A World of Darkness

by Michael Dissieux

  I can recognize Murphy’s window as a black rectangle inside the shadows. It’s like looking into a blind eye. I can’t discover Murphy in person. Then suddenly I hear his voice coming from the TV, sounding tired and slow and oddly metallic.

  I’m able to understand the words he utters now.

  “What’s the name of your wife?” he asks me. And after that: “How can I be sure that you really are Harv?”

  To hear his words feels being stabbed.

  Murphy’s voice had used to be calm and canny. That applied even more to him after Audrey had been dead. In all the time we had been friends I had never heard him speak as hectically and desperately like this morning. What the hell the world had made of my friend?

  I shake my head and rub my eyes. We’re not friends any longer. This morning Murphy had officially ended up with our friendship. Or why should he have held me at gunpoint?

  My mind is tempted to tear the old photographs, which picture my memories out of my deepest consciousness: the trips to Devon we had made together, having our girls linked with our arms and enough roguishness to impress these girls like two smitten, high-spirited teenagers; the matchless evenings we had spent on the porch of the shop, when the sun had disappeared between the hills, in doing so setting the mountain peaks on fire; the day I had helped Murphy to build his son Jeff a little cabin behind the house, where he later, as Jeff had already been living in town for a long time, had used to store bags of rice, crates and fabrics. While caulking the roof and the gaps between the planks with hot tar with the naked upper parts of our bodies in the hot sun glowing from sweat we had made plans for the future. We had concrete visions about how our lives should be once we had become two stupid, old men.

  Murphy’s idea was based on Jeff continuing his father’s shop – an idea the old fool had used to unfold with his eyes shining of delight.

  Neither of us had thought that our trivial visions wouldn’t have anything in common with the terrible reality fate had picked for the two of us.

  “What’s the name of your wife?” Murphy a last time asks out of the shadows of the house, then his voice falls silent and his words die off like a distant thunder rolling above the ridges. The house disappears from the screen and all that remains is a pitiful, old man in his worn to threads, old-fashioned armchair – a grey shadow in a grey world.

  I hate you, Mr. King, for that trivial sentence I once had used to marvel and that now gives distinction to my life. Perhaps with this sentence of yours you involuntarily brought about the end of the world.

  Though it’s merely past noon I get assailed by a deep fatigue. How good it would be to lie down and fall asleep; just to close my eyes, locking out the hateful world outside the house and to awake only when everything is over; to open my eyes and to blink into the dazzling sunlight; to breath the flavor of a freshly cut meadow and cool earth; to listen to the soothing, happy-go-lucky singing of some birds in the garden; just to break free from the terrible dream that had overrun me like a flood wave, bringing along only dirt, fetid and silence. Suddenly I curse myself for having grown as old.

  Damn, I have lived my life and there is no reason for me to complain. I had a great wife and a likewise great life in the hillside above Devon. So why I about ten days ago couldn’t have had simply a cardiac arrest and have taken the memory of the world and my life, as I had used to know them into grave? Why had I had to face how everything I had loved and used to know for nearly seventy years collapsed within a single minute, leaving behind only black, fuming ruins? Could this be another of the ordeals God had imposed upon me? Hadn’t Sarah’s fate been enough?

  I throw a short glance up towards the ceiling like I do each time I address a few words to God or whoever might be listening to me. Then I stare at my dreary reflection inside the TV-set again.

  I think to myself that I shouldn’t allow me any further memories when I suddenly see Sarah’s face appearing onto the tube. It’s not the ill and absent face of the Sarah, who one floor above me is laying in her bed, probably snoring quietly and dreamless, with a bit of spittle running from the edge of her mouth. No, what I see is a young, lively version of Sarah, just as she had been to the time when we went in for all the things I had thought of before. The shining blue lakes, I learned to swim in, the innocent smile that once had been dispossessing me of all of my senses …

  As my eyes are filling with tears the visage of the young woman on the TV gets blurred. I nervously wipe them away with the back of my hand, and when I look at the TV again Sarah has disappeared from it. I whisper her name. At least the grey old man on the TV moves his lips. But he doesn’t bring out a single tone.

  I drop into the armchair again and stare at the mousy fabric of my trousers. They are old and their seams are broken. But they had always been my favorite trousers and I had used to wear them on the days I hadn’t to leave the house and could spend the day with Sarah.

  That’s exactly what I want to do today.

  This grey man on the TV frightens me; for he resembles me such a damned lot; and the thoughts, which lead his mind to the edge of a stinking quagmire don’t suit me at all.

  When I stand up the grey man disappears from the screen, leaving behind the image of an empty armchair. I step out into the corridor and gaze at the stair that leads upstairs. But then I turn round again, looking at the TV, a device that now is useless, but whose news seem to have started apocalypse off. When looking at the black screen there at a sudden is an idea that creeps in between all the emotions and fears raging through my head, which resembles me as inviting and happy-go-lucky that I surrender to it unresistingly. I for the first time since some days feel something like life streaming throughout my body again.

  At the end of the corridor, behind the steps, there is a narrow, brown door I hadn’t opened since almost two years now. I as fast as my old legs admit rush towards it and turn the cold and dusty doorknob made of copper.

  During all the time we have been living here in the hillside I had used to stow old furniture and cases inside the little room behind the door, so that when I light the room with a thick candle I’m welcomed by a small museum of memories. Right at the entrance there is an ancient, bulky closet, which Sarah had brought along in the beginning of our marriage, standing in my way. There are grimaces of weird devils staring against me. One of the doors is hanging from its hinges. Cobwebs like feathery mists float between the demons grimaces. I inside the light of the flickering candle for an instant believe to see something like life inside the carved eyes of the figures.

  “You’re really growing old, you damn fool,” I whisper in a low voice and walk around the closet.

  Out of the shadows behind it are crystalizing numerous cases and baskets full of old fashioned underwear and dusty figurines. It might sound strange but I remember all the pieces and how I had stowed each of them throughout the years. I finally find what I had been looking for in the utmost corner, laying beyond a pile of blankets that smell of fustiness and dust.

  It had been Sarah, who had brought the old nautical chest into the home we shared. It had been a souvenir of her grand grandfather, who around 1890 had been a sailor and had been saving all his possessions inside this case. Though Sarah had often told me about him I’m not able to remember the man’s name. I’m a bit ashamed of that. But I remember very well her shining eyes whenever she had been raving about the old sea bear and I believe to remember the eyes of your girl counts a lot more than remembering the name of a man one never had got to know in person.

  Sarah had met her grand grandfather during his lifetime.

  At the evenings when we were sitting at the fireplace of our newly built home and having our tea she had often told me about how as a little girl she had been sitting at this heavily built man’s lap, excitedly listening to his cock-and-bull stories. This was the reason why she had never wanted to part with the old, worn to pieces chest, even if its locks didn’t work and its rusty hinges were loose. Sarah had often told me with a tender k
iss and her innocent eyes being widely opened that this chest was the best thing she had ever owned. What had I, as a Romeo in love, should have done against her urge to bring the chest along to our house?

  I soon have cleared the blankets away. I put the candle onto a pile of old books and begin to remove the chest out of its corner. Its iron legs rub against the dusty floor and in doing so produce a creaking sound.

  When I got the chest hauled towards the door and straighten up it is more than apparent that I no longer am a young man. My breath comes fast, in doing so aching inside my chest.

  I wait until my body has calmed a bit down and lean against the huge oak closet with the devil’s grimaces on it, which like a wall separates me from the rest of the room. In doing so I let my eyes wander over all the things that once had meant so much to Sarah and me; all the books, cabinets and figurines, hidden inside this silent little room and beneath a gray layer of dust, waiting for a lonely fool to remember them.

  When my breath is at rest again I take the candle, put it in front of the chest and begin to open up the iron armatures. Of course Sarah had never been able to lock the chest, though she had kept its keys inside a small jewel case that also contained her earrings. For they hadn’t been opened again since Sarah had become ill one of the locks nevertheless sticks.

  But then the blackly tarnished metal gives in, so that I‘m able to open the cover with a creak. At first this noise resembles me like the nightly howling of a Shoggothen.

  Holding one hand against my back to soothe my ache I have a look at the things Sarah and I had been storing inside the chest for all of our lives. Some old dresses of Sarah that she didn’t want to get rid of, because they had been the ones she had worn with our first dates and thus had “something magical” about them, like she had often assured me, when I had addressed her on her acquisitiveness.

  In the chest I also find some books that are worth saving from the dusty chamber and that used to have some meaning to the both of us. So I see Hemingway’s “The Old Man and the Sea“. On behalf of her grand grandfather’s life this book had of course belonged to Sarah’s favorites. Above that it had been the first book, which Sarah had lend me at our second date, as to that I should be able to share her ardor for seamanlike life. This had meant a lot to me then, although I hadn’t liked the book as much as I had suggested her. What had been more to me was the fact that she – already as soon as at our second date – had so much faith in me that she entrusted me with a book that meant as much to her.

  I take the book from the chest and regard its cover. As if being able to destroy the memory just by touching it, I run my thumb over the hard book case, picturing an old man in his boat among of six-foot high crests.

  The odor of its dusty, old pages comes into my nose and I believe to smell a little bit of Sarah from the book.

  I put it back, treating it as carefully as it was made of glass. Then I take the thing that I had actually come into the chamber for from the chest and then shut its cover without having another look into it.

  Too painful are the memories that overrun me in each second I’m suspiring the breath of long gone times.

  I never had liked the device, which I now hold in my hands. It’s a new-fashioned, battery operated DVD-player that was apt for travelling. It had been the last present our son had given to us in order to we didn’t have to watch our films in the “belowground” quality of my old video recorder, as Barry had used to say.

  We had never used the device; the reasons for it being on the one hand because its convertible screen had been too small for us and on the other hand that Sarah and I had been attached to our old fashioned films, which simply had to be of a “belowground” quality.

  Even now that I’m holding Barry’s present in my hands and regarding it from all sides, it seems strange to me. I know how to operate it. Back then Barry had made the effort to induct me into the secrets of modern technology.

  It’s hard to believe that my sudden flourishing is actually focused on this device that up till now had been useless to me.

  Without really anticipating that the battery – after all the weeks in oblivion – would still have some leftovers of electric charge, I open the screen and press the round button that gets the device started.

  In the next moment there actually flashes up a little green light. The wave of relieve that hits me as hard that my old body starts to shiver startles me to the bones. Had the world really turned as far that the twinkle of a little lamp was able to upset me as much?

  There is also a DVD inside of it. I suddenly remember that Barry – in addition to the device – had presented us with our favorite film “Casablanca”. We though had preferred our old videotape version and never given Barry’s present the slightest whiff of a chance.

  But times have changed.

  I therefore take the device into one of my hands and the candle in the other and close the door of the little chamber behind me. I involuntarily ask myself if I would ever set a step into the room again. Another thought to get me exited.

  Through the window shutters there’s enough dreary daylight for me to find my way upstairs without having to use a candle. I blow out the small flame and put the candle onto the foot of the banister, like I do always as to being able to find the candles even in the dark. Then I with Barry’s device clenched beneath my arm climb up the stairs, enjoying the creak of the loose stair like the chant of the most beautiful sirens; in doing so I for the first time in the last ten days smile.

  II

  When I enter the room Sarah is sleeping.

  The air is stifling and stale.

  The bluish grey daylight that falls in between the narrow gap inside the window shutters bathes the room into pale shadows, making it look like a dusty tomb. Sarah wiped off the blanket. Her body resembles thin and frail, her skin in the twilight looks sickish.

  This sight is more than I at the moment am able to bear.

  I put the DVD-player on the small table, go over to her and cover her smoothly. I again feel hot shame arising inside of me, for regarding her haggard body is an awkward sight for me to see. I’m just not able to accept what the disease has made out of my once so fun-loving and jolly wife. I sometimes get the feeling that this desolate shell was all that was left from Sarah. The disease has taken everything else. I know that these thoughts are unworthy against my love to Sarah, but I’m not able to fight them off and therefore have to give me will-less away to their mockery.

  Her face looks peaceful. Her eyes are closed and resemble pieces of black coal that had been pressed into her sockets. Her rough lips are tightened to a narrow line; a sign that she is dreaming.

  I push the table directly in front of the bed’s foot, arrange Barry’s device in a way that the small, convertible screen is aimed towards the bed and switch it on. One look at the display shows me that the battery is still loaded fifty-fifty. When Barry had explained me the device he had loaded the battery before.

  As we then had needed almost the entire evening until Barry had explained me even the smallest detail of modern technology there of course couldn’t be a lot of charge left. But it should be enough to enable us to watch a film.

  It takes me a moment until I have found the correct buttons. I never have been good with technology. But then to my surprise the screen shows off the cover picture of the DVD, including its menu bar. I press “Start”, undress my slippers and get into bed with Sarah.

  When I lift the blanket I’m hit by an odor of sweat and vinegar. I wonder if that’s what death smells like.

  Leaned on my forearm I look at her face and gently touch the rough skin of her cheek. As she at the same time gives a slight jerk I’m taking pride in the thought that she had felt my touch and regain a little bit of the hope that I in fact don’t feel any more. Even being aware that this hope is just a placebo it nevertheless suits me – and it is all that I still can hold on to.

  “Darling, I brought Humphrey along with me”, I say in a low voice.
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  Back then, when we had used to watch the film on the ancient video recorder, which Barry had referred to as “belowground”, I whenever I had extracted the tape from its shelf had announced the film with these words. Her answer had used to be: “I hope Ingrid has come with him.”

  It’s a beloved ritual that I miss.

  This time Sarah doesn’t answer. She stays silent and dreams on her unknown dream.

  I shuffle my arm beneath her airy body until her head comes to rest at my shoulder. An acid odor ascends from her hair.

  I then lean my head against the upper end of the bed, squeezing a pillow beneath my shoulders and regarding the small screen of Barry’s present, while my fingers tenderly run through Sarah’s unkempt hair.

  Every word and each single note of the soundtrack of the film seems to stab me into the heart. I feel remorseless memories of better times trying to arise inside of me; memories of times when I didn’t have to watch the film alone.

  I try to concentrate on the film and to repeat all of its dialogues in my thoughts. In doing so I constantly run my hands through Sarah’s unkempt, stringy hair, just the way I had done back then, when she had been leaning her head against my shoulder. How often might we have been listening to Humphrey on cold winter evenings, with a steaming cup of tea beside us and an open fire producing the proper background music to it?

  She breathes easy. Her chest lifts regularly. Even these things remind me of the long-forgotten evenings, although she now isn’t breathing so placidly out of pure well-being.

  I wonder how Barry might be doing.

  I haven’t seen him again after the day he had given us the DVD-player. We had been talking two times on the phone and had agreed upon him visiting us for X-mas. But I don’t think this will happen anymore. He didn’t come forward since the word had fallen silent. How could he have managed? The phone doesn’t work anymore. And of course I no longer get my mail, as much as I might be missing my newspapers and Daryll on his damned bike.