Notes of a Mediocre Man

by Bipin Aurora

  Ahmed went to look for Hortense at the store—she was not there. He went to her house and knocked. The door was locked, the curtains drawn. But he would go back there tomorrow, and the day after. She would comfort him, of course she would. And then things would be well again. They would be well.

  It was night and Ahmed made his way home. He rode on his bicycle—he rode, he rode. The streets were wet from the rains. The streets were deserted. When he got home, it was the early hours of the morning and his hair was dripping wet.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Oh nothing, sir.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “I was riding the streets, you see. I was on my bicycle, I was tinkling my bell.”

  No one was there, not really. An old man, a cripple man—choose anyone you wish. A man is in a strange country. Does he not need a companion? Does he not need a friend?

  Ahmed thought of Helen Bender, he thought of work. And was it enough? He thought of Mister Mundy, he thought of Mister Box. And was it enough? He thought of Hortense—even her. And was it enough?

  “I was riding around, sir. I was tinkling my bell.”

  “Your bell?”

  “The streets were wet, sir. They were deserted. I was riding around—I was tinkling my bell.”

  A man is tired. He is no one. His father is dead, his mother is dead. His sister is far away. He rides around, he rides around. He is looking for something—what is it?

  He tinkles it, he tinkles it. He tinkles his bell.

  My Daughter

  There is a train. It comes at midnight. You can catch it at Dupont Circle. It goes to Silver Spring (the land of the beautiful water). It goes to Rockville (the nursing home).

  I tell my daughter about the train. She is afraid of the city, afraid to leave the house. But she grabs her purse, makes sure she has enough money. And she takes off for the train.

  She stands at the platform, looks at the people around her. There is a man in a dress. A man with a ring in his ear.

  The man with the ring approaches her. She shivers, takes a step back.

  “I am from the bookstore,” he says.

  “I do not go to bookstores.”

  “It is a clean place, open on Sundays. The people come, they linger through the night.”

  My daughter is a shy person, timid. But she is a good person. This man is troubling her. He should not trouble her. My daughter (poor daughter), how I feel for you; he should leave her alone.

  The train comes, my daughter sighs in relief. “Excuse me,” she says.

  “Heading for Rockville?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I’ve been there, met some Jews. I think they still live there, in the nursing home.”

  My daughter boards the train. She is coming to see me. I am an old man, a Jew.

  I live in Rockville. The Smith-Kogod Building. But I am not the only Jew in the building. There are other people. They are old, they are Jews as well.

  My daughter arrives. She hesitates at the door.

  “Why do you hesitate?”

  “I thought you were asleep.”

  “I am your father. This is my room, so your room.” I pause, consider the import of my words. My room—an old man’s, a Jew’s, so your room. Is that such a good thing to say?

  She walks in, approaches the bed.

  I push myself up onto my elbows.

  “No no, Father, don’t bother.”

  “I am old, yes. But I am still your father. Eyes open, a few breaths still inside these lungs. I am not yet dead.”

  My daughter goes to the dresser, she puts the plastic bag there.

  “What is in the bag? A gift?”

  “No, Father, just some clean socks.”

  “I live in old clothes. Old sheets, old diapers. Anything is a gift.”

  She turns, she smiles. A small smile at the right corner of her lips.

  “Have you had breakfast?” she says.

  “I have.”

  “What did they give you?”

  “Toast, eggs. Cereal, fruit. I am an old man, I take two bites, I get tired. A third bite, I fall sick. But they’re optimistic, they persevere.”

  “I have brought the bills, Father.”

  “Have they bankrupted me?”

  “No, Father.”

  “I know they can’t. I am a Rockefeller—I own a Chagall, a reprint, just like the rich one. I have a magic cow—it gives cash forever. I go on, go on. Old man, Jew, don’t give up: I persist.”

  My daughter goes to the closet, she begins to look through the clothes. Shirts, pants, sweaters, socks.

  “I’m old, Marie.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “I seldom leave this bed.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “These pants, these sweaters—all the fancy turtlenecks. Do you think I have need for these?”

  My daughter is quiet. She is a sweet girl. Poor girl, what can she say?

  ***

  There is a man (where is he?); he looks like a Jew, but I’m not sure. His back is bent, he has a long black beard. He has lit a candle and he is looking for something in the dark.

  “Mister?” I say.

  He does not answer me.

  “Mister?” I say.

  He does not answer me.

  “Are they coins?”

  “No.”

  “A letter?”

  “No.”

  “A note, a sheet, some memory perhaps—of Poland, of New York—something from the past?”

  I see my daughter, I ask her about the man. She does not know. Again I ask. She does not know.

  “Is he a doctor, a priest? Is he from New York—did he go to some school, was too poor, turned away? Is he from Poland—did he sleep on the street in the darkness (three days), and sometimes under the gas lamps?”

  My daughter is not sure, says she will try to find out.

  She opens the door and goes outside. Construction is going on. Cement has been dug up, earth has been turned.

  “You see something?” I say.

  “Not yet.”

  “Keep looking.”

  “I will.”

  I think she will do it, too. She is a brave girl. She will go there, go in the dark. She will stay in the dark, stay all night if she has to. She will do all she can.

  ***

  My daughter goes outside for three days (is she still there?). She tries to find this man (is he Jewish?). She tries to find out who he is, why he is here. Find out what he wants.

  “Marie,” I say.

  She does not answer me.

  “Have you found him?”

  She does not answer me.

  She is at the dresser, she stands in the shadows. Her back is bent. She is going through them, you see—she is going through my socks.

  ***

  My daughter is a good girl. She is tall, a little too tall for a girl. She is fat, a little too fat. But she works hard, is a good daughter. She takes the train, she takes it to Rockville. And she comes to see her old man.

  Across the hall is a piano. She helps me put on my diapers, she puts me in the wheelchair. It takes a long time but we manage. She wheels me across the hall.

  “You want to play, Papa?”

  “No, Marie,” I say, “you play.”

  She hesitates, smiles. She spreads her skirt to both sides and lowers herself down.

  “Kessler taught me.”

  “I know.”

  And she begins to play. It is a tune Kessler taught her—taught her a long time ago—a tune he learned in Poland.

  She plays, she plays.

  “Play it, Marie. Do not stop. It is good for the heart.”

  “The heart?”

  “And for the soul (the urine is stopped, it does not come—this, Doctor, is this the medicine I seek?). Yes, it is good for the soul as well.”

  The night comes, it is time for her to leave. The light is dim, I cannot see. She turns on the lamp, it hurts my eyes.

 
; Too much light or too little.

  “Yes, daughter, an old man’s complaint. But old men are not allowed to die. They try and they try—but no, they are not allowed (forbidden, verboten) to die.”

  ***

  So I sit here, I sit in the darkness. I lie here, I lie in the bed. I stand beside the bed, I aim for the basin. I am old and the urine sputters down my legs.

  I smell phenol. They used it in the old days, in Poland. In the lavatories, in the land far away.

  I remember when I was in Poland. Men stood there as well in the darkness, the cold night around, the stars above them. And the urine sputtered down their legs.

  “It was a long time ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were happy then?”

  “Happy, not happy. What difference does it make?”

  “You were a boy?”

  “A boy, a girl. A child, a dead man. What difference does it make?”

  The people ask questions, they ask all these questions. Do you really think they are of any use?

  The days pass. Some days are bad, some days are worse. One day my daughter comes to see me. There is a tin box in her hand.

  She takes the box, she lays it on the floor. She opens the box, she takes out a bottle.

  “Ready, Father?” she says.

  I am silent.

  I sit on the armchair, she kneels on the floor. She takes my pants and she begins to roll them up my legs.

  “Ready, Father?” she says.

  I am silent.

  She takes the green bottle, the one with the white liquid. She pours some of the liquid on her hand. She takes the liquid, she rubs it on my legs.

  “How does it feel?”

  “It feels alright.”

  She takes the liquid, she rubs it on my legs. Then she begins to massage the legs. Up and down, up and down.

  “How does it feel?”

  “It feels alright.”

  She talks to me, she encourages me.

  But is it so easy—as easy as that?

  “The legs,” she says, “they are the first to go.”

  “Yes.”

  “You must keep them strong.”

  “Yes.”

  “You try—you must try harder.”

  “I will.”

  She tells me to try, to keep a schedule. “I am a creature of habit,” she says, “I think you are too.”

  “I am?”

  “Give yourself a schedule—keep it. Eat at this time, walk at this time, exercise at this. You need to exercise—to exercise regularly.”

  “I will.”

  “Try Father, try.”

  “I will.”

  This is the way she is. She is a good girl, she means well. She encourages me.

  But is it so easy—as easy as that?

  ***

  It was Saturday (a long time ago), we had walked to the temple. In Poland there were eight of us; now, in New York, there were only three.

  We said our prayers, we came out of the temple. Some of us went to the market, some of us went to the zoo. I was tired, I begged to be excused. I went to the park (you know the one, near Washington Square), I lay down on the grass.

  I must have dozed off. When I awoke the sun had already begun to sink well into the west. I lifted myself onto my elbows, I looked around me. The bushes, the grass, the statue of some hero.

  How nice it was to just lie there. To lie on the grass.

  The years have passed now, so many years. I sit in my room, I sit in the darkness. No one is here. No statue, no hero.

  No grass.

  Not even any grass.

  ***

  My daughter comes to see me.

  “The legs,” she says.

  “Yes.”

  “You must keep them strong.”

  “Yes.”

  “You try—you must try harder.”

  “I will.”

  She tells me to try, to keep busy.

  “I will.”

  To try.

  “I will.”

  She is my daughter, I do not want to disappoint her. I do not want to let her down.

  I go to the bathroom, I try to unzip my pants.

  I cannot do it.

  I unzip them, the diaper is there. I tug at the elastic, the sound irritates me.

  And the urine, it sputters down my legs.

  I stand in front of the toilet (“commode,” the good people say). And the urine, it sputters down my legs.

  The doctor (he is a kind man) comes to my room. “Old man,” he says.

  I look at him.

  “Old man,” he says.

  I look at him.

  “Old man,” he says, “here is a cup. Can you please—that is—could you please—that is—void into the cup?”

  “Void?”

  Void: what a nice word it is. I void—I try to void into the cup. But is it so easy?

  I try again.

  Is it so easy?

  The urine is there. It sputters down my legs.

  ***

  It is dusk (or is it night?). My daughter has left. I should be tired (I am not). Lonely (I am not). A black woman is in my room.

  “Cecile,” she says. “Sierra Leone,” she says.

  She says that she went to Jamaica one year. She saw it—who will deny it?—she saw the old man’s death.

  “The old man’s death?”

  She tells me, I nod. She tells me, I close my eyes. She tells me, I can see it in my mind’s eye—see the old man’s death.

  Old man—what old man? And why did he have to die (poor man), why did he have to go away?

  ***

  One time (a long time ago) I was at the market. There were some stores there, there were some stalls. There was a short and ugly man: a lump on his neck, a scar on his left cheek. The man said he had a horse at home, he even had a car.

  One time he took me in his car. He took me to Gdansk, he took me to New York. He took me to Paris, he took me to Rome. He took me to a small hut (he said that this is where God lived). A man was there, an old man. He was playing the piano, he had diapers in his hands.

  “Kessler?” I said.

  The old man did not answer me.

  “God?” I said.

  The old man did not answer me.

  He was playing the piano, he had diapers in his hands.

  The old man played the piano, he played it for a long time. But then he seemed to grow sad (or was it even weary?). He cursed, he cursed. He took the diapers, he threw them on the floor.

  He took the diapers, he threw them on the floor.

  The years have passed now, so many years. I think of that old man. He was good and kind. He was playing the piano so well. But why then the change of heart? Was there some meaning to it, some significance? Some significance without end?

  ***

  My daughter comes to see me. I ask her about the man.

  She does not know.

  Again I ask.

  She does not know.

  The meaning and significance. The significance without end.

  There is a man at the platform (who is he?). A man in a dress (who is he?). A man with a ring in his ear.

  My daughter goes out to see them. They huddle, they whisper. They huddle, they whisper. Of what do they whisper? Of what do they speak?

  They speak of Kessler, they speak of God. They speak of the piano, the diapers. Do they speak of the world that God has made (what world?). The world with the meaning and significance. The significance without end.

  I ring the bell.

  No one comes.

  I ring the bell.

  Someone comes.

  They take off my diapers. (I am a baby again.) They clean my legs. (I am a baby again.) They put powder on my legs. How nice the powder feels!

  The days pass, the weeks. The Jew is happy. The days pass, the weeks. The Jew is sad.

  The old man and the diapers. The diapers without end.

  It is dark, so dark. It is cold, so cold. But she is
a good girl (he knows it). She will come and see him (he knows it).

  The old man and the diapers. The diapers without end.

  The father sits in his room and he waits for his daughter. Patiently, patiently.

  So patiently he waits.

  The Lovers in Bengal

  There was a pond in the village, steps leading to the pond. People would come there to bathe. They would stand in the pond, a lungi or a short cloth around them. They would rub soap over their body. They would take a mug and dip it into the water. They would lift the mug, pour the water over their head.

  The children would laugh; they would jump up and down at the feel of the water. The grown-up people—the parents, the old people—would make sure that their important parts were covered as they bathed. And when they were finished, they would take a towel, wrap it around themselves—wrap it as they took off the old, wet clothes and put on the new ones.

  Yes, as I say, people would come to the pond to bathe. And they would also come there for a social gathering. The pond was, as it were, the meeting place for the village. They would come there to see each other; to see each other and be seen.

  Girls would come. Sometimes they would come with their friends, holding hands. Sometimes they would come by themselves. Sometimes they would come accompanied by their mothers, or their fathers, or even their grandfathers.

  It was there that they met—my father and mother. My father did not live in the village, but in a small town a few miles away. But someone in the family (or perhaps a friend, I now forget) had told him about my mother’s family. “They live in the village,” he had said. “They have such and such a daughter. She is the third daughter. The first daughter is married to a Superintendent of Police. The second daughter is married to an engineer (from a good family, Calcutta University). And this third daughter, she is virtuous, fair-complexioned. She has a good voice.”

  The good voice—that is what captured my father’s attention. He did not care about the money. He did not care about the good family. He did not care that he himself was only twenty-five years old—without a college education, with some good experience (perhaps), but not the education, the breeding.

  “I am not a nothing, a misbreed,” he said. Misbreed: this is the very word he used.

  He wanted to meet this girl—virtuous, fair-complexioned. The voice—above all else the voice.

  And who would stop him?