Bole: Chant 4

When I awoke this morning, the first thing I heard was the closing of metal doors as Mr. Fagaceae was placing the letters in each of our post boxes. I leaped out of bed, having realized the time, skipped washing, except for quickly brushing my teeth and throwing water over my face, and instead dressed hurriedly, and left my apartment, stopping only to quickly drink a glass of water. Stepping clumsily on to the mat outside my door, I had pushed it further inside my apartment, and was unable to realize it was preventing me from closing the door. I continued to try to shut the door before realizing the matt was blocking it and in my tired state, I pushed down the matt with my foot, away from the door without success.

—It works better if you pull it from the other side, says a voice from behind me.

It was Mr. Fagaceae

—Huh? I mumble

—Towards you. . .

—Oh, right. . .yeah.

—What’s the matter, Zylitol? Ain’t you got no sense?

Mr. Fagaceae was a short, stout man, a face like an inflated blowfish, and always appeared with eyes half closed. To me, he was like Prokofiev’s ‘Grandfather’, wearing sandals and feathered fedora, and a cane, that I believe he didn’t need, and only carried around to show off the symbol on the handle. I looked at my door and saw the missing number that Mr. Fagaceae had seemingly forgotten to replace. And instead had stuck to the door a piece of paper with a number on it, that could have just as easily been a raffle ticket.

—When are you are going to replace my door number? I ask him.

—When are you going to pay your rent? You’re late.

—I’m later for work, I quickly recover.

Another tenant passes up the stairs, and Mr. Fagaceae turns to the tenant to voice a remark that he failed to make in my presence.

—Some of us get up when the sun gets up, he says to the unfamiliar tenant. He gets up when the post comes.

On my way down the stairs, stepping quickly two steps at a time, I hear a voice call my name

—Zylitol, the voice says. A drink after work?

I look around and I see the head of Carpinus appearing out of his apartment.

—I don’t drink, I say. But I’ll stop by, yeah.

Carpinus’ apartment is two floors below mine. Though his apartment is larger, the space is shared between himself and his girlfriend. After I had finished work, I kept to my promise and visited Carpinus before returning to my own apartment. His apartment was decorated with several vases of daffodils, and inside the frames, which hung on his walls were not paintings but mirrors. But as he welcomed me in and offered me a seat, he took his seat, looking in to one of them as if it were. With the exception of the flowers and mirrors, his apartment was fairly bare. The only piece of decoration was a sign above the door of the bedroom which read: never know yourself.

—Comfortable seats aren’t they? he asks.

—They’re alright, yeah. Are they new?

—Yeah, we’re taking them to the new place.

Carpinus and his girlfriend had been saving their money and had recently bought a house also in the Pendula Demos, not too far from the apartments, though I had thought to myself, it was just a bigger bedroom.

—When is it you move in? I ask.

—We don’t have an exact date yet, he says. But soon.

I see a woman’s coat placed on the back of the chair to my right and I wonder if his girlfriend is also home.

—Is… erm, I begin to ask.

—Yeah, she’s here, he says presuming my question. She’s asleep though I think.

He turns his neck and faces the bedroom door behind him. And calls out but receives no response.

—Perhaps she’s still asleep, I say

—Nah, he disagrees. She speaks when spoken to.

He proceeds to stand up and walk to the bedroom door, not opening it, but tapping his knuckle lightly against it.

—Hey, you asleep? he whispers.

—Asleep, a voice whispers back.

—Zylitol’s here, you want to say hello?

—Hello, I hear from the bedroom.

—Long days, huh, you sound tired.

—Tired.

—Are you not coming?

—Coming.

—No, you sleep, I call to her. That’s alright.

—Alright, she says.

He turns to me and shrugs his shoulders, walks to the portable fridge where he unhooks a can of beer from its ring and asks:

—Zy, do you want a beer?

—I’ll have a water, but I don’t drink.

—Ah, that’s right. Sorry I forgot.

He closes the fridge and walk back over to his seat, opening his beer so the can crackles and softly fizzes.

I won’t bore my reader with the details of our conversation. It mostly proved to be a relentless episode of his self-praise, whilst I was an ear to it, or rather a muted audience.

He tells me he is doing great, in that overtly satisfied way he often enjoys. Perhaps he didn’t need the flattery, but he loved to inflate his esteem. But through his words I could see that he did not really understanding what he was doing, or whether he had made the right choices, or whether they were even good choice, but he perhaps needed to speak of them to test the effect it had on others, and after talking to a few, he may better understand the choices he had made. With his job, he never said he was doing great, instead he spoke of the praise he had received from his superiors and colleagues, and the benefits he had received as a result. He tells me he is able to get me a job in his industry, and I ask if it is well paid. He tells me it would not pay a penny, with a laugh which he then inhaled back in to his lungs, and I smile as if amused. He turns the conversation back to his new house, speaking proudly as though it were not a house but a palace, and that he has a girlfriend to live in it with, speaking of her, not like a princess, but like a prize.

Carpinus is also a musician and, though he does not look at me directly, at least not in the eyes, he tells me he is playing a gig for an event in the city that lies beyond Bjorkvard the following week. And I sit patiently, unmoved, waiting for the story to unravel to its end. But apart from dropping the name of a well-known group of musicians also performing on the stage that day, he offers me no other information. I had listened to his music once, and in their promotional pictures they all wore the same black suits and ties with white shirts. All of them skinny boys, who looked like breast-fed babies with bad habits. I tell him he should push himself more, that his influence was the strongest part, but then a hideously excessive grin appeared on his face and he tells me that the other members do nothing and that it was all him. I did not tell him what I really thought of his music, that I thought it was emotionless, full of clichés, and ruined by its desperation to identify with popularity. But if I had done, my words would have bounced off enough mirrors in this room that they would never have reached his ears. He sits across from me, still talking and supping beer in pauses of self-satisfaction. Yet, I held my tongue from saying what I was I wanted: that you’re doing everything I fear succumbing to at our age. And yet as much as I held my tongue, maintaining my pleasant grin across my face, I almost would have said to him: what happened, Carpinus? Freedom wasn’t working out for you? But even if I had managed to unclip my tongue from my between my teeth, I could not get a word in between his ceaseless testament of self-esteem was a wave that never ceased rising. And in order to get a word so that I may announce my leave, I was required to distract him. Yet since the telephone did not ring once, nor did he cease speaking or taking his eyes off me when he rose for another beer, and only sipped mid-sentence, ensuring me to allow him to finish, I saw no place that I may interrupt. But had fortune not proved to be on my side, I may have remained there for several more hours.

Another hour might have passed before there came a knock at his door, which at first Carpinus as if not hearing the sound against the door, continued to speak, but after finishing his point he rose and walked to answer it. Yet by this time, whoever had been outside his door had left and Carpinus stopped speaking in his confusion, and sticking his head out of the door, looking both ways, and even up and down to see if anyone might be seen, or signs of which way they might have gone, and concluding that it must have been nothing too important, since they knocked only once and left nothing in the way of a message, he pulled his neck back and closed the door, laughing to himself over his confusion. And walking back to his seat, settling his laughter, I felt a moment where I was able to speak, but on first attempt, my mouth so dry from have been silent, I failed to make a sound more than a breath, and so tried again, but even in my hasty attempt I still managed to speak only a second after Carpinus felt to continue.

—(Always the way isn’t it? You’re about to pick it up and . . .)

—This has been good, but I think I’m going to go.

I stand up and he looks surprised that I had decided to leave without warning, having not realized I had been preparing to all the while.

—Thanks for the, I begin to say before realizing that I hadn’t actually been offered that drink of water. Company.

—Yeah. Any time, man. he says smiling and nodding his head.

And then, it being late, I left to return to my apartment upstairs, and as I opened the door of my apartment I thought to myself: No, I would not care to be like that, I don’t envy him no matter how pleased he is for himself. But it is well for him.

And whilst I was about to close the door, having felt to be relieved of what I had stored and carried during the evening, I turned to close the door, and looked at the door opposite and then stepped back outside to look down the corridor, then up the staircase at each vault that appeared the same but felt to have their own personality because of who I repeatedly could associate with them And again I entered my apartment, walking around, and looking at my belongings, attempting to reconnect with myself. But there was something about it, something which repeatedly caused me to inhale and clench my fists, something which my thoughts continued to snag on. And I tried to decide what it was, eventually feeling that if it were important to me it would come to me in time. And so sat down at my writing desk, yawned and sighed lazily, then turning once more to the window, and blinking for a moment, it occurred to me what I had been trying to think of.

Given a particular day I am not working, I may see each level of inhabitants of Bjorkvard, pass before my window. I can see in my foreground, the edge of Pendula, and ahead of me the temenos of Lutea, and in the distance, those of Pumila, all connected by a road and separated by a roundabout.

As the sun rises early, so does the man of Pumila, and whilst the sky is still silver with thinner clouds, he eats a small breakfast, and taking a prepared meal that he made the night before, he wanders to his vehicle, which for his job is owned by the Lepidoptera. And here I will see him drive down the road before my window, stopping mid-way, where, should it be spring, he removes a strimmer to cut the overgrown grass and tame the leaves on the trees.

Meanwhile, the man of Lutea has now woken and after eating a light breakfast, wanders to his vehicle, awarded to him by his company, he drives along the road before my window, passing the man of Pumila, and on to the Business Demos to work.

An hour or so later, the man of Pendula will pass by my window. But I will not see him until after he has woken and ate a fair breakfast of fine foods that will carry him until lunch. Then wandering to his impressive vehicle, afforded on his professional salary, he drives to his office or bureau, and passes by the man of Pumila who is still strimming the grass, and taming the leaves.

But soon the sun rises high and the man of Pumila begins to grow tired, and as his hunger moans, he puts down the strummer and sits down to eat the meal he prepared yesterday. And removes a plastic container from his vehicle containing mash potatoes, peas and ham enough to keep his energy and alertness through to his next meal. In eating through his lunch, another man, similar to himself, pulls up in a vehicle, similar to his own, and gets out with a container and sits with him to eat a meal, similar to his own. And from my window, I may hear them speak. As I listen, I hear them talk of three things: family, relationships, and sex. Regarding family, I hear them speak respectfully, regarding relationships, I hear them speak bitterly, regarding sex, I hear them speak with vulgarity. But all of these in the tone of a casual conversation.

When the two have finished talking, the second man of Pumila stands, enters his vehicle, and drives off down the road, and the first man, after lying on the grass for a moment longer, stands and resumes strimming the grass, and taming the leaves.

As the sun passes across the sky in to the mid-afternoon, the man of Pendula drives down the road, past the man of Pumila, and returns to his temenos. His temenos is large, as is his garden and terrace, and he parks his vehicle in his garage of fair size, revealing a second under its shell. After staying for about an hour, the man of Pendula leaves his temenos and drives down the road, past the man of Pumila, who is still strimming the grass, and taming the leaves. But as he does so, the man of Pumila mutters to himself, something barely audible, but recognizably scornful, about the man of Pendula, which though referring to his impressive vehicle, and the second that sleeps in his garage, and the size of his temenos, it is all expressed under a single word, which is money. And as he is without, he will speak more about money than the man of Pendula.

But the sun rises on, and the grass has almost all been strimmed and the leaves have almost all been tamed, and though the man of Pumila is growing tired and his hunger is beginning to whimper, there is still work to be done.

But at this time, the man of Lutea is returning from work, and passes by the man of Pumila and drives to his temenos. His temenos is fair, but not large like the man of Pendula, it is modern, but not classical like the man of Pendula, his garden is well kept, but not as large as the man of Pendula, and he parks his vehicle on his drive way, which does not meet a sleeping vehicle like the man of Pendula. And after leaving his vehicle, he enters his temenos to relax, and on most days of the week, I will not see the man of Lutea for the remainder of the evening. But on these occasional evenings, he may leave his temenos after returning from work, strictly towards the later days of the week. And I may hear him speak, either on the phone or to a guest, and on these occasions, I will hear him talk of culture, or rather, of popular arts and entertainment. Regarding popular arts, he speaks with passion but with little intellect, of entertainment, he speaks with humour but little interest, and instead, speaks as though he feels it is necessary to be enthusiastic. And on these particular occasions, I would see others of Lutea, arrive at his temenos, leaving their vehicles, talking of popular arts and entertainment, to dine together at his temenos. But as today was the start of the week, I would not see the man of Lutea leave his temenos for the remainder of the evening.

And as the sun now shrinks in to the western sky. The man of Pumila has now finished strimming the grass and taming the leaves, and placing the strimmer back inside his vehicle, he steps inside, and drives down the road, before my window, back to his. . .what would not be called a regular temenos, but a vernacular temenos. And as he returns, I have little reason to doubt, by the gnawing of his hunger, and the exhaustion of his body, he does not prepare a meal, but seeks the quickest available food. But the man of Pumila does not wish to stay cooped up in doors as the man of Lutea, and instead, each night, sparing perhaps one, the man of Pumila leaves his vernacular temenos and wanders down to the tavern where he meets other men of Pumila, similar to himself, who spend the evening exchanging money for drinks and placing money in to hopeful machines.

Around this time, the man of Pendula returns home and leaves his vehicle to enter his temenos, and as he leaves I may hear him speak, not to a guest but on his phone. And on these occasions I may hear him speak, I hear him talk of business and travel. Regarding business, he speaks mechanically, regarding travel he speaks as if its business. But instead of remaining cooped up like the man of Lutea, or going to the tavern like the Pumila, the man of Pendula returns to his vehicle, after having not eaten but washed, and drives to a restaurant beyond the village to dine. And whilst the man of Pendula is eating fine foods in the restaurant, and the man of Lutea is relaxing in his temenos, the man of Pumila walks down the road before my window, tipsy from having drank too much, on an empty stomach, having ate too little, and after stumbling along the road, he collapses, on to the grass he had strimmed, beneath the leaves he had tamed.

And thinking again of Carpnius, how he defined himself by everything he had, and by where he was now choosing to live, feelings rose up inside me questioning his esteem:

Conscience, I do not know how to tell a man apart except by what he has or has not, except by where he goes or goes not. But what, my conscience, what is he?