‘That’s not true, Matron.’
She turned around towards me – tall, slim, and a little pale without her make-up.
‘Sorry, I didn’t understand a word of that,’ she said, and, turning back to the judge, she added: ‘Poor little blighter, I really do feel sorry for him.’
I so longed to reply and slap the truth in her hypocritical mug, but I had been beaten black and blue; my ears were still ringing and my knees still shaking from the beating I’d been given, and all I was able to do in that abyss of pain was to spit. But, being so weak, I couldn’t even do that properly, so the spit just oozed over my contorted blue lips. That must have made me look particularly revolting because an awkward, nauseated silence descended on the courtroom, and the policeman standing beside me grabbed me under the arm forcefully and squeamishly, the way a dog catcher nabs a mangy stray.
I’m feeling a bit jaded, Mum. So much has happened recently. And I feel better here, on the inside. There’s peace and quiet, I’m hardly ever plagued by hallucinations or bad thoughts, I wake up rested, I do my PE and I have regular meals. You promise you’ll come and visit me? Don’t get me wrong, but there’s no need for you to come all that often. Your love warms me from afar. I just need to think of you: then I can smell your delicate perfume and am rapt, just like an ugly bumblebee is intoxicated by the queen rose. Your beautiful hologram is etched deep inside me, so wherever I am and wherever you fare, you will always be with me.
This fairy tale should not be told near stagnant water
Snakelet
He found the snakelet at the very beginning of his solitary life, and now, after five years of living together, they had the same trust in each other as do close relatives. The snakelet ate out of his hand, went with him on walks through the forest – dozing in the pocket of his faded but still warm fur coat, or crawling along behind him when invigorated by the sun. On winter nights it slept long and peacefully, coiled up in a nest of twigs, leaves and moss he had made for it by the fire.
The little snake was patterned and only four inches long, at most. It enjoyed climbing along his arm, hissing joyfully with its little tongue. And it loved to lie in wait for its prey – a hypnotized bug, perhaps – and weave its hunter’s dance around it.
By the end of the second year, he had taught it to recognize his whistle. Now he was trying to teach it to distinguish the short, sharp whistle which meant ‘Come!’ from the long, protracted one which meant ‘I’m bringing you food,’ and the two whistles of equal length meaning ‘Lift yourself up!’ – at which the snakelet would raise its head and the upper third of its body and sway from side to side.
He was happiest when it brought him his pipe. This difficult task, announced by one short and one long whistle, required the snakelet to perform several actions in sequence: to find the pipe, to pick it up with its little fangs, and to bring it to him. The snakelet would leave tiny, wet bite-marks on the stem of the pipe, and when the man lit his pipe and drew on it he felt he was imbibing a special tenderness.
Yet, after five years of seclusion, loneliness began to oppress him. While absent-mindedly stroking the curvy body of the snakelet, he realized that the blame lay in himself. He might have been offended, because people might have been nasty and unfair to him, but he had no right to be angry with them for so long. How could he forget the beautiful days of his childhood and youth? How could he forget that he had once been loved and that he himself had offended others? He was only human too, after all.
So he decided to return to the city. He put on his fur coat, slipped the snakelet into his pocket, and set off. As soon as he saw the first houses, he almost broke into a run.
But when he came face to face with the city, he sensed that invisible barrier again – the one he had felt whenever, in his solitary years, he had descended from his cave into the city in search of food. The same sense of breathlessness came over him. The city was suffocating him.
Already he was met by the astonished, derisive stares of the passers-by. His wild hair and shaggy beard, his tattered old coat, out of which his arms jutted like rusty spades, and his fearful reaction to any loud noise, made him stand out. In the eyes of the city he belonged to the class of beggars who come out at dusk to rummage through the garbage bins, glancing around nervously like hungry dogs.
By the time he made it to the first café, he was shaking like a drunk. At the last moment, before going in, he thought to take the snakelet out of his pocket. It zipped across the pavement as fast as lightning and disappeared into a crack in the wall of the nearest house. There, in the stone crevice, it calmed down. Its friend’s disquiet had unsettled the little creature. Instinctively, it felt safe in the dark. It waited.
In the café, the bar keeper and five or six guests – all men – were listening to a football match on the radio. The shrill, eunuch-like voice of the commentator, combined with the shouting and cursing of the sweaty men made him seek the furthest table. He sat huddled there on the chair, covering his ears with his broad hands, until the feel of his own skin gradually calmed him down.
Only then did he notice the fellow at the next table. He was sitting away from the men with the radio and gazing peacefully out into the street. A pair of crutches rested against the chair beside him. Turning from the window, the fellow smiled and said, ‘Nice day today.’
He went on talking in a lively, rambling way about the coming of spring, pollution in the cities, and the impossibility of true communication. It turned out that both men harboured the same bitterness and the same contempt for crowds.
At first, our man just nodded in agreement, later tossing in the occasional ‘yes’, ‘that’s right’, and ‘I think so too’. But when the fellow moved on to the problem of friendship, he felt he needed to interrupt his monologue, ‘where can you find sincerity? People are selfish and care only for their own interests.’
Unconsciously, the two men moved closer to each another. He was now resting his arms on the next table, while the like-minded fellow was leaning toward him. All of a sudden, our man exclaimed: ‘I’ve got something to show you – a true friend!’
And as the fellow sent him an almost cheerful look of approval, our man gave a short, sharp whistle. The football fans by the radio turned and cast him angry glances.
The snakelet did not respond. The man had never asked it to enter a room full of people before; he had taught it to be wary of them. It decided to stay in its hole.
‘Please hear me and come out!’ he begged. ‘Just this once!’ He whistled again, now with an air of desperation. His whistle brought a tirade of curses from the other men, and the bar keeper yelled: ‘Shut up, you dunce! Can’t you see we’re listening to the game?’
The fellow from the next table scratched himself behind his ear. ‘Sorry, but I don’t understand,’ he said.
Just then, the head of the snakelet appeared under the front door. Warmth filled his heart. ‘There he is!’ he whispered, ‘He’s coming.’
But the very next instant, as if in slow motion, the curiosity on his neighbour’s face changed to revulsion and his hand grasped murderously for the crutch.
This fairy tale is to be told during coffee breaks from Monday to Wednesday
The Man with One Wing
Once there was a man who had one wing. Unlike an angel’s wings, which grow out of its back, this man’s wing was in the place of his right arm, and unlike a bird’s it had a flexible elbow, which he rested on as he sat on a large rock and stared away into the distance as if looking out to sea: but there was no sea, only a hillside clearing with a few scattered trees.
For the man with one wing, that summer was one of the most depressing of his life. He was haunted by a sense of emptiness and futility, a feeling heightened on those July afternoons by the stale, sour smell rising from the hot city, that sticky mass of cars and people constantly creeping like a foul treacle and defiling even the narrowest alleyways.