Wolf Country

by Tunde Farrand

  ‘Do we know, does anyone know for sure if it’s possible to buy our way out? Has anyone read the full appendix?’

  ‘No one really knows for sure,’ Philip sighs. ‘But that’s not the point. The point is, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘How can you say it doesn’t matter?’

  ‘Don’t you understand, Ali? Even if there is a way to buy someone out, the cost has been deliberately made so high that you can’t borrow it and you can never earn it.’

  After finishing our moussaka, we are ready to look at the dessert menu. Now there are more residents around us, enjoying food and unlimited drinks. Men and women with immaculate hair, their faces riddled with wrinkles but still presentable, are chatting and laughing, holding a wine glass in their perfectly manicured hands, like the people you see in colourful cruise adverts. The women limp around in high heels like injured birds, blue roads of veins sticking out on their calves. If insecurity had a smell, the place would stink. Their well-cut, expensive clothes cover those areas of the body that are most prone to ageing. They are perfectly armed with illusions, pretending right up till the last minute. The meal has been excellent; the whole thing feels just as Mum described it, like being in a luxury resort where your senses are pampered in an almost hedonistic way.

  The Salon is hotter than ever, even here in the corner in front of the bookshelf, where there is no direct sunlight. Nothing stirs in the stifling air. Next to us the grand piano’s shiny chestnut surface is collecting dust, barely visible to the eye. Philip is holding my hand; I rest my head on his shoulder. Talking would only ruin this harmony we have so little left of. Our hands do the talking instead, his finger tracing circles on my palm.

  My wrist band starts blinking. I don’t want to go. We’re counting the moments, trying to stretch them out one by one, before the nurse comes for Philip. We hold each other in a loving embrace. The nurse, a plump older lady with a round face, coughs once, then again a bit louder, and I can feel Philip slipping out of my arms.

  He is gone. He has a course now, some kind of relaxation class where they are taught about the eternity of the soul. I hope he is already in the activity room. I don’t want him to see me lurking around reception. I know I’m playing with fire but they can’t give me a warning for inquiring.

  ‘May I speak to a manager, please?’

  ‘What is it about?’ the receptionist with the ponytail asks. I could swear in her head she added ‘again’ to the end of the sentence.

  Suddenly I feel like slapping that stupid grin off her face.

  ‘I have some personal information about my husband I doubt he shared with the management.’

  ‘Mr Brunelli has already informed us about his allergies and all other physical requirements the day he registered with us.’

  ‘Yes, but…I have some things to discuss about his mental health.’

  ‘You can tell me now and I’ll put it in the system.’ She lifts her hand, ready to type. I don’t remember seeing her this eager.

  ‘Well, it’s a bit of a delicate matter, you know. His father tried to commit suicide several times and I’m worried about whether Philip told you that he also has the tendency.’

  ‘Right, you can discuss this with our manager. Just a second.’

  The manager I spoke to a few days ago, is soon at the desk, smiling widely, as if she has forgotten our previous conversation. She waves me into her office for a chat. The square-shaped, high-ceilinged room reminds me of a library from the Victorian era. With hundreds of leather-bound books on the floor-to-ceiling shelves, it smells like one, too. I sit down opposite her and immediately get to the point.

  ‘Is there any way out of the Dignitorium, madam?’

  ‘Are we at it again? I thought this was about Mr Brunelli’s suicidal tendencies.’

  ‘Is it true that there’s a secret appendix to the contract no-one gets to read?’

  She looks me up and down, clearly struggling to put me in a box.

  ‘You never give up, do you?’ She goes to a shelf in the corner and searches for something. She returns with a red folder.

  ‘People love urban legends,’ she says, taking out a large plastic envelope. She hands it over to me. ‘This ‘secret appendix’ is one of them. It’s not ‘secret’, anyone can read it. It’s unbelievable how people read all kinds of rubbish but when it comes to their own life, they miss the most important text.’ She clears her throat. ‘This is your husband’s full contract.’

  I’m reading it; it’s pages and pages of legal language until it gets to the part even I can understand. Nine months, yes, full board, yes, after six months the drug therapy starts, yes, euthanasia can be requested anytime when the resident feels the need, yes, two hours visiting time per day, yes, once in the Termination Wing no way to change mind, yes, Farewell video required with positive message before termination, using at least one of the following words: dignity, happiness, grateful, yes. I know all this. To the end of the contract an appendix with small letters is attached. It’s so lengthy and dull that I understand why most residents just skip this part. While I’m reading it through, forcing myself to focus on the legal language, the manager doesn’t take her eyes off me. In the final section it’s explained that the cost of the used-up service can be calculated in cash. If the resident at any point before reaching the Termination Wing changes his mind and wants to leave, it is possible by paying that calculated cost and providing proof that the resident will have the means to contribute to society and will not become non-profit.

  I look up at her. The total lack of any emotion, including impatience, unnerves me.

  ‘So it’s possible but the fee is astronomical, am I right?’

  ‘You said it.’

  Her face remains expressionless.

  ‘You promise to withdraw from society, to stop becoming a burden,’ she continues. ‘In return you are provided with the highest standard of luxury for nine months. For how long exactly do you expect productive people to keep you?’

  ‘If it’s so unrealistically high, how could Milan’s family pay it?’

  ‘I shouldn’t say this to you. It’s confidential. But I hope if I tell you, you’ll stop harassing us once and for all. Milan’s family has come into unexpected wealth through marriage and they bought him out.’

  ‘So if Philip came into unexpected money–?’

  ‘Milan had only been with us for five weeks so his family had to pay a minimum length of service. Mr Brunelli’s been with us for nearly six months. The cost of our services is substantial. Do you have the means to cover Mr Brunelli’s fees?’

  ‘No, but....’

  She shrugs. We have nothing to discuss, her eyes say. She stands up.

  ‘Could you, please…would you...?’

  My voice is cracking up. I can’t finish the sentence.

  ‘Would you like me to calculate the amount your husband has used up so far?’

  ‘If you would be so kind.’

  ‘It will only give you unnecessary heartache and false hope.’

  ‘Please.’

  It doesn’t take long, not more than twenty seconds, but they’re the longest twenty seconds of my life and my palms are sweaty, my heart racing. When she finally speaks, the sum she tells me is higher than in my wildest dreams, it’s fifteen years’ worth of a Mid Spender’s full salary. It’s a hundred times more than what anyone would lend me. Philip will never be out of this place. In two weeks’ time his new life of chemical happiness will begin. It’s over. There’s nothing I can do to save him.

  five

  Today I arrive early again. It’s 10am and I’m already outside the Dignitorium, just circling around the wall. I’ve come early on purpose to spend more time with Philip, if not in his company, then at least near him.

  Cutting across the lawn in front of the main building, I notice a figure sitting on a bench covered with
a pile of blankets, empty cocktail glasses by her side. It’s Tiara. She’s wearing a halter-neck summer dress and pink sunglasses. Her hair, falling on her shoulders, is immaculate as usual. For a change, she’s alone.

  I don’t know what I’m thinking when, instead of entering the building to wait for Philip in the Salon, I take a sharp turn left and make my way over to Tiara. My legs seem to have taken control. When I stop in front of her, I don’t wait for her to offer me a seat. As I drop down to her right, she ignores me, but I can sense a breeze of unpleasant surprise. I have no idea what to say to her.

  ‘You don’t know me, but I know you.’ I blurt out. She continues to stare ahead, not acknowledging my presence.

  ‘Just like millions of others,’ she says finally.

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘My husband needs to get out of this place.’

  She doesn’t react at all. Like I’m not even there. I allow some desperation to creep into my voice.

  ‘He shouldn’t be here. It was a mistake.’

  Still no reaction.

  ‘You’re the only person I can borrow money from, to save him.’

  Not a word, not a movement of her head. I wait but she remains a statue. I’m only wasting my time here. I stand up and start walking in the direction of the main entrance when I hear her raspy voice behind me.

  ‘Is that your husband you’re always with? The dark-haired grumpy guy?’

  I swallow hard and turn around.

  ‘Yes.’

  She gestures to me to sit. I obey.

  ‘I can help you with that.’

  ‘Would you really…?’

  ‘I can put you in touch with some High Spenders; wealthy, lonely men. Some of my friends.’

  ‘I don’t understand–’

  ‘This is what you want, isn’t it?’

  I’m struggling to believe my ears.

  ‘It’s what you all want, after all. A High Spender for a husband.’

  I’m on the verge of bursting out with what I really think of her, that she’s a common prostitute, an airhead, that she would never understand love. But I hold back. I can feel the hot liquid stinging the corner of my eyes and the trail of the tears burning my cheeks. I turn away from her and bury my face in my hands.

  ‘Why does everyone assume I have money left?’ she asks out of the blue. I glance at my ID Phone. In half an hour Philip will meet me in the Salon. I must pull myself together.

  ‘You don’t?’ I try to hide the shock in my voice.

  ‘You have no idea how much it costs to bribe a Dignitorium, sweetie, but if I couldn’t have my fans here by my side, I would have requested instant euthanasia on the first day.’

  She won’t help me. How could I think she would – she can’t even help herself. She is not taking her sunglasses off and she’s not moving her head to look at me. I feel like a priest, used for those rare minutes of introspection and confession, the way she uses those fans for admiration. I’d like to leave now but my curiosity doesn’t allow me to.

  ‘Why are you here, then? You’re a High Spender, a celebrity.’

  ‘That was last year, sweetie.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but this year they didn’t even want me for hair-dye adverts.’

  ‘So why don’t you go back to your old life as a Mid Spender? There’s so much more to life than being a celebrity.’

  She fumbles for a cigarette in her pocket. She lights it and takes a long deep puff before she speaks again, with something like longing in her voice.

  ‘Tell me, have you ever been loved?’

  ‘Erm… My parents adored me. And my husband loves me–’

  ‘Loved by millions. Admired. Don’t answer! I know you haven’t. Once you have, you can’t live without it again.’

  I turn to look at her. This is the first time I see her up close. Instead of glamour and glory all I see is sadness and defeat. She looks much older now, tired. Almost deflated. Deprived of the sparkle of life, an empty shell in a flowery dress. I can’t help but feel genuinely sorry for her.

  She is warming herself up for a lengthy monologue. It’s something I would be happy to listen to in other circumstances. Now it’s becoming unbearably painful. I stand up.

  ‘It was nice to meet you. And thank you for…’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For making me feel better about myself.’

  I have seen a lot of this place, but I haven’t seen the most important part so I stroll towards the back of the main building. I walk past the western wing, then the little allotments that are kept for residents. Three residents are working despite the stifling heat, watering olive-coloured tomatoes or raking the damp soil. They’re no different from the people we usually see at home in their gardens at weekends, working tirelessly with rolled up sleeves, bent backs, with heavy but determined motions.

  I slow down involuntarily as if afraid of what’s coming next. The brick-coloured extension that is the T-wing seems small even from up close. I try not to look directly but I notice that all six sash windows are covered with muslin curtains. In the meadow opposite, I sit down on a little rock and pretend to enjoy the view innocently while glancing over at the building I’m so curious about. I sense some movement behind a small frosted window, as if a hand is reaching up, but when I look closer, it’s gone. I must be on the verge of a breakdown.

  I had to see this place alone; I don’t want to walk here with Philip. It would upset him even though he is calmer than ever these days. His skin is tighter and smoother, and he doesn’t slouch the way he used to. He has an air of optimism and resolve which has already started to have an effect on me. Where does he get it from? Is it his inner strength or a mere result of the well-designed preparation, the palliative yoga, the relaxation classes, the spiritual guidance? I feel I lack the strength to fight; I’ve lost all hope to carry me through the battle. Every moment spent with him is a gift I should be grateful for.

  Sometimes I want to slap my younger self, at other times I want to scream at Mum and Dad for bringing me up in a pink bubble, for not preparing me for real life. It’s funny to think, but Sofia’s final words to me seem truer than ever, the words that I put down to jealousy. She was right, after all, I really will never have any children or family of my own. Strangely, I don’t believe any more that her curse is to blame. The powers pulling the strings here are untouchable, and we are no more than marionettes in their hands.

  Now that it’s time to meet Philip in the Salon, I’m relieved to leave the T-Wing behind me. There is nothing interesting here anyway. This little wing reaching out into the meadow of wild flowers is not any different from the rest of the building. Apart from one thing. It’s deathly quiet.

  Philip looks exhausted today, like someone who hasn’t slept all night. As it turns out, he hasn’t.

  ‘That bitch Tiara threw a party. Nobody slept in the whole building.’

  ‘It’s outrageous that she can ruin other people’s sleep. Is there no one here to give her a good kick up the arse?’

  ‘There was a guard who confronted her. But she made a scene.’

  ‘How long do you have to put up with her?’

  ‘For the rest of my life.’

  He laughs and my body freezes.

  ‘Philip!’

  ‘Seriously! She only arrived two months ago.’

  I want to say something comforting but nothing comes to mind. We pass the park with the mermaid fountain and take a sharp turn left on the pebbled path.

  ‘Let’s walk behind the building,’ Philip suggests and I know immediately where he wants to go.

  ‘You know, the wine tasting session will start in a few minutes, do you want to have a look?’ I ask, and grab his elbow, not waiting for his reaction.

  ‘I want to see the T-wing.’

  ‘I’ve just been there. I
t’s nothing special, trust me. Why don’t we–?’

  ‘I want to face it, Ali.’

  I give up. We stroll past the little allotments, arm in arm. There are six residents now, bending and cutting and watering, working tirelessly to sow seeds whose results they may never see. Philip is very quiet. I’m almost tricked into thinking it’s because he’s relaxed, but I can sense a hurricane beneath the placid mask.

  ‘I know something is wrong, Phil. What is it?’

  ‘George.’

  ‘Did something happen to him?’

  ‘We won’t see him any more. He requested termination this morning.’

  ‘Oh, no! Is it because of the grandchild he won’t see?’

  ‘Partly. But mostly it’s the drug therapy.’

  ‘I thought he still had three weeks till his sedation period starts.’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He refused it.’

  I won’t be able to get any more out of him for now. He is facing the T-wing like a condemned man facing his executioner, straight in the eye. He must be going through hell and he doesn’t want to share it with me. We’re in the meadow opposite the building, standing among the wild flowers that reach up to the knee. Philip takes off his sweater and lays it on the ground. We sit down then lie back, propping ourselves up with our elbows.

  Watching the clouds floating idly in the undisturbed blue, I think of the missed opportunities in the past few years when I could have spent time like this with Philip, on weekends or during school holidays. We could have gone for a picnic or to the countryside and just been together, connected without words. I could have gotten into the depths of his mind, of his fears and worries. But I chose to follow the madness instead. Stuck in the consumer whirlpool I satisfied my yearning with shopping, dining out, going out. And now it’s too late.

  Suddenly the door of the T-wing opens and George runs out, breathing heavily. He looks around like a deer fleeing a hunter, but he doesn’t notice us. He drops a dark green object on the ground that looks like a staff ID Phone worn by Dignitorium nurses. He stops at an oak tree, leans against the trunk and bends forward, as if he is about to vomit. He is panting, his face glistening with sweat. A young male carer follows. He quickly picks up the staff ID Phone and clips it around his wrist. We lie back in the tall grass and when the carer is not looking, we scramble over to behind a nearby bush to be fully concealed. The carer asks George whether he’s ready to receive his family. He nods shortly. Now I understand what Nurse Vogel said about the staff who work at the T-wing. There is something sinister about them, though I can’t quite put my finger on it. They might as well be robots, speaking, smiling and helpful ones, but without the sparkle of humanity. He whispers something into George’s ear. George looks up at him, in awe. Philip stands up instinctively, ready to protect his friend if necessary. I pull him back.