Love Doesn't Work

by Henning Koch

  I was not a backward dictator. I built telephone exchanges in every town and village. Many objects could be hired at reasonable cost, and hospitals and schools were equipped with all the high technology the human race was capable of.

  The Internet struck me as a tool ideal for the spread of filth and corruption, so I abolished it. I quickly rooted out its criminals, pornographers and profiteers and turned them to gas.

  Music has always struck me as the noblest of all arts, but I felt the distribution of recorded music had deeply damaged its fabric. Hence I prohibited the sale of all CDs and vinyl, and built concert halls and smaller venues all over the countries of the world, where people were free to play their instruments.

  The travel industry was disbanded. I felt it important that people should be able to travel if they so chose, but I wanted a return to the parochialism that had ruled the world up until the early 1800s. In those days any journey across national boundaries was hazardous, as packs of wolves attacked carriages, and a lack of hotels and restaurants made travel something for the hardy. Also, travelers then actually had something to report upon. The foods of foreign lands, the languages and customs of distant climes, were notable and unique. Prior to the revolution, I was saddened by the globalization that the world’s cretinous leaders seemed to feel was such a noble thing. Their weird and twisted manipulation of natural economics caused enormous numbers of people to migrate hither and thither in search of prosperity. I emphasize that this transmigration had nothing to do with the poverty of the lands these people left behind. Many a time a family would set out, leaving a pleasant green valley behind where their forefathers had farmed for many millennia, choosing instead some vast, filthy city with the prospect of soulless work in laundries, restaurants or other places that did not merit existence. Languages had begun to shrink and disappear. Habits and customs were merging everywhere and people no longer knew who they were. This was all excused in the name of multiculturalism, as it was known in the richer countries. In fact, the intellectuals of these countries conveniently excused the fact that the poor peoples of the world were their slaves, living in the nastiest, filthiest areas and doing the jobs no one with any self-respect would ever touch. To compound this misery, this same intellectual ruler class soon emigrated with its pots of money into the overpopulated poorer countries, buying up vast tracts of land and further enslaving the peasants. Soon, the poor countries were full of spa resorts and luxury hotels. Within another half a century, the so-called third world had also become a market for all of the cheap, mass-produced electronics and motorcars so prized by the capitalists.

  It was more or less at this time that I stepped in.

  I have become the most hated man in the history of the human race. I have not sought to defend myself, because it matters little to me what people think. In my own heart I know that I have been the savior of the planet.

  Some of my reforms were unpopular. I allowed the sea to reclaim large tracts of land in Holland and Bangladesh and other low-lying land. I have always been fond of the sea, and there is no good argument for devoting enormous resources to holding it back from its rightful sphere of influence. To restore Neptune’s kingdom, I stopped all coastal and ocean fisheries for a period of twenty-five years. My critics, none of whom survived, pointed out that this would cause hardship and starvation. This never occurred, because in the same period the global population was considerably reduced. In fact, I found it necessary to atomize the genitalia of about ninety percent of the population. Within forty years this had the desired effect without, I think you will agree, any excessive cruelty. The freedom to have sex struck me, then as now, as highly debatable. At the beginning of my reign, I felt that people had become over-sexualized. Hence I decided that sex should be raised to the level of art. I encouraged an open presentation of sex as a part of the sacred ritual of life. However, like many mystics before me, I struggled to control my own response to eroticism, and finally came to the conclusion that only by atomizing my own genitalia could I remain impartial. This was swiftly done and I have never regretted it.

  Of course I also screened people who would have the responsibility of producing tomorrow’s children. In my earlier days it had always troubled me that the vulgar mob—particularly alcoholics, psychopaths and other regressives—produced the majority of the children, who quickly followed in their parents’ ravaged footsteps, mainly because the intricacies of contraception were beyond their minuscule comprehensions.

  People wanting children had to apply for Child Seeker’s Permits, which were only ever awarded after a lengthy consultative process.

  I also immediately reduced the size of the world’s megacities by about 75 percent. My method was severe, but in my view fair. I would walk through cities and retain buildings that struck me as having some kind of architectural worth. All other buildings I atomized, and in their place established parks or dwellings. Of course, taste played a part here. Some may question whether one man’s subjective view should have had such free rein. But they would be democrats, and democrats do not understand the nature of solving problems. Democrats merely believe in the sacred necessity of discussing problems until those problems grow out of control.

  Any buildings that had been built for profit, without any thought for the aesthetic consequences, were simply removed.

  Economically, my reforms were not immediately a success, and after a global economic slump I responded by abolishing all currencies and replacing them with nothing.

  Food, clothing, and housing were free. Everything else was paid for in work. Work was itself a currency, and those who refused to work were simply atomized. Sick and elderly people were permitted to live in hospitals for a certain amount of time, but if their friends or families were unwilling to care for them, they were eventually atomized in a place of their choosing. At first, societies found this a cruel practice, but as people came to accept the constant presence of the darkness outside this globule we call life, they gradually began to defer to its power. The darkness becomes less pervasive once we choose the time of our meeting with it. It was the haphazard nature of death that caused humans to fear it.

  Religion was a thorny problem. I have always viewed religion as a good distraction from the business of life. Life, and all matter, is deeply corrupt. Religion, by its very nature, is evanescent and removed from the vagaries of physical life. It is one of the few areas where idealism may be justified. Hence I built monasteries, churches, mosques and temples. I allowed people to pursue their religions. Several religious orders set up hospitals and other places of refuge for sick and ailing people. My one stipulation was that the religious were not allowed to speak of their faith. Debates were to be conducted in writing only. This led to a renaissance in the art of writing. Extremists or martyrs were atomized before they had time to hoist their flags and holler the name of some tainted theology. Their fervent cries gurgled in their throats as they crumbled into stray atoms.

  I have always been a believer in brevity, and although I have been an absolute ruler for a half century, I do not hold myself so important that I shall leave long accounts of my life, as so many others have done. Julius Caesar, for instance. Hence I have destroyed all of my belongings, including books, letters, and other personal effects. The only thing I shall leave behind is a small necklace of white gold set with a single topaz. This, to remind those who come after me that the human home is a realm of pure refracted light. We must not believe in the ultimate value of the individual, for the individual is nothing but a base collection of desires and vanities.

  Some may believe that I have been a harsh man, imposing himself on the earth. To these people, who after my passing will be free to criticize me, I only wish to say this: history is full of mad dictators who have killed mindlessly. Had I been such a man, the earth would not be here today.

  I have no doubt that within a few years of my death, humanity will resume its reckless charge towards self-destruction. But I do not have eternal life, nor would I wis
h to spend an eternity restraining an infant child from stumbling towards the edge of a cliff.

  I see no further reason to prevent this child falling into the immense glittering sea that lies below. It is my view that if the infant wishes to fall, then at least let him fall in beauty, like the Greek charioteer.

  I hope that, in my absence, we shall at least accomplish this.

  Gradisca

  * * *

  i) Prologue

  Now I must tell you about Gradisca. Gradisca! Embodiment of my failure, also my separation from what I have always sought.

  For the sake of simplicity, let’s just call it happiness.

  Where do I begin? How can I describe the choices I made? I, who do not even believe in the idea of choice, this erroneous concept invented by neo-liberal economists.

  Most of us can do nothing but accept the path laid out for us.

  We do not steer the ship. We are towed in its wake.

  The Greeks knew the gods do not often take humans for their lovers, but Gradisca was bound to be discovered soon by an Olympian, then quickly and efficiently spirited away. I wonder if she knew this grand thing she had become in my eyes? I suspect not. Like all magical beings, she seemed unaware of her own significance.

  Gradisca: I see her in my mind like a naiad, wearing a green knitted top that finished just below her navel and perfect jeans, sculpted to her hips. At the approach of midday she stands as always in the window of her watch shop, her face tastefully and lightly made up, those slight wrinkles at the corners of her eyes indicative of the fact that she is a woman in her late thirties. Every day she’s on duty behind her counter, except in the summer, when she’s often outside on the pavement. She likes the taste of freedom, holding spirited conversations on her mobile or chatting to passing acquaintances.

  Once I saw a group of pubescent boys, crammed into a dilapidated car with speed stripes, slamming on their brakes when they saw her, to ask for directions. Gradisca was happy to oblige.

  In the summer months she goes religiously to the ice cream bar twice a day. The mirrors are always kept polished there, it is the perfect place to touch up one’s hair and make-up. Or maybe she just liked ice cream? Sometimes I was in the ice cream bar having coffee or a grappa when she walked in. In fact, thinking about it, it only happened once or twice.

  There was too much electricity between Gradisca and me. I knew that if I ever touched her there would be no way back for me. This was not an option.

  I have a complicating factor. I’m married. Nominally married, you could say. My wife lives far away. I haven’t seen her in a very long while. From time to time she writes, tells me how much she misses me. And of course I get sent her bills, which I have to pay.

  It’s not a very satisfactory arrangement.

  Nonetheless, looking back, I suppose it was easier to avoid the Gradisca conundrum altogether, keeping her as a fantasy. Why rip the chest cavity open, why expose the pump?

  The first time I went to the watch shop, I was with my father. He was enquiring about an alarm clock, and Gradisca was facing him squarely with a charmed smile on her face.

  That day my father was wearing a slightly old-fashioned but ironed and neat-looking checkered cotton shirt. As usual, he was clean-shaven and suave as he took off his sunglasses and waved his hand slightly in the air, launching into his mellifluous Italian. He kept his chin down and looked slightly pressurized.

  We said goodbye, and I noted that Gradisca pointedly included me in her polite farewell even though I hadn’t spoken to her.

  She was wearing a wrap-around blouse of a type I’ve never seen before. It clutched the outline of her breasts with a deep-plunging hem, and yet it revealed absolutely nothing. Infinitely sexy, utterly sophisticated. Few women can dress like that. I don’t think I will ever forget the way she looked that day.

  As we walked out, I realized I had been pole-axed.

  “I had to concentrate in there,” admitted my father, who is almost seventy years old.

  I was by myself the second time I went into Gradisca’s shop, probably no more than a week later. I wanted to see whether this woman was really as stratospheric as all that.

  Or had it been a trick of the light?

  When I walked in, my first emotion was disappointment: she was not wearing the famous wrap-around blouse. She had an Indian cotton skirt on, red as blood, and a body-hugging green top that matched her eyes. Her skin glowed like dark African honey. She must have been spending time on the beach.

  Again, she gave me a friendly reception, smiling encouragingly as I tried to speak Italian. I asked her to check the battery in my watch. As she rummaged in a drawer, I analyzed her discreet yet also suggestive cleavage, but not for long enough to risk being caught out. I kept myself correct, paid and left.

  A few days later I saw her walking in the main piazza, where some young boys kicking a ball stopped and looked as she passed by. I followed at a discreet distance, admiring those small feet and shapely calves, that rounded posterior of substance, the long chestnut brown hair that rippled with vitality against her shoulder-blades.

  As I stared, I sensed many other eyes pursuing her. A hushed silence had fallen over everything. Everyone watched as she traversed the bleached sunlit piazza with quickening steps, desperate to get off the public stage.

  A thought hit me. Maybe it was significant that she worked in a watch shop? In some way my feelings for Gradisca related to time, its passage.

  All my life was about waiting, waiting for a wife who never came home.

  Gradisca, in her shop of pendulums and chimes.

  Gradisca, peering at her watch, waiting to go home.

  Gradisca, herself a time-piece, a woman most likely longing for a child before it was too late.

  With Gradisca there was an opportunity to halt the passing of time. To live, instead. To be in the moment and never again have to be out of step. A form of immortality, almost.

  The third time I went in to see Gradisca I felt she was prepared for me. As soon as I entered the pristine shop with its expansive, polished marble floors, as soon as I slid across the floor towards a revolving plastic tower of sunglasses, she made her way over to me.

  Not eagerly, exactly, but attentively.

  There was something sluggish about me, as if time was dragging indecently at my capacity to speak. I managed to say in very poor Italian that my eyes were hurting. I needed some shades. She nodded and indicated I should sit down. Then she faced me squarely, gazing thoughtfully at my face before gently removing my glasses.

  “These!” she said, carefully slotting a pair of futuristic frames into position.

  I looked at myself in the mirror, twisting and turning and wishing I could suavely whip out some cash and buy them. But they weren’t me, to be honest, nor did I have very much cash. In the end, I simply put my old, scratched glasses back on and told her what I really needed was a new watch. My old Japanese model was unreliable.

  She crossed the marble floor and slid open a drawer, picked up a wristwatch and dangling it in the air for me to see; then gestured for me to come and have a look.

  But I shook my head, overwhelmed by my inability to speak in a language she could understand. My mind was bursting with little comments, jokes, remarks I would have liked to tell her. Instead, all I had was my large, ungainly body and my empty hands.

  “No. Grazie.”

  There was a hollow silence, a silence that seemed to cry out for something to be said, so she politely asked: “Qualcos’altro?”

  I shook my head and started backing away. I was just about to turn round when she launched a smile that punctured and passed clean through my ventricles.

  The intricate expressiveness of that smile overwhelmed me. First, this was certainly some attempt on her part to communicate despite our verbal differences. I felt she was aware of our communication problems, hence she had to try and say something with her smile. And she certainly had. With that smile she told me everything.

&n
bsp; Of course it could only have been in my mind. Our eyes must have met for a mere fraction of a second. Then I walked out. I was boiling with desire, but the lava was bubbling far below the surface, and there was a thick plug of rock on top.

  One day I would blow up.

  Later that day I was in the ice cream bar talking to Rafaela, my landlady, a pleasant-looking woman in her late forties with large crystal earrings, untidy hair, Birkenstocks, always with a selection of crap drawings she tried to sell you. At a quarter to five, fifteen minutes before the shop was opening, Gradisca sauntered in. At first she didn’t see me. I was talking to Rafaela, discussing something fairly practical, like a faulty water meter or similar, but I was unable to take my eyes off the other side of the bar, where Gradisca was performing a sort of dance, by which I mean she was whirling in front of the mirror, buffing her hair and making sure her tight-fitting t-shirt looked right. Now and then she would look over at the girl at the counter, making some joke or casual remark. The two of them seemed more than close, almost like members of the same family.

  From time to time she lifted her eyes and glanced in my direction with enormous intensity. I noticed because I could see her reflection in the mirror and I was able to study her face as she was watching me. Even more unexpectedly, she kept glancing nervously at Rafaela. Perhaps wondering who this rival might be?

  I was vaguely aware of Rafaela saying things to me, but I was in another world. Gradisca left the mirror and walked out, passing close to where we were standing. We smiled at each other. “Bona sera,” I said.

  She looked relieved and reciprocated.

  In the next few days I just occasionally glanced through the windows as I passed. Sometimes I saw her standing there. On one occasion I passed just as she was bending forward to pick something up. Her rump was towards the window. I couldn’t avoid feasting my eyes.