Winter in the Castle
(To Violet)
I'm sitting in my armchair as usual, opposite the mirror. I like to see myself in the mirror. It is reassuring. I imagine that I don't see myself in the mirror. I see the empty armchair. I once saw a death notice with an empty armchair. Nothing could have been more heartbreaking than that empty armchair. One day my armchair will be empty, too. For now, it is not empty yet. I can see myself in the mirror, and it is reassuring.
Other times, I imagine I see someone else in the mirror. Or someone else is sitting in the armchair looking at me. A storehouse of possibilities. Even so, I prefer to sit myself in the armchair and see myself in the mirror. This is happiness. Simple as that.
As I sit, I look at my mirror image. There is nothing special about me. I'm just like any other hundred-year-old. Or am I not one hundred yet? Possibly. Since we moved here, into the castle, I decided to be a hundred-year-old and I switched off time. Completely. I have no clocks, no watches, no calendars, nor anything else that could remind me of time. There is only me and the mirror and I'm hundred years old. Now and forever. Simple as that.
Of course, the castle is not really a castle, either. It is a masterpiece of the Scandinavian socialist realism. Everything is always new and functioning perfectly. Only we are old and functioning imperfectly. We, the hundred-year-olds. There are quite a lot of us. Both men and women. I don't know much about them. How could I? They only speak Scandinavian, and I don't understand that. They don't understand me, either. That's all right. Like the two old rabbis: I know everything, he knows everything what could we reveal to each other?
I hear about them sometimes from Violet. Violet is my wife. Her name is not Violet, I only call her that because of the punch line of an old joke: Violet, what is the name of that pill I got against forgetfulness? Never mind. It is not that funny, after all. A while back, it was funnier.
Violet didn't switch off time, and she talks to people. I don't know how, since she didn't use to speak Scandinavian, either. Maybe, she learned it. She knows their names and what they did when they were not hundred years old. She says that nobody else switched off time. There are some who do not understand how I can have a mirror in my room, as they are reluctant to look at themselves. This way or that, it is all the same.
Violet is not happy with my switching off time, and ever since we cannot live together. She likes to wake up, to do some morning exercises, to have breakfast with the other hundred-year-olds. To keep to a schedule. I like to sleep, to wake up, or to eat when it feels good. If I feel like it, I can have breakfast all day, like Siegfried, the lion in an old children's story. When would it be appropriate for me to be free if not as a hundred-year-old? I can afford it, my son foots the bill for the VIP treatment. It was his idea that we should move here, into the castle to be close to each other.
He understands why I switched off time.
"Nevertheless, don't hope that you can switch it into reverse."
"No, it didn't even occur to me. But now, since you brought it up, maybe I will try it once, when nobody is paying attention."
I appreciate that he accepts me just as I am, and tries to help me to accept myself just as I am. But how do I know what I am really like? Of course, now it is easy. I am just like any other hundred-year-old. Simple as that.
He brought up his children in the same spirit. It could not have been easy.
"Your daughters are gorgeous, the twins."
He smiles: "They are my granddaughters, Dad."
I should have known. My grandmother and her sister were twins, and my son's granddaughters are twins. Simple as that. I'll try not to forget it.
I stand up from my armchair and look out the window. It's dark outside. After I had switched off time, I first thought that I would live according to light and darkness. I would sleep in the dark and would be awake in daylight. Then summer came, and for months it wasn't dark at all. I, then found out that the best time to sleep is when I'm sleepy. Simple as that.
Now, it's dark; deep winter darkness. It's all right. For a hundred-year-old, let there be dark. The first ten years of a human life is March, the gentle spring. The second decade is April, the capricious adolescence. The third is May, full of love. The fourth is the busy June. The fifth is the ripe July. At the end of August, approaching sixty, we feel the fragrance of autumn. The seventh decade is autumn itself, September. October is already threatening with eighty. November and December are the undeniable old age. Christmas and New Year's Eve are gifts to the hundred-year-olds. After the Holiday Season, January and February do not promise anything. Bis hundertzwanzig. And then March comes again. But now for somebody else.
If I look out the window at daylight, I see the garden. If I climbed out the window, it would be only a few steps to reach the one-hundredth-acre woods — a cozy corner in the garden with a small bench. Of course, we gave that name to the place. But I don't climb out the window. I'm not the hundred-year-old man who climbed out of the window, even if he also lived here, in Scandinavia. Possibly that's why there are bars on our windows. Not covering the whole window like in a prison, just a small warning. Don't climb out! I wouldn't do it, anyway. Climbing fences was never among my strengths.
Over the garden, not too far, there is the sea. Or a lake. Or a river. But perhaps still it is the sea. I walked over there yesterday. Or last year. It was light. Cold but light.
Since I switched off time, I realize how many other dimensions exist: dark –light, cold–warm, colors, fragrances.
"Haven't seen you for a long time, dear Schubbe-Gubbe" – says the nice young shrink. She uses my nickname given by one of my grandchildren or great-grandchildren. "Do you remember, when you visited us last time?"
"I remember quite exactly. It was when the whole corridor smelled of cinnamon bun."
Simple as that.
As I'm napping in my armchair, I am awakened by my mother entering the room. Or is it my sister? Or my wife? Or a caretaker? I call the nurses that name. After all, they take care of us, don't they?
"Dear Schubbe-Gubbe, your wife was admitted to hospital."
She speaks in a caressing voice not to frighten me. I get frightened.
"It is certainly nothing serious. If you want, we can take you there to visit her. Or you may wait for your son, who may accompany you.
I have been to the hospital several times. Sometimes something was taken out of me, other times something was put into me. It balances well, I am close to breaking even. Simple as that.
I'm waiting for my son and he soon arrives.
“I’ve been to see Mum. Nothing serious, at all. Her blood pressure pills need to be adjusted. She’ll be back within two-three days.
Within two-three days. Within two-three weeks. Within two-three years. All the same. She'll be back. That's the point. Simple as that.
"She said, she would be happier if you don’t upset yourself with a hospital visit."
I would be happier with that, too.
"She'll be back soon, anyway. Until then, nap, relax and listen to a lot of music."
I always listen to a lot of music. I'm really fortunate being able to enjoy so many different ways of listening to music during my life. Normal 78s, vinyls, tapes, cassettes, CDs, mp3s, audio streaming and the most recent developments. Also, to be able to listen to compositions performed by musicians who haven't ever played them. I can rearrange and recompose the whole world of music; Chopin waltzes with the Juilliard Quartet, and The Beatles singing Schubert songs.
I might play music, as well. My fingers do not cope with the clarinet keys anymore, so I now play a wonderful black lacquer soprano sax. It is a bit of a different sound, but it is much easier to play. I sometimes play to my great-grandchildren. The twins. As a matter of fact, they like it, even though they have good musical taste. They attend a music school. No, not quite. Say, preschool. At home, we would call it a nursery, but here the system is different.
Violet tries to persuade me to play for the hundred-year-olds. That could help to bridge communication problems – music is appreciated by all. Maybe she is right. I'll try it someday. Maybe, if I'll be two hundred years old. But just to be sure, I should switch time back on.
Violet is in the hospital now. My son said that after two-three whatever she will be back again. That's the point, not the two-three whatever. It would be more sensible to know whether it will be light or dark, cool or warm or maybe the corridor will smell of cinnamon bun.
I'm sitting in my armchair and I'm napping. A loud ticking wakes me. What? Is there a clock in my room? I rise from my armchair looking for the clock. There is no clock, only the ticking. Now, sitting back, in the mirror above my head, I catch sight of the clock. It displays only two numbers: 2-3. They are ticking and I'm sitting in my armchair shocked. Then I wake up again. There is no clock. There is no ticking, either.
I'm musing. Yes, I know, my son said two-three days. The twins would say, we have to sleep three times. Although they sleep after lunch, as well, but that doesn't count, and they couldn't even count to six, yet. But I could. However, to be sure, I should switch time back on.
Maybe that's what I should do. Violet would be happy after her return. We won't share an apartment at once, but we could have breakfast, lunch and dinner together. I could even play music for the hundred-year-olds.
In return, I'll have to listen to the ticking of my minutes, hours, days – let's be optimistic: years.
Many years ago, when I complained to a physician friend of mine of one of my diseases, he said:
"Well, we have to face that. We'll be still ticking for a while yet, and then not."
Simple as that.
(To Violet)
I'm sitting in my armchair as usual, opposite the mirror. I like to see myself in the mirror. It is reassuring. I imagine that I don't see myself in the mirror. I see the empty armchair. I once saw a death notice with an empty armchair. Nothing could have been more heartbreaking than that empty armchair. One day my armchair will be empty, too. For now, it is not empty yet. I can see myself in the mirror, and it is reassuring.
Other times, I imagine I see someone else in the mirror. Or someone else is sitting in the armchair looking at me. A storehouse of possibilities. Even so, I prefer to sit myself in the armchair and see myself in the mirror. This is happiness. Simple as that.
As I sit, I look at my mirror image. There is nothing special about me. I'm just like any other hundred-year-old. Or am I not one hundred yet? Possibly. Since we moved here, into the castle, I decided to be a hundred-year-old and I switched off time. Completely. I have no clocks, no watches, no calendars, nor anything else that could remind me of time. There is only me and the mirror and I'm hundred years old. Now and forever. Simple as that.
Of course, the castle is not really a castle, either. It is a masterpiece of the Scandinavian socialist realism. Everything is always new and functioning perfectly. Only we are old and functioning imperfectly. We, the hundred-year-olds. There are quite a lot of us. Both men and women. I don't know much about them. How could I? They only speak Scandinavian, and I don't understand that. They don't understand me, either. That's all right. Like the two old rabbis: I know everything, he knows everything what could we reveal to each other?
I hear about them sometimes from Violet. Violet is my wife. Her name is not Violet, I only call her that because of the punch line of an old joke: Violet, what is the name of that pill I got against forgetfulness? Never mind. It is not that funny, after all. A while back, it was funnier.
Violet didn't switch off time, and she talks to people. I don't know how, since she didn't use to speak Scandinavian, either. Maybe, she learned it. She knows their names and what they did when they were not hundred years old. She says that nobody else switched off time. There are some who do not understand how I can have a mirror in my room, as they are reluctant to look at themselves. This way or that, it is all the same.
Violet is not happy with my switching off time, and ever since we cannot live together. She likes to wake up, to do some morning exercises, to have breakfast with the other hundred-year-olds. To keep to a schedule. I like to sleep, to wake up, or to eat when it feels good. If I feel like it, I can have breakfast all day, like Siegfried, the lion in an old children's story. When would it be appropriate for me to be free if not as a hundred-year-old? I can afford it, my son foots the bill for the VIP treatment. It was his idea that we should move here, into the castle to be close to each other.
He understands why I switched off time.
"Nevertheless, don't hope that you can switch it into reverse."
"No, it didn't even occur to me. But now, since you brought it up, maybe I will try it once, when nobody is paying attention."
I appreciate that he accepts me just as I am, and tries to help me to accept myself just as I am. But how do I know what I am really like? Of course, now it is easy. I am just like any other hundred-year-old. Simple as that.
He brought up his children in the same spirit. It could not have been easy.
"Your daughters are gorgeous, the twins."
He smiles: "They are my granddaughters, Dad."
I should have known. My grandmother and her sister were twins, and my son's granddaughters are twins. Simple as that. I'll try not to forget it.
I stand up from my armchair and look out the window. It's dark outside. After I had switched off time, I first thought that I would live according to light and darkness. I would sleep in the dark and would be awake in daylight. Then summer came, and for months it wasn't dark at all. I, then found out that the best time to sleep is when I'm sleepy. Simple as that.
Now, it's dark; deep winter darkness. It's all right. For a hundred-year-old, let there be dark. The first ten years of a human life is March, the gentle spring. The second decade is April, the capricious adolescence. The third is May, full of love. The fourth is the busy June. The fifth is the ripe July. At the end of August, approaching sixty, we feel the fragrance of autumn. The seventh decade is autumn itself, September. October is already threatening with eighty. November and December are the undeniable old age. Christmas and New Year's Eve are gifts to the hundred-year-olds. After the Holiday Season, January and February do not promise anything. Bis hundertzwanzig. And then March comes again. But now for somebody else.
If I look out the window at daylight, I see the garden. If I climbed out the window, it would be only a few steps to reach the one-hundredth-acre woods — a cozy corner in the garden with a small bench. Of course, we gave that name to the place. But I don't climb out the window. I'm not the hundred-year-old man who climbed out of the window, even if he also lived here, in Scandinavia. Possibly that's why there are bars on our windows. Not covering the whole window like in a prison, just a small warning. Don't climb out! I wouldn't do it, anyway. Climbing fences was never among my strengths.
Over the garden, not too far, there is the sea. Or a lake. Or a river. But perhaps still it is the sea. I walked over there yesterday. Or last year. It was light. Cold but light.
Since I switched off time, I realize how many other dimensions exist: dark –light, cold–warm, colors, fragrances.
"Haven't seen you for a long time, dear Schubbe-Gubbe" – says the nice young shrink. She uses my nickname given by one of my grandchildren or great-grandchildren. "Do you remember, when you visited us last time?"
"I remember quite exactly. It was when the whole corridor smelled of cinnamon bun."
Simple as that.
As I'm napping in my armchair, I am awakened by my mother entering the room. Or is it my sister? Or my wife? Or a caretaker? I call the nurses that name. After all, they take care of us, don't they?
"Dear Schubbe-Gubbe, your wife was admitted to hospital."
She speaks in a caressing voice not to frighten me. I get frightened.
"It is certainly nothing serious. If you want, we can take you there to visit her. Or you may wait for your son, who may accompany you.
I have been to the hospital several times. Sometimes something was taken out of me, other times something was put into me. It balances well, I am close to breaking even. Simple as that.
I'm waiting for my son and he soon arrives.
“I’ve been to see Mum. Nothing serious, at all. Her blood pressure pills need to be adjusted. She’ll be back within two-three days.
Within two-three days. Within two-three weeks. Within two-three years. All the same. She'll be back. That's the point. Simple as that.
"She said, she would be happier if you don’t upset yourself with a hospital visit."
I would be happier with that, too.
"She'll be back soon, anyway. Until then, nap, relax and listen to a lot of music."
I always listen to a lot of music. I'm really fortunate being able to enjoy so many different ways of listening to music during my life. Normal 78s, vinyls, tapes, cassettes, CDs, mp3s, audio streaming and the most recent developments. Also, to be able to listen to compositions performed by musicians who haven't ever played them. I can rearrange and recompose the whole world of music; Chopin waltzes with the Juilliard Quartet, and The Beatles singing Schubert songs.
I might play music, as well. My fingers do not cope with the clarinet keys anymore, so I now play a wonderful black lacquer soprano sax. It is a bit of a different sound, but it is much easier to play. I sometimes play to my great-grandchildren. The twins. As a matter of fact, they like it, even though they have good musical taste. They attend a music school. No, not quite. Say, preschool. At home, we would call it a nursery, but here the system is different.
Violet tries to persuade me to play for the hundred-year-olds. That could help to bridge communication problems – music is appreciated by all. Maybe she is right. I'll try it someday. Maybe, if I'll be two hundred years old. But just to be sure, I should switch time back on.
Violet is in the hospital now. My son said that after two-three whatever she will be back again. That's the point, not the two-three whatever. It would be more sensible to know whether it will be light or dark, cool or warm or maybe the corridor will smell of cinnamon bun.
I'm sitting in my armchair and I'm napping. A loud ticking wakes me. What? Is there a clock in my room? I rise from my armchair looking for the clock. There is no clock, only the ticking. Now, sitting back, in the mirror above my head, I catch sight of the clock. It displays only two numbers: 2-3. They are ticking and I'm sitting in my armchair shocked. Then I wake up again. There is no clock. There is no ticking, either.
I'm musing. Yes, I know, my son said two-three days. The twins would say, we have to sleep three times. Although they sleep after lunch, as well, but that doesn't count, and they couldn't even count to six, yet. But I could. However, to be sure, I should switch time back on.
Maybe that's what I should do. Violet would be happy after her return. We won't share an apartment at once, but we could have breakfast, lunch and dinner together. I could even play music for the hundred-year-olds.
In return, I'll have to listen to the ticking of my minutes, hours, days – let's be optimistic: years.
Many years ago, when I complained to a physician friend of mine of one of my diseases, he said:
"Well, we have to face that. We'll be still ticking for a while yet, and then not."
Simple as that.