‘Forgive me,’ was all he said, and my mind moved like a great locomotive trying to understand it. What on earth would I have to forgive him for? I thought about the times when he hadn’t responded to my greeting. Or the day he’d talked to me across the threshold when I’d brought him his post, but refused to let me inside, into his lovely, spick-and-span kitchen. Another thought was that he’d never taken any interest in me when I was laid up in bed by my Ailments, breathing my last.
But why would I have to forgive him for any of these things? Maybe he was thinking of his cold, ironic son in the black coat. But we’re not answerable for our children, are we?
Finally Boros appeared in the doorway with my laptop, which he’d been using before now anyway, and plugged in his pendant, shaped like a wolf’s fang. For a very long time there was total silence, while we waited for a sign. Finally we heard a storm, but it didn’t frighten or surprise us. It dominated the sound of bells ringing in the mist. No other music could have suited the mood better – it must have been composed specially for this evening.
‘Riders on the storm,’ the words echoed out of nowhere.
Riders on the storm
Into this house we’re born
Into this world we’re thrown
Like a dog without a bone
An actor out on loan
Riders on the storm…
Boros hummed and rocked in his chair, while the words of the song repeated over and over again, the same ones every time, never any others.
‘Why are some people evil and nasty?’ asked Boros rhetorically.
‘Saturn,’ I said. ‘The traditional ancient Astrology of Ptolemy tells us it’s down to Saturn. In its discordant aspects Saturn has the power to make people mean-spirited, spiteful, solitary and plaintive. They’re malicious, cowardly, shameless and sullen, they never stop scheming, they speak evil, and they don’t take care of their bodies. They endlessly want more than they have, and nothing ever pleases them. Is that the sort of people you mean?’
‘It could be the result of mistakes in their upbringing,’ added Oddball, enunciating each word slowly and carefully, as if afraid his tongue was about to play tricks on him and say something else entirely. Once he had managed to utter this one sentence, he dared to add another: ‘Or class war.’
‘Or poor potty training,’ added Boros, and I said: ‘A toxic mother.’
‘An authoritarian father.’
‘Sexual abuse in childhood.’
‘Not being breastfed.’
‘Television.’
‘A lack of lithium and magnesium in the diet.’
‘The stock exchange,’ shouted Oddball, with incredible enthusiasm, but to my mind he was exaggerating.
‘No, don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘In what way?’
So he corrected himself: ‘Post-traumatic shock.’
‘Psychophysical structure.’
We tossed around ideas until we ran out of them, a game we found highly amusing.
‘But it is Saturn,’ I said, dying of laughter.
We walked Oddball back to his cottage, trying hard to keep extremely quiet, for fear of waking the Writer. But we weren’t very good at it – every few seconds we snorted with laughter.
As we were off to bed, emboldened by the wine, Boros and I embraced, to say thank you for this evening. A little later I saw him in the kitchen, taking his pills and swallowing them with water from the tap.
It occurred to me that he was a very good Person, this Boros. And it was a good thing he had his Ailments. Being healthy is an insecure state and does not bode well. It’s better to be ill in a quiet way, then at least we know what we’re going to die of.
He came to me in the Night and squatted by my bed. I wasn’t asleep.
‘Are you asleep?’ he asked.
‘Are you religious?’ I had to put the question.
‘Yes,’ he replied proudly. ‘I’m an atheist.’
I found that curious.
I raised the quilt and invited him to join me, but as I am neither Maudlin nor Sentimental, I shall not dwell on it any further.
The next day was Saturday, and early in the morning Dizzy appeared.
I was working in my garden patch, testing one of my Theories. I think I can find proof for the fact that we inherit phenotypes, which flies in the face of modern genetics. I had noticed that certain acquired features make irregular appearances in subsequent generations. So three years ago I set about repeating Mendel’s experiment with sweet peas; I am now in the middle of it. I notched the petals of the flowers, through five generations in a row (two a year), and then checked to see if the seeds would produce flowers with damaged petals. I must say that the results of this experiment were looking very encouraging.
Dizzy’s rickety old car emerged from round the bend in such a hurry that one could describe it as breathless and overexcited. Dizzy hopped out, just as agitated.
‘They’ve found Innerd’s body. Dead as a doornail. For weeks and weeks.’
I felt extremely faint. I had to sit down. I wasn’t prepared for this.
‘So he hadn’t run away with his lover,’ said Boros, emerging from the kitchen with a mug of tea. He didn’t hide his disappointment.
Dizzy looked at him and at me hesitantly, and was too surprised to say anything. I had to do a quick presentation. They shook hands.
‘Oh, they knew that ages ago,’ said Dizzy, his excitement waning. ‘He left his credit cards behind and his bank accounts haven’t been touched. Though actually his passport has never turned up.’
We sat down outside the house. Dizzy said he’d been found by timber thieves. Yesterday afternoon they had driven into the forest from the direction of the Fox farm, and there, just before Dusk, they had come upon the remains – that’s what they’d said. They were lying among the ferns, in a pit where clay was once mined. And apparently these remains were quite appalling, so twisted and deformed that it took them a while to realise they were looking at a man’s body. At first they had fled in horror, but their consciences had nagged them. Naturally, they were afraid to go to the Police for one simple reason – as soon as they did, their criminal activity would instantly be exposed. Oh well, they could always claim they’d just been driving through that way…Late that evening they’d called the Police, and during the Night the forensic team had arrived. From what was left of the clothing, they had provisionally managed to identify Innerd because he wore a distinctive leather jacket. But we’d be sure to know everything on Monday.
Oddball’s son later defined our behaviour as ‘childish’, but to me it seemed as coherent as can be – namely, we all got in the Samurai and drove to the forest beyond the Fox farm to the site where the body was found. And we were by no means the only ones to behave childishly – about twenty people had come, men and women from Transylvania, and also forest workers, those men with moustaches were there too. Plastic orange tape had been stretched between the trees, and from the distance stipulated for spectators it was hard to make out anything at all.
A middle-aged woman came up to me and said: ‘Apparently he was lying here for months on end and had already been well gnawed by foxes.’
I nodded. I recognised her. We had often met at Good News’ shop. Her name was Innocenta, which impressed me greatly. Beyond that I did not envy her – she had several ne’er-do-well sons who were no use at all.