Kleinzeit by Russell Hoban Read Free Book Online Page A

flower arranger Satsuma Sodoma, his masseur and trainer Jean Jacques Longjacques, his boyfriend Ahmed,
Times
photographer Y. Dangle Peep and his assistant N. Ameless Drudge, and
Times
writer Wordsworth Little, sits in his bath with proofs of his new novel
Transvestite Express”?
There’s a difference, and the difference matters.’
    ‘I’ve often thought the same,’ said Kleinzeit.
    ‘It’s bad enough in books,’ said Redbeard. ‘When Kill is alone in the submarine trapped on the bottom by Dr Pong’s radio-controlled giant squid …’
    ’He isn’t really alone because the giant squid is there,’ said Kleinzeit.
    ‘He isn’t really alone because Harry Solvent is there to tell about it,’ said Redbeard. ‘What I say is at least let Harry Solvent not be reported as being alone when he isn’t. That isn’t much to ask. It really is not much to ask at all.’
    ‘An entirely reasonable request,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘Seemly in its moderation.’
    ‘What’re you sucking up to me for?’ said Redbeard. ‘I can’t do a bloody thing for you. Ordinary foolscap, eh?’
    ‘What about ordinary foolscap?’
    ‘I wasn’t born here, you know,’ said Redbeard. ‘Read a lot of stories from here as a child. Often a young man in the stories lived in a bare room, rough white walls, one peg for his coat, plain deal table, ream of ordinary foolscap. I didn’t know then that foolscap was a size, thought it was some kind of coarse rough paper that dunce caps were made of. Asked for it in shops, they didn’t know.’ He was talking louder and louder. People turned their heads, stared. ‘Got it into my head that rough A4 yellow paper might be foolscap, used to buy it with my pocket money. Even after I found out I stayed with the A4 yellow paper because I’d got used to it. Now I’m a yellow-paper freak. There bloody isn’t any bare room. Empty rooms yes. Bare ones no. You ever seen a bare room? Curtain rods and clothes hangers jingling in the cupboard. Plastic things with that special kind of dirt that plastic things get on them. No end of gear. Carpet sweepers with no handles, plastic toilet-brush holders. Ever find a plastic toilet-brush holder in a plain deal table story? Try to make a room bare and in five minutes three-year-old cans of dried-up paint leap into the larder. From where? You’d thrown everything out. Old shoes you’ve worn one time fill up the cupboard, jackets you’re too fat for. Your arm grows weak sliding things along the bar that you’ll never wear again, and they won’t go away. Move out andthey flop along after you tied up with string. Not alone like the young man at the plain deal table with the ordinary foolscap. Bloody awful really alone with yellow paper, tons of rubbish. And you think you’ve got answers coming to you. What a baby. You and your Ibsen and your Chekhov. Maybe the revolver in the drawer’s for another play, you ever think of that? You think your three acts are the only three bloody acts there are? Maybe you’re the revolver in somebody else’s play, eh? Never thought of that, did you. It’s all got to mean something to
you.
Do I ask you to explain anything to me? No. Because I’m a bleeding man and I’ll take my bleeding lumps and get on with whatever it is I’m getting on with. Got enough answers for your fruity buns?’ He began to cry.
    ‘Good God,’ said Kleinzeit. He gathered up the bedroll and the carrier-bags, hustled Redbeard out into the street.
    ‘You still haven’t said why you drop the yellow paper and pick it up and write on it and drop it again,’ said Kleinzeit.
    Redbeard grabbed the bedroll, swung it, knocked Kleinzeit down. Kleinzeit got up and hit Redbeard.
    ‘Right,’ said Redbeard. ‘Ta-ra.’ He disappeared into the Underground.

By Hand
    Kleinzeit got back to the ward in time for three 2-Nup tablets and his supper. He smelled his supper, looked at it, Something pale brown, something pale green, something pale yellow. Two slices of