‘They were destroyed. Not like in the middle ages when they were burned publicly. No, the Owners are much cleverer than that,’ she suddenly stands up. ‘But I managed to hide some articles. You want proof? I’ll show you.’
She gets a folding ladder out of the built-in wardrobe and climbs it so she can reach the uppermost compartment. I hold my breath. I will finally get to see the truth. Nurse Vogel is getting more and more nervous. ‘I don’t know...’ she says. ‘I’m quite sure it was here.’ She turns to me. ‘I sometimes take it out and just read it, hold it. I did it last month. But it’s not here.’ She rummages through the whole wardrobe, throwing clothes and bags out onto the floor.
‘It doesn’t matter Nurse Vogel. You can show me another time.’
‘It’s not about that. I have kept it here for decades. They must have broken in again. They took it.’ She’s so upset, I’m fearful for her safety and give her a hand getting down from the ladder. She’s pale as a ghost. Her frail body is trembling.
‘They’ve been here again,’ she keeps repeating, empty dread in her gaze.
I help her to sit down and then make her a strong tea in the kitchenette. I’m utterly confused, more than ever. She is so sensible, a kind, caring, admirable person. Is it possible that she is losing her mind? Or is she right?
‘In the article Adam is pictured on the front page, addressing a large crowd from the top of a car during the riots,’ she explains, her eyes darting around the room as if trying to keep an eye on all of it at once. ‘Behind them is the row of brand-new skyscrapers with an empty car park, closed off from non-residents, while the street is lined with tents and sleeping bags belonging to homeless families. A man holding a board with the message: “I’m a full-time teacher and homeless”.’
I’d really like to see the picture but right now I’m more worried about her.
‘How stupid I was to think they wouldn’t return. It must have been while I was at work.’
‘Do you want me to stay overnight? Would you feel better?’
She shakes her head.
‘Don’t worry about me. Come, there are still things I can show you.’
We walk around her room and I can’t stop admiring all the bric-a-brac, most of it completely unfamiliar to me. In the centre of the room, above her sofa, is a huge poster with a baby swimming under water to get a banknote that was the symbol of money in the old system. It says ‘Nirvana’ in the corner. I gaze at the picture with fascination, instinctively knowing this must have been important in Nurse Vogel’s youth. Like a museum curator, she tells me about the band called Nirvana and many others whose music she still keeps on dozens of so-called ‘CDs’. CDs were used to store music before it could be played on the ID Phone or on the Globe.
‘How do you play these?’ I ask, lifting up one of the round, flat discs.
‘Don’t touch it like that.’ She takes it away and carefully holds the edge of the disc between her fingers. Opening a glass cupboard, she shows me the player, an angular plastic box with several buttons on it. It’s funny how it swallows the CD and makes strange sounds before the music comes on. This is rough music, raw and primal and energetic.
We continue our tour around the room. The numerous books on her shelves include classic novels from the nineteenth century, heavy dictionaries and books on faraway, exotic places or famous inventors. I could stay here and explore this Aladdin’s cave for ages.
She picks up a photo of her husband and starts speaking to him. It’s just a murmur, and all I catch are the words ‘together’ and ‘finally’. She puts it back, sits down in an armchair and apologises.
‘May I ask, what was your marriage like?’ I sit back in the armchair by the window.
‘We were close, despite the difficulties. He helped me through the miscarriages. If we had only an hour after work, we spent it together.’
I’d like to ask her how she survived, how one recovers from such a loss, but I don’t want to open up her wounds.
‘You see, it was the opposite with us,’ I say, fretfully. ‘Even as Mid Spenders, Philip and I drifted apart. I was a hectic wife, and instead of paying attention to him it was easier to go out for a meal, to buy something new.’
I turn away to wipe a tear from my eye. I think of Philip, my easy, comfortable life with him, the evenings in our stylish living room. Our empty, wordless evenings.
‘And who can blame you?’ Nurse Vogel says thoughtfully. ‘When the outside world offers us endless excitement at the mere push of a button, the person next to us will always seem boring in comparison. But at least you’ve learned your lesson…’ She bites her tongue at the end but I know what she wanted to say. That I learned it too late.
Two Old Fools
The light of the fading sun, however comforting, didn’t help me relax. I loved sitting in the corner of our roof terrace, one of the few places where I always found peace. Earlier that day we’d been tidying extensively, Philip and I, sorting out decade-old junk, moving furniture that hadn’t been moved for years, washing bed linen and curtains for the new room. Mum and Dad deserved a fresh start.
Philip came over and crouched down to face me. He took my hand and put his head on my lap. The slight wrinkles on his forehead seemed more pronounced than ever, a dark shadow clouded his eyes. I was about to reassure him that my parents were OK to live with. But the wrinkle seemed to have softened just by the intimacy of holding hands and I remained quiet.
Mum and Dad had finally reached the stage everyone dreaded and anticipated at the same time. They had become non-profit. Having been good contributors, never out of work, they were given the gift of one extra free year of their Right To Reside, during which they were allowed to live with relatives before retirement, as a gesture of good will from the government. We were about to collect them that evening.
We lived in MW05, which stands for Mid Spender, West London, area number five. We considered ourselves lucky to be able to live there, with its leafy streets, filled with couples looking half their age, sipping iced cappuccinos on sun-soaked café terraces beside the promenade. It made my blood boil to think of Mum and Dad in their one-bedroom apartment in LE12, the most deprived area of London – apart from the Zone, of course – where there were an average of two abductions every month. It was an area filled with budget shops, unkempt parks, residents with a liking for cheap handbags and even cheaper wine. Mum never really got used to the Low-Spender Area, and never stopped missing our old family house, the semi in MN09. The lush new growth on my apple tree was the only thing reminding the world that we had been there. Like most of us, it had not only survived the uprooting from the old system to the new one, but flourished afterwards.
Both having full-time jobs, my parents had managed to stay in that house for a good twenty years, until one day Mum broke her ankle at the CinePalace where she worked as an administrator. That was the start of a downward spiral. A month’s absence from work was enough for her to be fired, without negotiation or any kind of recompense.
The next nail in the coffin was Dad’s stroke. It drained the money they had saved up by making sacrifices over the years: the money from missed concerts, missed theatre shows, missed opportunities. For example, instead of celebrating their silver anniversary in Hawaii, Mum’s dream place, they went to the Norfolk coast. I always admired how they could spend just enough to remain Mid Spenders and yet put some aside for an emergency. But, as was the case for most Mid Spenders, it was just a matter of time until they were forced to downgrade. In the end, the savings of the past twenty-something years were barely enough to pay off the costs of Dad’s operation and aftercare. While he was recovering in hospital, dreaming of coming home to his beloved home in MN09, unbeknown to him, Philip and I helped Mum pack up the house. The only thing we couldn’t pack was my tree. By the time Dad was ready to leave the hospital, Mum already lived in the small flat in LE12. I’ll never forget when we open
ed the front door for the first time, and mum saw the tiny, confined space she and dad were supposed to call home. It was the only time I saw my resilient, spirited mother break down.
A week later we picked Dad up in a heli-taxi.
‘We’re going the wrong way,’ he said.
We weren’t flying high; wearing his glasses, he could read the street signs saying MC05, then HC03. From the position of the Primavera Club, with its white windowless surface dominating the city skyline on the south-east, Dad realised we were flying in the opposite direction to where our old house was.
‘Where are you taking me?’ Dad’s cheerful tone nearly broke my heart. ‘Was this your idea?’
He looked at me, trying to smile, though it hurt him, to thank me for the surprise trip he assumed we’d planned for him. The gratitude on his face brought tears to my eyes, and I had to turn away. How could I tell him there was no surprise-trip? He patted my hand.
‘Let’s do this another time, darling! I need a big rest, you know. That’s all I need right now.’
Everyone stopped breathing. I took his right hand, Mum grabbed his left one, caressing it.
‘Ben! It’s not what you–’
‘It’s so kind of you. But can I go home now? I need to lie down.’
‘We’re going home, Ben.’ Mum’s voice was the softest I had ever heard.
‘Yes, Dad, we’re going home.’
Dad muttered something, half asleep now. His head dropped onto my shoulder.
I didn’t feel like getting up from the lounger. The sun still painted the sky an opaque pink but it didn’t release any more warmth. It was only Philip’s head on my lap that did. He opened his eyes.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked.
I sighed and nodded.
‘It will be good for them, you’ll see. Living in a better area and having us around.’
I nodded again. Our second bedroom was large enough for Mum and Dad to live in quite comfortably. The common areas were big enough that we wouldn’t be in each other’s way. I’d already been making plans, like cooking with Mum the way we used to, baking her favourite carrot cake with orange zest, or dining out on the roof terrace, watching the ever-exciting Mid-Spender world go by. Mum and Dad would be living among their own kind again, forgetting about the four years of Low-Spender nightmare. We were looking forward to a good year, unlike some people who were not keen on letting their elderly parents move in with them, secretly wishing something would happen. It might sound shocking, but I’ve met people like that. The staff room at my school was full of them. Beyond the one free year ahead, of course, I never dared think. As far as I was concerned, it would never come.
It was already dark when we arrived in front of Mum and Dad’s block. The illuminated windows of the tower block glinted down at me like a hundred-eyed giant.
‘Thank God it’s the last time we have to come to this place,’ Philip remarked while pressing the buzzer. In the lift we stared at each other, petrified.
‘It’s really happening, Phil. It’s not just a nightmare any more.’ I felt panic threatening to overcome me until Philip drew me closer.
‘It’s lucky they’ve got us, Ali. They’ll be fine.’
I almost burst out, saying this year before their retirement would fly by in a flash, but I forced my mouth shut. I nodded and fumbled for a tissue in my pocket.
Once Mum opened the door I knew something was wrong. They wore their best clothes, not what people wear for moving house. I had my long-forgotten childhood-mum in front of me, her hair freshly dyed a Scandinavian blonde, her face heavily made-up. She wore white from head to toe. As for Dad, it took a very special occasion for him to wear the exquisite lavender shirt Mum had given him for their silver wedding anniversary. Philip, ready to start packing, grabbed two boxes.
‘Philip,’ Mum said.
‘Yes?’
‘Philip, put the boxes down, please,’ Dad said, in a voice that made both of us look at him.
‘Can you two just sit down for a minute?’ Mum said calmly.
‘What’s happened?’ I asked, but got no reply. Mum and Dad sat on the sofa, expecting us to join them. This ugly mustard-coloured sofa had been our companion for more than twenty years. On its back I’d once secretly spread some mustard, to see if there was any difference between the colours. I knew it was the last time we would sit on it. Philip had rented an e-cart to take it to the Zone’s Distribution Centre after the move.
‘Before I start, I have to tell you, Alice and Philip, we are very grateful for your generous offer to let us spend our extra year with you.’ Dad spoke in an almost ceremonial manner. ‘However, we’ve decided not to. We’ve thought through our decision carefully and we are certain we want to go through with it. All we ask is for you to please accept it.’
‘What is it, Dad?’ I couldn’t hide the frustration in my voice. Philip put his hand over mine. It was cold like a windowpane on winter nights.
‘We’ve decided to move into a Dignitorium. Today.’
‘Is this a joke?’ Philip jumped up as if he’d been stung by a wasp. ‘Of course you’re not going to do that. It’s out of the question!’
‘Philip, what did I just ask you?’ Dad asked.
Philip shut up then, but I couldn’t.
‘Dad, please tell me this is a joke.’
He didn’t say anything. After that I became dizzy, my vision blurred. I remember bits and pieces like Mum crying, her make-up smudged and lipstick smeared around her mouth as if she had eaten a mouthful of raspberries; Philip being deathly pale, even paler than usual; Dad staring ahead without saying a word; and the taste of bile in my throat. I remember Philip helping me down the stairs, holding me tight. I wanted to scream but I didn’t have the strength. At one point we said farewell to the flat and went to the monorail station, waited there like normal people, as if we’d just been out for a meal. The only difference was that we had two e-trolleys fully packed with my parents’ personal belongings.
Sitting on the monorail, I looked at Dad on my right, then at Mum opposite me. Something shone through in both their faces, it was the closest thing to real relief I ever saw. Mum’s face, despite the red and black smudges of make-up, looked like it had been ironed. Even the crow’s feet around her eyes seemed to have melted away. Dad turned to me.
‘I understand it all came a bit suddenly. But why the big protest? It’s normal these days.’
‘I know, Dad. But we wanted you to come back with us. Into our home, which is yours now. How can you throw away a whole year of life?’
‘So tell me what we would do after the one year? Apart from what we’re doing right now?’
‘We would do something,’ Philip replied. ‘Things could get better, you could even find another job by then.’
Dad sighed. ‘At our age it’s impossible. You know it very well, Philip.’
‘Apart from that,’ said Mum, ‘our medical costs would increase year by year.’
‘Mum–’
‘It’s a burden I couldn’t put on you two. I can’t ask you to use up the savings you are putting aside for your children.’
‘Exactly! Now you can have children.’ Dad tried to look encouraging. ‘You couldn’t if we took up your only free room.’
‘Dad, don’t be ridiculous, we can have children next year, when you…’
They all stared at me, Dad with victory sparkling in his eyes.
‘I mean, it’s not so urgent for us to have children. That’s what I meant to say.’
‘Exactly,’ Philip said, with an edge to his voice. I have been replaying his words in my mind recently, wondering exactly whom they were intended for.
‘Darling, we’ve had our time.’ Dad’s voice was serious now. ‘We know when to give way to the next generation. You and your children are far more important than two old fools like us.’
> ‘One old fool,’ Mum remarked and Dad winked at her.
After a short walk we arrived at a long brick wall. The thick canopy of trees, illuminated by a green light, hinted at the paradise beyond. We checked in at the gate and went inside. I’d never seen a Dignitorium in the moonlight before. Even through my tears I appreciated the majesty of the place. A sweet scent of roses hit my nostrils. Victorian-style streetlamps gave out a soft yellow light. The white walls of the building glowed in the floodlight. Overlooking a small lake in the middle of a park, the regal beauty seemed to be inviting and mysterious at the same time. I shivered.
‘Look at this. Isn’t it stunning?’ Dad said. ‘This is what we want, no matter how short it will be.’
‘Twelve months of absolute happiness is not short, and you can visit us anytime you want to,’ Mum added.
Once the gate closed behind us, I couldn’t hold back my tears; I clung to Dad first, then to Mum. They kept telling me that this was the normal way of things. Even Philip said so, although I knew his real view on the subject. It’s one thing to hear about others doing it and another to see your own parents entering their place of death, no matter how rose-scented it is.
We went into the registration office, where the manager served us hot drinks. Mum was bubbling with the excitement of being inside the gorgeous main building. They were given a lengthy contract to read through and had been examining it for quite some time when Dad suddenly lifted his head.
‘Nine months?’ he looked up at the manager, a cordial gentleman who was seated behind a heavy oak desk, his short fingers tapping on the desktop while he explained the latest changes.
‘It’s a brand-new measure, Mr Walker. It will be announced tomorrow.’
‘I thought…we thought,’ Dad was stammering, ‘that it would be twelve months.’ He and Mum exchanged glances.
Philip jumped up from his seat, stormed over to Dad and grabbed the contract from him. He began reading it.
‘What’s this?’ he asked, barely repressing the fury in his voice.
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