by Tom Newton
Ahead of him was a wizened olive tree. Nine leant against it.
Nine. Is that you?
Not any more. Forty-Five now. Imagine this. In the recent future there are restaurants which cater to people who prefer not to dine on the premises, they order their food and carry it off to eat elsewhere. To facilitate the ordering process the menus are numbered. In such an establishment the number Forty-Five might refer to chicken fried rice. If you think I chose this number because of this dish, you are wrong. If you think I numbered myself after some cowboy six shooter you are wrong again. The fact is, my choice of number is a personal matter not to be divulged, so save your questions. Regarding questions, I will permit you only one. When you’ve used that up you will have to discover a different way to converse.
There was a lot that Franz could ask. He knew nothing of this man except that he did not seem at all the same person as the prisoner he had been provided and whose life he had spared. He supposed he had to allow for change. He had changed too.
Why is it that you randomly appear and disappear?
That is because, in your eyes, I oscillate between existence and non-existence. But I wouldn’t assume it is random.
Now that he had asked his first and final question, Franz did not know what to say. They sat together for a few minutes then Forty-Five broke the silence.
People who have nothing much to say ask a lot of questions. It’s not a very inspiring technique. I’ll show you something much more inspiring. Look.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a rectangular strip of paper.
Watch this.
He looped it into a ring by holding the narrow edges together then he twisted one edge and rejoined them.
See? A Möbius strip, a closed Möbius strip, a non-orientable object. It has only one side and one boundary. Two planes have become one. The inside is the outside.
He ran his finger along the plane to illustrate his point.
You can have two kinds of Möbius strips depending on whether you make a clockwise or anti-clockwise twist but that is splitting Euclidean hairs. They still have the same properties either way. It’s a beautiful thing don’t you think? You could describe it mathematically as:
x (u,v) =1 + v/2 cos u/2 cos u
y (u,v) = (1 + v/2 cos u/2) sin u
z (u,v) = v/2 sin u/2
where 0 ≤ 2 Π and
-1 ≤ v ≤ 1
Or if you desire you could view it poetically. For example, take the idea that two planes become one and map it on to the concept of self, then you might see the boundary between one self and another is dissolved, so you and I could be the same person. I said that I oscillated between existence and non existence. If you applied the Möbius strip poem to that thought, you could say that I just oscillate because are not existence and non-existence the same thing? Then maybe you would deduce that I do not exist, for with only one plane, what is there to oscillate between? Take your question and answer obsession. The questions are the answers are the questions are the answers ad infinitum. You can do what you like with it. You know, it was discovered by a couple of your countrymen. What gets really interesting is when you cut a Möbius strip lengthwise and then cut it again and again. I don’t have scissors with me, otherwise I would show you but you should try it yourself some time.
Franz was fast asleep on the ground.
50
At about 9:30 the next morning Ariadne went to Mrs Zombanakis’ house. She had awoken listless without knowing why, until she understood that she wanted to get a glimpse of Franz again. She was worried about him and what the English would do. Poor Franz. He was a straightforward man who had become a stranger to himself. She liked him more than she should. She tapped on the door. Broad of beam, Mrs. Zombanakis filled the frame but she was also short and Ariadne could look over her.
I’ve come to see Flight Lieutenant Purvis.
He’s gone. They are both gone. Gone for good.
Mrs. Zombanakis had a sharp intelligence about social relationships. She understood why Ariadne had come. She also had the capacity for malevolence, honed by a hard life and years of religious belief. She hated this whore, so young and beautiful, who trampled all over every shred of decency. All for the sake of her own vanity and lust. She had been carrying on in this way for years, while good women toiled and struggled to care for their families. What made it worse was that she had done quite well for herself, better than most. Mrs. Zombanakis was furious. Her little eyes twinkled.
Where’s the prisoner?
Mrs. Z. ran her hand across her throat.
He’s gone too. The dark haired one did it. I saw him cleaning his gun, then he took the German away and came back without him.
She paused to study her effect.
They are busy men these English. Good men. They have a war to fight. They don’t have time for prisoners.
Ariadne did not know whether to believe the dried up old bitch. She probably hadn’t seen a cock in years. She only had orgasms from Jesus.
This girl will go with anyone. Italian, German, English. Makes no difference to her. I don’t even want to defile myself by talking to her. Who knows who’s watching?
She slammed the door shut in Ariadne’s face.
Ariadne stood for a while, digesting the vitriol. That old bag knew how she felt for Franz. She was woman enough to see these things, a mean, bitter, evil woman. She went back home. Franz was dead or the British had taken him somewhere. Either way, they would probably never meet again. She was empty.
51
Soon it would be time to say goodnight to the children. He loved them profoundly, all six of them. Had they been old enough to make their own decisions, they would have agreed with him that death with the Führer was the only honourable course of action. Magda agreed. She had no desire to live in a world where the beacon of National Socialism had been extinguished. She had always been more in love with the Führer, he thought, than with him.
They had been living in this bubble for nine stagnant days. Nine days that seemed eternal. There was nothing much he could do but set the record of history straight, while waiting for the inevitable.
He thought about the fact that, among all the members of the Party elite, he was the only one who had stayed with the Führer to the end. Only he had possessed the fortitude. The Führer had ordered him to leave and he had refused. It was the only time he had ever disobeyed him. He had made the right decision. It was not that he relished death but he had a choice – to be the architect of his own, or let the Russians do it. All men were mortal.
They had heard with dismay of the fates of Mussolini and his mistress. Much better to die with dignity and honour in the privacy of the Führerbunker. He had made the arrangements. Magda would give the children sleeping draughts with their evening meal. As soon as they were asleep, she would administer the poison he had provided. After they had assured themselves that the children were safely dead, they would withdraw to their bedchamber and, as soon as he saw Magda bite down on the cyanide capsule, he would shoot her. He would then do the same to himself. He had instructed his adjutant Schwaegermann, to enter the room, after he had heard the two shots, and carry their bodies up to the garden for incineration. He would cheat the Russians and they would die martyrs. He understood that his own life and death were unimportant. What mattered to him was the legacy he would leave behind.
He had no regrets but one. They had not finished their film. It had been a labour of love for both him and the Führer. It had been an exciting time. He wondered what had ever become of that Leis fellow. When he had never arrived in Paris, he believed that Leis must have betrayed them and deserted. Later, a report had come in about a wrecked vehicle, probably destroyed by the Luftwaffe, which had been discovered in a ditch in Northern France. It was found to contain two charred bodies, too badly burnt and decayed for identification. Perhaps he had remained true.
Time was running short. He was aware that Schwaegermann and the others were becoming increasingly
anxious. They would carry out their final duties, and then make their attempt at escape. Magda must have already given the children their sleeping potions.
He closed his journal and squared it on the desk. He placed his pen parallel to its spine then he rose and straightened his jacket. He felt calm. He left the room and wound himself up the spiral staircase to the floor above. The children were almost asleep when he entered. He went to each one and kissed their foreheads. Magda waited nervously by the door, a spoon in her hands.
Goodnight children.
Goodnight Father.
52
Franz woke up alone, stiff from sleeping outdoors. He was hungry but there was nothing to eat. He got up and staggered towards the sun. He would find Ariadne. She wanted to leave as much as he did. They would hide in the hotel and when things had settled down they would go to Athens. He had been thinking about it. They would have more opportunities in Athens. It would be easier to get to America from there.
He was trying to remember what Forty-Five had been talking about. There was a piece of paper. Beyond that he drew a blank. He had been so tired he might have dreamed it all. As he made his way over the mountain, a group of women were approaching him like a wind. He could not see them and was not aware of what was happening. There were just enough of them to constitute a crowd and they had been drinking all night. They still were.
He heard them first, laughing and shrieking, then he could see them as they came over a bluff. They were dishevelled and half naked, some of them completely so. They were moving fast, slapping and caressing each other and swigging from a goatskin bag. As they came closer, he was shocked to see Ariadne among them. He had never known her to get drunk this way. She had always seemed so self-controlled. There were scratches on her breasts and her hair was tangled. She was laughing and weeping hysterically.
The day before she had met a friend who invited her to a village festival in the mountains. It was an annual event and very ancient. This year it was bound to be special as the defeat of Germany was inevitable. The local wine up there was known to be strong. Ariadne did not generally go in for these sorts of things. She was not a big drinker and large gatherings made her uncomfortable but she decided to accept on the spur of the moment. It would be good to do something different, the last few years had been bleak and difficult. She would be someone else for a short while.
They reached the village as evening fell and she soon found herself in the company of other women. It was good to hear real laughter again. The wine was definitely strong. It had a liberating effect that came on quickly. She kept drinking and soon felt a delicious abandon. They all felt that way. It was unspoken. They began to strip off their clothes along with the shackles of civilization. They became ecstatic and tearful. They felt their power as women, full of anger and desire. Men were afraid of them. It was a pleasure and added fuel.
They started to move with no sense of direction, breaking things along the way, raping anyone they chose, having sex with each other, as one. They had no cares, no memory, no pity. There was no time.
When they came upon Franz, they encircled him.
There’s a scarecrow man. A scarecrow man.
The chant passed from mouth to mouth. Their hands were on him, tearing at his clothes, clutching for his face and limbs. His trousers fell to his ankles just as he was stepping back to avoid their onslaught and he tripped up.
It was this stumble that cost him his life. As his head smashed into the rock on the ground behind him, causing a blinding flash, he had one last vision.
An owl stared and blinked.
∞
Precizo, historia ău alie, ne estis la intenco de ĉi tio rakonto. Kio estus la punkto?
Accuracy, historical or otherwise, was not the intention of this story. What would be the point?
Dankon NN kaj SD, kreintoj de eblo
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tom Newton left school at sixteen to immerse himself in London’s punk music scene in the late 1970s. He has since worked as a merchant seaman, musician, sound engineer, mastering engineer and prop man, while experimenting with writing and film making.
His interests lie in psychology, art, music, science, mythology, absurdity, history and meaninglessness.
This electronic edition first published in 2015 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc,
50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
Copyright © 2015 Tom Newton
“Cheek To Cheek” by Irving Berlin
© Copyright 1935 by Irving Berlin
© Copyright Renewed
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This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination.
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eISBN: 9781408872840
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