldn’t pause at the end of a street: once, he would have laughed at living in a country where stopping was a crime. But now, he merely flicked one final glance: he could never return, whatever happened. And they wouldn’t want him, in any case – they had never trusted them. They think I don’t believe in anything, his grinding teeth said.
Flap, flap, flap. He pounded on, careful to faintly check his pace whenever he began to spill forward from a brisk walk into a suspicious jog. The supermarket where they bought – or stole – whichever scraps of food were furthest out of date. The grim Gruen-O-Laund whose owner sold heroin in his back room. The grim music shop with the harmonium that always looked like it could eat a man. The huge billboards advertising prospects of land and wealth in the south. He crossed roads – one, two, three, four – and then took the second left. Was it the second – what if it was the third? Turn back, and he was dead. He walked on, allowing himself the tiniest sigh of relief as he caught sight of the electronics store, immediately regretting as an enquiring flash of spectacles from the cafe darted up at the puff of white air. Right, right, over three more blocks.
At the paper check, he fumbled so much the guard asked him to hurry up. He picked himself up, package clenched up in his armpit so tightly he could feel it reverberate off his pounding heart, and brushed the blood from his temple. Mumbled apologies. But they cleared him. And they didn’t check him. Now, though, he couldn’t even risk that sigh. Two more paper checks as he wove onwards right, left, four blocks over, second left, the smaller bridge, at each one his gloved fingers steadying more, the beads of sweat draining more quickly from his brow.
And then there it was. The high, gleaming towers. Row upon row of thin, grille-covered windows. The staggering opulence of the long slate roof, perpetually threatening to sag under the weight of jewelled statues, of gold leaf, of the grotesque intricacy of the inscriptions. The East Temple. This was it. He stopped to read the listings at the cinema. So he couldn’t go back – but he could go on. Find some quiet farmstead...they were always advertising life in the south, anyway...there would be some way...he hadn’t even done anything.
No. He had waited too long, worked too hard. He was too angry. He slipped the cigarette from the packet, and idled slowly along the streets, pausing next to the piled bin to light it. The flame sputtered for one agonising second, and then flared up. He joined the line at the bus stop, behind a decrepit old hag with a dead chicken poking from her wicker basket. He’d lit the cigarette, already. Had he fucked up again? No, this was the right time, the right place. It was them...what if it had all folded? No. It had to happen.
The short, balding man at the head of the bus stop queue rocked on his feet anxiously. He had an important sales meeting to be at. Why were the buses always so late? They took enough taxes already, didn’t they? A tall, elderly gentleman, evidently fairly well off, paused to read the headlines from the papers piled up at the corner of the high apartment block. He dropped it again, shaking his head in mild amusement. A couple of people slid from the queue, realizing it would be quicker to walk – he’d have to do the same in a minute. Another one left: this time the tall, sweaty, twitching young man with blood on his head – not that that meant anything – who’d just arrived. He collided with some rambling drunk, but still helped him back to his feet. He too stopped at the newspaper pile, flicking through the first couple of pages for a minute. The small man stormed off – this was too much. He would write an angry letter of complaint. And then burn it.
The young man headed towards the market stalls. First the third, then the seventh. The bitter wash of fear in his belly was swelling out, and he had to check his breathing. He didn’t pat his pocket – he didn’t need to – and he clasped the tiny note so hard between his fingers he feared it would crumble into dust. He browsed over the thin carrots, the flat, rotting fish. The small, dull onions. He didn’t look at his face – perhaps her face, he really didn’t look. He took the bag, one salob, and passed over the handful of jangling coins, this time looking up. It was a he, and his face didn’t blink as he slid over the note. As he moved on, he heard a curse as a row of onions clatter into the street. Now. The seventh stall. Past cauliflowers, past soft tomatoes, pausing at the boisterous cloth-merchant for a second, on to the dirty, misshapen potatoes. Again, not a blink or twitch in the – this time it was a her – face. Two salobs. And a rattle in the bag.
And, finally, he had the bags. He walked quickly now, too quickly probably, but it was getting busier. He saw the last paper check. The shake of the hands was back, but he set his jaw. He grumbled him onwards. Back two blocks, eighth shop along. He slowed at the first two tailor’s shops, and then headed into the third. Quickly round, before pausing to rub the fabric on a suit. He nodded to the assistant. Yes, he’d seen the game: 41-12. The third cubicle.
Assembling a bomb took hours. Plugging four final parts together, digging out the fuse pressed deep into the potato with the fine triangle scratched in it, taping it over, all of this after practising two hours a day, in absolute black, for four months, took seconds. He was too quick in fact, and had to scuffle about with the suit for a believable extra minute. Everything tucked back up in one bundled roll, the waste shovelled down with the vegetables. He walked out again. Another time, maybe, and a lighter colour.
He couldn’t help rocking his heels on the curb for an instant, drawing the sweet breath, then frantically giving thanks for the bakery and its faint waft of warm cooking. He checked the time – too quick still. So he bought a small, hot bundle of flaking pastry and meat, savouring the dribble of gravy as he finally spotted the slow procession. Two monks salting the air with great swings of the incense burners, a hooded priest chanting, and then the open cart, drawn by sighing oxen, two white-garbed figures sitting atop with open arms. Every passing man, woman, or child passed up a silver coin or a small parcel. The stallholders hurried out with arms full, shovelling their produce on. The cart was heavily-laden, and about to head back through the mighty golden gates, swinging slowly open. And now he had dawdled too long with his pastry – he had to be quick now. He almost risked running.
He skipped into public toilet on the corner, the pretence nearly over as he scooped to pick up the bag from the third cubicle, slamming the package down to the bottom underneath the clothes. One final look at his watch. 60 seconds, it had to be. He could just hear the pat-pat of the hooves. Perfect. He squeezed together the electrodes, sealing the connection with a tab of thick black tape. 59, 58...what if he tripped? He shovelled the red jumper over, desperate to cover the last black corner. It was too heavy...what if they held it? 52, 51...
He headed out. The cart was nearing its one last slow turn in through the gates. But that was good: they were getting frantic, piling items on regardless. One woman lost her baby to the rabble, screaming as it was flicked aside by the priests, yet still stopping to receive the blessing. He could run now, at last stretching his legs in the freedom of it. He could hear the blessings now: ‘the fruit of your loins’ at the apples, ‘the toil of the earth’ at the turnips, ‘the glory of study’ at the books. Clothes, he mumbled. 37, 36...pushing it on, he saw a black glint from a bag of bread rolls. Oh...
‘The comfort of warmth.’ He nodded his head, and turned, almost colliding with a hurried, sweat-soaked young girl, hair plastered to her pale forehead. Her bag swung into his knee, hard and sharp. Their eyes locked for a second. Of course. All this...for just one? He couldn’t help smiling, but then set off briskly. ‘Hay’, he heard her mumble. 29, 28...28 on his. And the others? He picked his feet up. 22 at the creaking of the gates, the last cry of despair. The girl was already gone. Seventeen now, sixteen. He walked on, faster harder, head slowly rising. It was almost in there now. Guards cautiously emerged as the cart rumbled towards the black gates. Twelve, eleven, ten, nine. A quick walk now, so quick he barged into a woman, spilling her bags onto the floor. He stumbled on, ignoring her curses. Six, five, four, three.
The metal detectors went ballistic, a loud harsh crying ping that rent the air like thunder. But as his first foot broke forward into a terrified sprint, he felt the bassy rumble. It was slightly too quick for his – he didn’t how many there were. And then the sound, a vast wall of angry noise that swept past him, flattening the small child in front of him. One. He didn’t hear his go – he couldn’t – but he felt it.
And he was off, running so hard his knees threatened to pound into his gut. As his hearing returned he could hear his ragged pants of breath, like the howls of a dog after blood, and then another shriek of metal crashed out, seeming to prick open his ears fully, suddenly awash with the screams and cries, staggering moans of death, gasping accusations. The street dipped away and he thundered down to the left, weaving round shocked shoppers, rooted to the cobbles. The noise faded again as the rapid thumping of blood in his ears returned. His mouth tasted like ash, he couldn’t feel his hands, and all he could hear was the thump, thump, thump of it all. He sprinted on, long past his last breath, his chest raging like someone was sliding a saw across his ribs. On across the road as cars screeched around him. One more colossal boom echoed out, judging by the ducking terror of the women running from the alley – to him, the soft pop barely registered. Two on, fourth left, right, three blocks on.
By now his brain had reconnected. How many were dead? How many were dead that mattered. Fuck this country, he almost screamed out loud, for bringing me to thoughts like that. Were they chasing him? He had to look now, he had to know. He peered back, losing his step instantly, sliding along, the tarmac burning his thigh like an iron. But...the street was bare. He looked on. There was no one.
He got up, this time merely jogging, all the time wheezing ferociously? Where was he? If he’d gone the wrong way, he should just take the pill now. No, it looked right...was that it?
He clapped his hands to his mouth as he rounded the corner. He couldn’t scream – they’d hear. They had to be close. But it was so...joyous. The lorry, its engine purring lightly, its cargo squawking manically. He swept up the thick back lining at the second attempt, his arms completely drained, and scrambled in amongst the chickens that twirled up agitatedly around him. One pair of eyes stared out in the dark. But he couldn’t say anything. Who was it?
The lorry went from purr to roar, and he felt the sick of jolt of the hydraulics. The floor battered up, the chickens strangely seemingly more settled by the sudden jolt, and the lorry rolled out, and on. It was twenty minutes – he counted every second, before the eyes loomed out. A young girl, even younger than the one he’d bumped into, this one’s long blonde tresses matted to her skull. Her eyes, thin and sinister in the dark, were wide and bloodshot in the open. She crouched down beside him.
“There were seven.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I don’t think the others...”
“No.”
She was shaking harder than the sides of the truck. Brushing a hen aside, she sat, and he felt her cold hand curl round his.
“Are you a Christian?”
“No.”
“Good.” She withdrew a thin silver chain from the recesses of her dark shirt, a tiny red star at the end. “I’m a communist. Are you? Or...well, what do you believe in?”
They thought he didn’t believe in anything back at the house. He took a breath of stale, rancid air. She leaned her head onto his sagging shoulder.
“No. I believe in nothing.”