When they find themselves in front of a full car park, they don’t stop. They race over the metal roofs that bend under their weight, interrupting some protracted sexual intercourse in the back seat of a black Oldsmobile. They storm into the crowd with the force of a discharge that has been building up for years. They break the membrane without effort and silent cries of complaint hang in the air, unanswered. Whatever survival instinct doesn’t move out of the way, they elbow aside. Bare curiosity cannot withstand the onrush of need. If it is justified, even the sea will part in half, not to mention a bunch of people.
Chairs have been gathered from everywhere. Worm-eaten bar stools that tilt perilously under the emaciated arses in faded jeans, plush leather sofas with spiral coils peeking through, plastic garden chairs borrowed from a thousand and one family picnics, rows of pews from abandoned religious buildings, stitched up bags filled with styrofoam… Max didn’t discriminate. He’s thrown everything he could get his hands on into this space. People are very understanding. If anything, they are mad at themselves for not having queued up earlier. Now all that is left are some strange uncomfortable-looking black cubes nobody wants to be the first to try, so they stand around them in a hesitant circle looking at them, slightly befuddled.
Anwar, Marjorie and her lover, the soldier Mus and his cohorts were invited to sit in the first row. Brian and Rupert are lurking about in the corners and surreptitiously passing around a hastily rolled joint so they won’t have to share it with anyone. Ludovico, with Semyona behind him, is standing taut as a string almost directly below the stage. The faces of the others blend into each other and play the role of shop-window mannequins. There are so many of them I won’t bother telling you who they are. For the most part, they are lovely and fetching.
Zoja is backstage with Max and the old guy, who is recovering from hypoglycaemic shock. A very shy man with a guitar has walked onto the stage, slowly, as if walking on eggshells, and now he’s playing in a way that will ensure nobody will want to do him harm. Quietly and gently.
‘So you’re a soldier, yes?’ Marjorie’s lover asks Mus, who is sitting next to him. Marjorie is on his other side, beside Anwar.
‘Well…you could say that I am, but right now I’m not here to…’
‘A soldier in uniform. I’ve never understood uniforms. Do they really work?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, are people really so stupid that they believe in uniforms?’
‘People are very receptive to things.’
‘Ha, you can say that again.’
‘People are…?’
‘Just a figure of speech. That reminds me… My father, once, when I was around ten, got an idea, yeah that’s it, that’s it, Selena, my mum’s name, that’s it, Selena, we’re going to be rich, rich, this came over him pretty much twice a year, in the morning he would get out of bed and race to his desk and start scribbling crazily over an endless stack of paper, all the while muttering, we’re gonna be rich, Selena, kids, let’s go for ice cream, and he’d take us to the first ice cream shop, Mum would of course have to pay, she worked as a cleaning lady in a building on the East Side, she’d scowl but she believed him anyway, each time, how bloody naive, and my brother and I always warmed up to his enthusiasm, we’d look at each other covertly and cross our fingers, silently mouthing his mantra, we’re going to be rich, we’re going to be rich, no more of those second-, third-, fifth-hand clothes, no more of those crappy pencil cases and those always-empty fountain pens, we’re going to be rich, hey, every six months our family moved up ten floors, for a week, you know, before once again having to move down, down, down, and it was back to Father’s sunken cheeks, back to Mum’s disappointment, which she was actually great at hiding, but the things that she desperately clutched in her fists then lay around the flat broken and bent, their broken form clearly saying what was going through her head, and I was not attentive enough to get it then, but my brother was starting to cotton on to what it all meant, well, what I was saying, that particular time he got the idea of selling uniforms to people around the world, I can clearly remember his lofty airs, the solemn words he spoke, there are thousands of us, millions like us that have been let down by the nation states and let down by corporations, and we don’t have religions, and we don’t have traditions, but we’re still alive, every man in his own way…’
Anwar leans forwards and listens more carefully. Mus raises his eyebrows in an attempt to show compassion. Marjorie runs her hand over her lover’s taut chest, which is rising and falling in an excited rhythm.
‘…and all these people, all these people will buy uniforms and stand together and show themselves to the world, hey, here we are, don’t think we’re all alone, each for himself, there is strength in unity, and then he’d rattle off political slogans so old they were already worn out to transparency after being shouted out loud so many times, but back then I still didn’t know that, and it all seemed so interesting and wonderful and in any case I had never before seen Father so, almost, yes, strong, strong or something, I was seeing him like that for the first time, and it impressed itself on me like an immensely important thing, we’re going to be rich, we’re going to be rich, because Father had finally come up with something smart, how easy it is to get a child to believe you, well, and then, once again, he took out a loan and bought acres of material and hired a Chinese seamstress, a neighbour, her family was even worse off than we were, and she slaved over that pile of black uniforms for two months, while he was busy writing philosophical advertisements, building a brand, he told us, I’m building a brand, and I knew brands only from cigarettes and it all seemed strange to me, Mum just headed obliviously off to work, and it all stopped having any effect on my brother, and he again started going out and not coming home until morning, although he was – how old? – barely fourteen, well, and, of course, when Father went out into the world to sell his wisdom and his uniforms I waited at home for him, breathless, and when he finally came back, not having sold a single one and not having found a single person who was willing to listen to him, he wasn’t even ashamed! It didn’t work out, he’d tell us. Mum almost fainted because who was it that would have to get us out of the hole? She, who else? But Father, without an ounce of shame, went back to the desk, scribbled, and half a year later, something new, what do I know, wait, let me remember, some system for more efficient mail delivery, a reform of the toll stations, all asinine of course but soon, again, we’re going to be rich, ice cream, and so forth and so forth, but now I don’t know whether I was so angry at him because he never made it, or whether I was angry at him because he managed to get my hopes up every single time.’
Anwar weighs whether to tell him that he thinks he’s just met his father in the car park. Mus presses his lips together and nods indulgently.
‘I don’t think the idea of uniforms is all that bad,’ says Marjorie, which, against all expectation, pleases her lover.
‘Ok, yeah, the idea, maybe the idea is doable, but, you know, people! Not to mention all the obstacles that your brain itself sets up, so you have to fight with your own physicality, with dopamine receptors, with pride, with will, not to mention family expectations and the fact that your demands also have to reach others, and let’s not even talk about all those system structures grinding away on their own, about the thousands of petty resentments, about the disharmony between space and time, about the conspiracy of the whole bloody universe working against you, how hard it is to even get up in the morning, let alone to organize things your way on this planet of apes, and let’s just give it a rest with this lousy illusion of freedom… An idea is not enough. Father had no clue that he had to compete not only with the state and the corporation and religion and tradition, but also with football clubs, strip clubs, alcohol, with a thousand and one feelings of inadequacy, with the collapse of entire layers of hopes and dreams, with gambling, with Tetris, with human evil and to the exact same degree with human kindness, with the daily, constant, all-encom
passing lowering of standards, that he ultimately had to compete with poetry… Well, I don’t know. Only complete loonies are not paralysed by the world.’
Anwar bellows, ‘If that were true, we’d still be living in caves!’, and a few people listening to the music whisper a fierce shhhh. He lowers his voice and continues.
‘Look, I don’t know you, I don’t know your story, although you keep trying to tell it to us, and I can’t cross that abyss between you and me, but I’m old enough and I’ve experienced enough to tell you this. Your father’s defeats are not your defeats. Fuck, even your defeats are not really your defeats. And all this drama about a paralysing world is just a miserable flight from yourself. I can confirm, from first-hand experience, that you will know exactly when the world really makes it impossible, when it ties you up and won’t let you breathe, closes off all exits and just takes it all out on your fate… And only then, at that moment, will you clearly hear the voice of God: you have been given knowledge of the real value of freedom. Freedom is not the at-will manipulation of facts. Freedom is a moment of peace.’
Marjorie’s lover won’t give in.
‘Maybe we’ll have to go back to the caves. Maybe all this civilization was just a brief respite from the truth. A lie borrowed from the future.’
‘But why the hell do you seem so satisfied with that being true?’
Shhhh.
Sincerity is contagious. Mus places a fragile hand on the young lover’s beefy thigh.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know… But, can I tell you… Well, it’s all the same… Still, can I tell you something?’
He doesn’t answer. He turns his head towards him and cocks his right eyebrow.
‘You said… What did you say? That back then your father seemed strong. I understand what you’re talking about. I don’t know how to start, basically. Um… Yeah. A strong father.’ A nervous laugh. ‘I come from a different place. I won’t go on and on about it, but, yeah, it’s very different. Time flows more slowly. People are…different. I’m not so good with words. What I want to say is… My father is very strong. He always was. My grandfather, for example, isn’t and I know that too, but for all his many faults, it was always easier to hang out with him. Maybe it shifts from generation to generation. Maybe my son, if I ever have one, will also be a hard man. I’m not. Maybe that’s why you’re a hard man. I don’t know. I don’t know you. But, just now when you were talking about it, it made me think of… Where I’m from, my family is practically an institution. They’ve been there for, oh, so long. Ever since… God knows when, I’m not so good at history, just the bits I got from older people. But a long time ago. And that shows on people, I can’t say it doesn’t. They grow sort of, like, in accord with things. They grow into old clothes. I don’t know if you’re following. But, you know, while we’re on the topic… they grow into uniforms. They adapt to them, like they were special to them. And that’s all well and good. But, my experience, you know, has taught me that things aren’t always the way they seem. Have you ever seen Japanese watermelons?’
‘Watermelons?’
‘You know what watermelons are?’
‘Of course I know.’
‘Well, I thought of them because…watermelon transporters in Japan used to be extremely bothered by the fact that watermelons are round, since they took up too much space in shipping, more than they actually deserved.’
A nervous laugh. ‘So they found a solution. When watermelons are still really small, they stick them into square boxes, and then when they grow, they reach the edges and can’t grow any wider, they fill every inch of every corner, so that in the end they’re nice and square and ready for the lorry, even if it’s not in their nature. Do you understand?’
‘I understand.’
‘Now, I don’t know if any watermelon exists that simply doesn’t give in, breaks the box and, all strong and round, flexes its round muscles in the gardener’s face… There probably aren’t any like that, but I’ve always asked myself what happens to those that don’t even reach the edge. That chill out in the box, stay small, and nevertheless manage to keep their roundness. I’ve complicated things a bit…’
‘No, no, I’m following.’
‘People are just different, that’s want I want to say. And we just don’t fit into some of those uniforms that float down to us from above. In such cases strong fathers don’t help. Of course, that doesn’t stop them, because it’s not in their nature to leave anything alone. Especially if they have clear expectations and if experience has taught them that reality is at their service. Strong people don’t understand freedom like you, you know?’ This is for Anwar, who is beginning to bristle. ‘And where does all this lead? If the watermelon has reached its limit, there’s no force in the world that will push it farther. Any efforts in that direction turn into the usual barbarity. The crazy gardeners can then bother them for years, can badmouth them, abuse them with their hands, they can flatter, try to bribe, they can tattoo their will in big fat letters on the arse, and what will they achieve? Nothing. And when I was listening to you, I had to think… What if our lives are just a long experiment to find out whether or not we manage, in spite of everything, to sew our own uniform? My father went the well-trodden way. Your dad at least tried.’
‘Bold words from someone wearing a soldier’s uniform.’
‘I’m still sewing.’
When Anwar leans back, the back of his chair sags slightly and the sensation of falling fills his stomach. He quickly levels himself and exhales to let out the weight of the world.
‘Oh, boys. Anyone who is twenty and doesn’t believe in a better world needs a heart. Anyone who is forty and still believes in it, needs a head. But I don’t want to lecture you. Sew, sew away. For as long as you can. But watch that you don’t find yourselves all sewed up. Every stitch costs something. And unstitching becomes more and more difficult. There are no instructions. No path is the right one. Sometimes hatred leads you into a trap. Sometimes love does. Sometimes good intentions, sometimes bad ones. I finally went down on my knees when the Sherdedovs killed my father and sisters. Maybe that’s the easiest path…but, you know, today I can’t say that I regret it. It’s hard to renounce courage and hope, and may you never have to. Maybe a few lucky ones really will manage to get through everything, through life, with their sense of control intact. But those who will fail – who will realize that they’re desperately clutching sand. Who will then unclasp their fists…’
He covers his mouth and shuts his eyes. Mus stares at the floor. He’s embarrassed and he doesn’t quite know why. Marjorie’s lover runs a hand over her shoulder and pulls her closer. It’s hard to shake off the feeling that he’s achieved some sort of tiny victory, but it would be in horribly poor taste to celebrate it. He focuses on her warmth. He’s satisfied, somehow, with her. Zoja’s leg peeks out from an enclosure at the edge of the stage. Excitement charges the air. That’s what they came here for. That’s why they risked it.
Marjorie allows herself a smile.
‘And I never even knew my father.’
A string breaks. Cries of indignation can be heard coming from outside.
‘You remind me of my papa,’ Semyona whispers in Ludovico’s ear, while he is angrily furrowing his brow and gathering courage for the most radical act of his life.
I am your cruelty. Your drive for the ugly. Your constant restlessness.
Zoja walks onto the stage. Applause envelops her. Whistles. Warm, voracious cries.
‘You have the same smell. Of freshly skinned pelt, don’t ask where I know that smell from, mixed with the sweat of exhausted people, the sweat of tortured people, the sweat of people on their deathbeds. Don’t ask…’
Her movements are so common, almost vulgar in their ordinariness. As if she moved that way every day. In the morning that’s how she heads into the bathroom and that’s how she goes to answer the door.
I’m the one who pushes your head to the ground at night. I’m the one who drags you
back into the cave when you would like to raise your fist in a display of never-fought-for victory. ‘And you both hold your shoulders the same way. I could play lullabies on your tendons. But you take pains to make sure that it’s only obvious to the touch. You’re very careful about how things look. You are both hiding something. Right? What are you hiding?’
She clears her throat, which doesn’t strike anyone as strange. It becomes a part of her, her cough, a completely human concern. What right does she have to something like that? And then she just smiles.
‘Mmm?’
I am despair cast over the service station of your aimless wandering. I roll you up without warning. I splice myself into you, between consciousness and cognition. I am a dark thing. Dark.
‘You both have completely shaved heads. What does that mean? Papa, I never dared to ask him. He’d always been like that, ever since I could remember. And he kept his old pictures of himself hidden away from me. I can’t even imagine him with hair. But if he had it, it must have been long. And yours? Did you ever have long hair? Before you shaved it off?’
I am everything that you have, but don’t want, and all of what you don’t have, but would like. I am the heir of the unelected.
She draws in oxygen and lets carbon dioxide escape from her lungs, through her vocal chords, and into the metal microphone, where it is converted into electric signals and whisked through black cables into the quivering diaphragms of the speakers nailed to the walls, and these then shake the air her way. She laughs and her laughter emerges broad, rough, tremendous. Ludovico shows his teeth.
Semyona puts her hand under his tunic and gently prods at his emaciated ribs.
‘But Papa was chunky. You are…you’re so skinny. Why are you so skinny? Doesn’t Mummy give you anything to eat?’
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