Happy Birthday to You

I had yet to open my eyes. The eiderdown was sweltering and light; weights were chasing each other around in my head, as if I were picking up the pulses of my blood circulation. A dull ache had settled on the nape of my neck. If I opened my eyes, I knew I would feel dizzy. I tried to go back to sleep: an hour or two can be a bonus, sparing the first, most horrendous stage of sobering-up, when nothing is where it should be, when even the faintest spark of strength has gone, when every movement takes five times as much energy and concentration, and it’d be no surprise at all if, one of these days, at a time like this, the world were to split in two.
With the first move I made, to drink a glass of water perhaps and down an aspirin, a blast of cold air slipped under the bedclothes. I shuddered and shivered. Then a wave of heat surged through me, and I was drenched in sweat. I lifted the bedclothes a few times with my legs, the better to shiver and perspire, to sweat out the toxins. With each fresh wave of heat, I imagined the crumminess seeping out of me into the eiderdown, and when the bulk of that had made the transfer I would jump out from under the eiderdown.
I caught a whiff of a peculiar odour, a smell of musty whitewash and clothes; the floor radiated coldness.
We had been three days into celebrating my birthday; that’s how it’s been for years now, and if I can last this out, it really is like being born again.
I had left my apartment along with others on the first night; we were all wide awake, bar the odd lapse, and traipsing from one place on to the next. After the third day, the very idea of the smell of fish-soup that had been left in my kitchen was scary. Eventually I’d pull myself together somewhere, maybe here, and go back home. I couldn’t take any more; last night in the rain I was already starting to see tiny, iridescent pixies in the light of the street lamps.
After a while I felt a bit better and opened my eyes a fraction. It was still dark in the room; I could hear the sound of a car, the headlights sweeping stripes of brightness around the room through the gaps in the blinds. I did not budge. More and more cars came by: must be getting on for dawn, I thought to myself. I was lying a couple of yards from the window. My eyes were rheumy and stung; the stripes from the cars swam, as if there were a herd of zebra clattering around the walls. I’m used to living in a multistorey house, and you don’t often see that kind of thing there, I thought to myself, then right after that I thought where on earth I could be, another fine mess.
I was bracing myself to sit up and drink a glass of water when something flicked the back of my neck. As if I had dreamed it. I didn’t move a muscle. The slight weight of the something lingered on my neck. It was as though some creature were trying to enter my head, just at the point where the dull ache was throbbing. I gingerly drew back and turned over. I was lying in a twin bed, and there was somebody sleeping beside me; only the top of the head was showing, the hair spread in clumps on the pillow, and a long arm, the fingertips of which had slipped onto the nape of my neck.
I clambered out of bed. It was daybreak already, and it could have been no more than a few degrees above freezing in the room. I found my clothes at the foot of the bed and dressed, but I could not find my briefcase.
The place was unfamiliar but that did not surprise me; I was used to that sort of thing by now and merely thought to myself, another fine mess…
I went out of the room and in the kitchen drank some water and rinsed my face. From the kitchen window I was able to look out on a yard in which stood piles of dry, chopped-up trees and beside them a smallish fruit tree-cherry, perhaps. The sky was overcast and an autumn mist spilled down the bole of the tree. I stepped out into the yard to take a breath of fresh air. A man greeted me from next door, and I returned the greeting.
I went into the house to look for my briefcase and push off home. It grew lighter whilst I was searching. The somebody in the bed stirred, pulled down the bedclothes from over its head, but did not open its eyes. An old man. He was champing, trying to swallow his spittle. My fear suddenly pervaded the whole house. I had no idea how I had come to be there, or who the old man I had slept next to might be. I attempted to retrieve the last image from my memory, but I could no longer put even a day on what I did remember.
With a great effort, the old chap twisted halfway round in the bed, and said something in a high-pitched voice, almost whistling and whining: »You’ve come?«
I didn’t know whether he was just talking to himself or I was also expected to answer. I felt diabolical. I dithered a bit longer on account of my briefcase before deciding that it didn’t matter, the main thing was to clear off. No sooner had I made up my mind, though, when a car drew up under the window and its headlights switched off. I started to sweat again in my clammy and stinking clothes. I was so jumpy that I trembled all over. It was too late now to make a bolt from the house. I have to hide, I thought to myself. But the whole house was made up by just two bare rooms; there was nowhere to go. I looked out of the window: it was not a police car. I calmed down a little at that, but the next instant there was a knock at the door. Having tidied my clothes and also my hair, there was nothing for it but to open the door. Good morning, said the man in yellow overalls, a doctor’s bag in one hand. Good morning, doctor, I replied, come in. How is the old fellow, he asked. Well…, I said, but without waiting for an answer the doctor went straight into the room and pulled a chair across to the bed. You came yesterday, he asked. Something like that, yes, I said, and started slowly to feel my way into the role, or rather it occurred to me that I might scrape through if I were to enter into the swim of it.
The doctor examined the motionless old man whilst I hung around in the doorway. He set the chair back in its place, packed up his bag, then on the way out paused by me in the doorway. I suppose you don’t want to have him admitted to hospital, he said, I’ve known him for thirty years and this is where he wants to die, in his own home. What’s wrong with him, I asked. The doctor stared ahead of him. His internal organs, he said, he needs a special operation. That would allow him to hold out a few more years, maybe even get him back on his feet. What do you think? I don’t know, I replied. My hands were ice-cold. The operation would cost a million and a half, he said. Well, what can I say, I replied. You know best, he said, placing a hand on my shoulder, then made to go but lingered in the doorway: try to get some food down him, grated vegetables or fruit, and fluid. Who took care of him up till now, I asked. I did, and I’ll look in again tomorrow, the doctor answered, and he departed. I heaved a sigh or two.
I turned towards the old man, who was puffing almost imperceptibly. It grew even brighter in the room. I searched through my pockets to see whether I had any money left on me: just a few tattered paper handkerchiefs. I rummaged through the drawers, the wardrobe and the dresser in the kitchen. I found no money, neither my briefcase, just a few utensils and a threadbare suit.
That’s enough of that, I thought, closing the front door after myself, then the garden gate, and set off down the muddy street. The occasional cyclists and pedestrians, having eyed one another, we nodded silent acknowledgements. It was even colder out in the street, with the wind going right through my clothes. I heard the sound of a bus around the corner and hurried my steps.
The names of two villages were displayed on the bus’s signboard, neither previously known to me. I did not board, having no money on me after all, though I did exchange glances with the driver for a few seconds before he closed the door. I could not have explained why, or even if I could, there was no way he was going to let me board without money. I gazed for a long time at the bus’s wobbling stern. Then I set off after it.
I contemplated ringing a doorbell and asking for some money, to be sent back later. I resolved to do that. I looked around: no one out on the street, then rang the bell on the wall of one of the larger houses. A dog scampered up to the fence and began mutely sniffing; it did not bark. No one came. I pressed again. The dog snorted. I waited another minute, but still nothing.
The fumes from the bus were still swirling around in the dank air. I carried on after it. I was overcome by hunger and thirst, and I was freezing. The road was on a gentle inclination, then after the incline swung round into a street market. I had already caught the smell of meat roasting from way off. In the market there were second-hand clothes and food for sale: loads of fruit and greens, and fresh-fry stalls. I searched through my pockets yet again, then thought to myself it was a pity I didn’t have a wristwatch, I could get a thousand for it now. By one of the second-hand clothes stalls the idea of selling my jacket flitted across my mind, but just beforehand I had buttoned it up to the neck so as not to freeze. I was simply loitering, but then it occurred to me that if I was going to steal anything, I would have to be snappy about it, before I became conspicuous.
I half unbuttoned my jacket and made my way along the row of stallkeepers like someone who had business there. On one trestle stood piles of carrots and apples; the vendor was deep in discussion with her neighbour, before whose stall there was a small queue of customers for eggs. I lifted a few grubby carrots and apples, whisked them under my jacket, buttoned it back up, and dodged past the queue.