The man who wasn't there

He had never thought about it.

    He has been thinking about a lot of other things. About the difference between robins staying in the country during the summer. And robins coming into the country in  wintertime. Or about why an illiterate mother would kidnap her children, would flee to the free West and would build op a new life.

    But he had no reason to think it over. About the beginning of the end.

    Perhaps he didn't so because he was a smart, physically strong man. He had many friends, was a member of a gospel choir and he liked expensive whiskey. The latter meant that - when it really became hard and difficult in his life - he had a refuge. He was able to elevate himself above the noise of this world.

    Above the pain of the death of his wife, above the illness of his dearest friend.

    Above the grin that is called death and - every now and then - scares us the pants off.

    Maybe that's the reason he had never thought about it. He simply believed that everything would be as it always had been.

    By starting the day with fresh milk and multigrain bread, the local newspaper with the ordinary news, by chatting with the neighbour what the best way is to store firewood.

     By in the afternoon walking to the pub 'The red carpet'. To join the company of his friends. Chubby Jack, Conrad, Ralf the German who everyone called Adolf, mister Sullivan the lawyer with the glass eye, Morris, Otis, Elly, Florence and Crazy Carissa who after a few drinks start to tell dirty jokes.

    To savour in the evening the fried potatoes, the sausage rolls and red wine. To read the books of Cormac McCarthy and Khalid Hosseini. The watch the movies of the Coen brothers and Quentin Taratino. To play a game of chess with his youngest brother.

    But at nights he sometimes has trouble to fall asleep. By then, it happens once in a while  that he feels that they are waiting for him behind the thick green curtain.

    The doubts. The trepidation. The shudder. The questions. About how he lives. About what happiness means to him. About what he does for humanity. About where he comes from. About where he is going. About the fragility of his body. About the lightness of his mind.

    About the demons that dwell in his black dreams.

    About the angels who live in his white mind.

    Lets be fair about it. Typically, life goes like it goes. So far, everything has fallen into place. As caterpillars seemingly without any effort scurry on thin wet leaves.

    And where he previously noted in his agenda of what he was up to - travelling to Spain, visiting museums, participating in family events, rehearsal of the choir - nowadays more and more days remain blank. He moves on the swell of the days like a drowning man moves on  the waves of a calm sea.

    Sometimes he frowns. Then he suddenly recognizes his room. The empty bottles, the plates with mouldy leftovers, the dirty carpet, the closed curtains.

    But the flash of understanding never lasts. Then he submerges again. In the gray stream of what life has become for him. Sleeping, getting awake, eating, drinking, reading, drinking, watching, drinking, staring, drinking, dozing off, sleeping.

    Like he's only a shell. A facade. A weather-beaten fence.

    Inevitable, his kids or his neighbours would find him one day

    Death as a lost pet.

    Lifeless as a poisoned lab mouse.

    But after a rare game of chess with his younger brother, his life takes a completely different turn. It is explained to him that he can't go on like this. His brother looks serious. As if the potatoes are burned. It is much worse. He gets to see the papers proving that he can no longer care for himself.

    That he has become a danger to himself.

    That the best way forward is that he will be admitted to a nursing home.

    And then his son and daughter also come in. Together with his brother and the neighbors they take him. They explain that everything has been taken care of. They drive him in an orange-yellow Renault to a building that looks new but stark.

    As a doctor with dyed hair and a metallic glasses.

    Only the next morning when he wakes up in a strange bed for the very first time, he is aware what's going on. Everything smells fresh, tidy, germ-free. A woman wearing her dark blonde hair in a jaunty ponytail asks him if he has slept well.

    The morning light falls from the square windows into neat blocks on the glimmering carpet. At the background there are sounds of classical music. Chopin? Rachmaninov? He suddenly realizes. This is hell. This is what he always surmises in his black dreams. His mouth feels dry, his hands are clammy. A sharp pain is hooting through his lower back.

    This will be my death, he mutters like a farmer whose cows have been all killed in a raging barn fire. He is guided to the living room. A woman in a gold dress is embroidering. A man with drops of moisture in the corners of his mouth is trying to lift a tea cup.

     The newcomer wants to start to shout. He wants to topple tables, chairs, residents, visitors, nurses and doctors. He wants to bite, push, fight.

     But he's as silent as a second hand morning coat.

     Suddenly, he feels a hand on his shoulder. Comforting, encouraging. He looks around in amazement. Then he stares into the face of a childhood friend. Her face is engraved with wrinkles. Like a still life with soft scratches.

     But her eyes are still new. Clear skies with dapper suns.

     She fends off the nurses and explains that everything will be okay. She grabs him by the hand and leads him into the garden. And in the morning light she whispers the cobwebs from his eyes, she talks the mustiness out of his silence.

     'There's still plenty of time,' she quips when an unsteady smile appears on his lips. 'But you must see the people again as they are. Funny, clumsy, fragile. You should again consider the world how she is. Strange, unfamiliar, comical.'

     He wants to ask her how come she knows him still so well. What it is that she seem to realize how rotten his days were. How spoilt, rancid.

     But the sounds of her words seem to be sufficient. For now, for today.

     Something is tickling in his head, his chest, his legs. Is it the blood awakening in his rigid body? Like in spring the first snowmelt drips from the mountains?

      Like a lovesick boy caresses the cheeks of his first girlfriend? Careful, uncertain.