A Sudden Liberating Thought

I live in a basement; a result of having come down in the world, in every sense.

My room has only one window, and only the upper part of it is above pavement level; causing me to see the world outside from below. It’s not a very big world, but it often feels big enough.

I see only the legs and lower parts of the passersby on the pavement on my side of the street, but having lived here for four years, I can tell whom they belong to in most cases. That’s due to there being little traffic; I live almost at the end of a cul-de-sac.

I’m a taciturn man, but I talk to myself on occasion. The things I say at those times have to be said, I think.

One day while I was standing by the window, and had just seen the lower part of the landlord’s wife go past, I suddenly felt so lonely that I decided to go out.

I put on my shoes and coat, and stuck my reading glasses in my coat pocket, just in case. Then I went out. The advantage of living in a basement is that you walk up the steps when you’re rested and down them when you come home tired. It’s probably the only advantage.

It was a warm summer’s day. I walked to the park by the disused fire station, where I can usually sit in peace. But I’d hardly sat down when an old chap my own age came along and parked himself beside me, even though there were plenty of unoccupied benches. I had gone out because I was feeling lonely, but not to talk, just for a change. I began to grow increasingly nervous that he would say something, so much so I considered getting up and walking off, but where would I go, after all this was where I’d planned on coming. But he didn’t say anything, and I found that so appealing I became favorably disposed towards him. I even tried to look at him, without him noticing of course. But he did notice, because he said:

“Forgive me for saying, but I sat here because I thought I’d be left in peace. I can move, of course, if you’d like.”

“Sit, by all means,” I said, more than a little taken aback. Naturally I made no further attempts to look at him, he had my deepest respect. And more naturally still, I did not speak to him. I felt a little strange inside, somewhat non-lonely, a wellbeing of sorts.

He sat there for a half hour, then rose to his feet, with a little difficulty, turned to me and said:

“Thank you. Goodbye.” 

“Goodbye.”

Then he left, with a remarkably long stride and slightly flailing arms, as though sleepwalking.

The following day at the same time, or rather, a little earlier, I walked to the park again. 

In light of all the thought and speculation he had caused me, it seemed the natural course of action; it was hardly a free choice, whatever that is.

He came, I spotted him from some way off, recognizing him by his gait. There were unoccupied benches that day too and I was intrigued to see if he would sit down beside me. I looked in the other direction of course, acting as though I hadn’t seen him, and when he sat down, I pretended not to notice. He made no sign of registering my presence either; it was a rather unusual situation—a sort of unplanned non-meeting. I have to admit I was uncertain whether or not I wanted him to say something, and after a half hour I was just as uncertain about whether I should leave first or wait for him to go. Not that this uncertainty bothered me that much—I could have remained sitting in any case. But then for some reason or other I got it into my head that he had the upper hand and that made the decision easy. I stood up, looked at him for the first time and said:

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” he replied, looking me squarely in the eyes. His gaze was unflinching.

I left, and as I walked away I couldn’t help but wonder how he would characterize my gait, and immediately felt my body tense up and my steps become stiff and awkward. I have to admit, it annoyed me.

That evening, as I stood beneath the window looking out–there wasn’t much to see—I decided that if he came the next day I’d say something. I even planned on what to say, how to initiate what could potentially become a conversation. I would wait a quarter of an hour, then, without looking at him, I’d say: “It’s time we spoke.” No more, just that. He could either reply or not, and if he didn’t reply I would stand up and say: “In the future I’d prefer it if you found another bench to sit on.”

I also came up with a lot of other things that evening, things to say if a conversation developed, but I rejected most of them as uninteresting or too trite.

The next morning I was excited and uncertain, I even considered staying home. I resolved to dismiss the decision I’d come to the previous evening; if I went there, I was definitely not going to say anything.

I went, and he came. I didn’t look at him. It suddenly occurred to me as rather striking that he always showed up within five minutes of my arriving—as though he’d been standing somewhere nearby and seen me come. Of course, I thought, of course: he lives in one of the buildings beside the fire station and sees me from his window.

I didn’t have time to speculate any further because he suddenly began to speak. His words made me feel somewhat ill at ease I have to admit. “Excuse me,” he said, “but if you don’t mind, perhaps it’s time we spoke together.

I made no immediate reply, but after a few moments I said: “Perhaps. If there’s anything to say.”

“You don’t know if there’s anything to say?”

 “I’m probably older than you.” 

“It’s not impossible.”

I didn’t say any more. I felt an unpleasant uneasiness within, which had to do with the odd role reversal that had taken place. He’d been the one to initiate the conversation, using almost my own words, and I was the one who replied as I’d imagined him doing. It was as though I could just as well be him and he could just as well be me. It was unpleasant. I felt like leaving. But seeing as I had been, so to speak, forced to identify with him, I found it hard to hurt or even insult him.

Perhaps a minute passed, then he said:

“I’m eighty-three.” “Then I was right.”

Another minute went by.

“Do you play chess?” he asked. “It’s been a long time.”

“Hardly anyone plays chess anymore. Everyone I’ve played chess with is dead.”

“At least fifteen years ago.”

“The last one died in the winter. No great loss actually, he had become rather dull-witted. I always beat him in less than twenty moves. But he got a certain pleasure out of it, his one remaining pleasure in life I dare say. Perhaps you knew him.”

“No,” I quickly replied, “I didn’t know him.”

“But how can you be so sure that…well, that’s your business.”

He was right about that and I would have told him as much, but to his credit he hadn’t completed the question.

I noticed he turned his face to look at me. He sat like that for a good while; it was unpleasant, so I took my glasses from my coat pocket and put them on. Everything in front of me—the trees, houses, benches—all disappeared into a haze.

“You’re short-sighted?” he asked after a while. 

“No,” I said, “quite the opposite.”

“What I mean is, you need glasses to see what’s far away.”

“No, on the contrary. It’s things that are close to me that I have problems with.”

“I see.”

I didn’t say any more. When I noticed him turning his face away again I removed my glasses and put them in my coat pocket. He didn’t say any more either, so when I thought enough time had passed I stood up and politely said:

“Thanks for the chat. So long.” 

“So long.”

I left with more confidence in my step that day, but on making it home and calming down, I began once again to hastily plan my next meeting with him. I paced back and forth thinking up many absurdities, a few subtleties too; I wasn’t above exulting a little, but that, after all, was because I regarded him as my equal.

I didn’t sleep well that night. Back when I was still young enough to believe the future could hold surprises in store I often slept poorly, but that was a long time ago, before it became clear to me, I mean completely clear, that the day you die, it makes no difference whether you’ve had a good life or a bad one. So the fact I slept poorly that night both surprised and unsettled me. Nor had I eaten anything to cause it either, only a few boiled potatoes and a tin of sardines; I’d had an excellent night’s sleep many times before after such a meal.

The following day he didn’t arrive until almost a quarter of an hour had passed. I’d begun to give up hope, a feeling I was unaccustomed to: having a hope to give up. But he came.

“Hello,” he said. 

“Hello.”

We didn’t say anything else for a while. I knew well what I was going to say if the silence went on too long, but I wanted him to speak first, and he did:

“Your wife…is she still alive?”

“No, she’s not, died a long time ago, I’ve all but forgotten her. And your own?”

“Passed away two years ago. Today.” 

“Oh. So it’s a day of mourning of sorts.”

“Well. The feeling of loss, there’s nothing you can do about that really. But I don’t mark it by going to her grave, if that’s what you mean. Graves are damnable places. Pardon me. That wasn’t a very good choice of words.”

I made no reply.

“My apologies,” he said, “perhaps I’ve offended you, it wasn’t my intention.”

“You haven’t offended me.”

“Good. You might be religious for all I know. I had a sister who believed in eternal life. Such conceit.”

Again I was struck by how he sat there delivering my line, and for a moment I was foolish enough to think that I was imagining everything, that he didn’t even exist, and that in reality I was sitting talking to myself. And I suppose it was this foolishness that prompted me to pose a completely ill-considered question:

“Who are you really?”

Fortunately he didn’t answer straight away, so I managed to retrieve the situation somewhat:

“Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t actually talking to you. It was just something that came to mind.”

I noticed he was looking at me, but this time I didn’t take out my glasses. I said:

“Besides I wouldn’t like you to think I’m in the habit of asking questions about which there are no answers.”

Then we sat in silence. It wasn’t a relaxing silence; I was tempted to leave. Two minutes, I thought, if he hasn’t said anything by then, I’ll go. I began counting the seconds in my head. He didn’t say anything and after exactly two minutes I got to my feet. He stood up as well, at the very same time.

“Thanks for the chat,” I said.

“Likewise. A shame you won’t play chess.”

“I don’t think you’d enjoy it much. Besides, your opponents have a tendency to die.”

“True, true,” he replied, seeming suddenly abstracted. “So long,” I said.

“So long.”

I was more tired than usual when I arrived home; I had to lie down on the bed. After a while I said aloud: “I’m old. And life is long.”

When I woke up the next day it was raining. To say I was disappointed would be an understatement. But as the day wore on and the rain didn’t let up it became clear to me that I would go to the park regardless. I couldn’t do otherwise. It wasn’t about him also turning up, that wasn’t it. It was just that if he did come, then I wanted, I had, to be there. And as I was sitting there on that wet bench, in the rain, I even hoped he wouldn’t show; there was something revealing, something brazen, about sitting completely alone in a rain-soaked park.

But he did come—as I knew he would! Unlike me he was wearing a raincoat, a long, black one reaching almost to the ground. He sat down.

“You braved the elements,” he said.

It was of course only meant as a casual comment, but in light of what I’d been thinking just prior to his turning up I found it rather impertinent, so I didn’t reply. I noticed I was in bad humor and regretted having come. Moreover I was getting wet, my coat felt heavy, and to remain sitting seemed almost ludicrous, so I said:

“I came outside to get some fresh air, but then I got tired. I am an old man.”

And to dispel any notions he might have, I added: “A habit of mine, you understand.”

He didn’t say anything and it had the effect, albeit unreasonable, of provoking me. And what he eventually said, after a long pause, didn’t serve to soften my attitude.

“You don’t like people very much, do you, or am I mistaken?” 

“Like people?” I replied. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, it’s just the kind of thing one says, isn’t it? I didn’t mean to be intrusive.”

“Of course I don’t like people. And of course I like people. Had you asked if I liked cats or goats, or butterflies for that matter, but people. Besides, I hardly know any.”

I immediately regretted the last part, but fortunately that wasn’t what he seized upon.

“Well, I never!” he said. “Goats and butterflies!”

I could tell he was smiling. I had to admit I’d been unnecessarily dismissive, so I said:

“If you want a general answer to a general question, then I like both goats and butterflies more unconditionally than I like people.”

“Thank you, I got the point a while back. I’ll remember to be more specific the next time I venture to ask something.”

He said this in a friendly tone and it was no exaggeration to say I was sorry, even though my being difficult was down to the bad humor I was in. And because I was sorry, I said something I also immediately felt sorry for having said:

“Apologies, but words are nearly all I have left. I do apologize.” 

“Heavens, no. It was my fault. I should have taken into account who you are.”

I felt my heart drop – did he know who I was? Did he come here every day because he knew who I was? I couldn’t help feeling nervous and uncertain, and automatically put my hand in my coat pocket to get my glasses.

“What do you mean?” I said. “Do you know me?”

“Yes. I suppose you could say that. We have met before. I wasn’t aware of that when I sat down here the first time. It gradually dawned on me that I’d seen you before, but I couldn’t manage to place you, not until yesterday. It was something you said, and suddenly I realized where I knew you from. But you don’t remember me?”

I got to my feet. 

“No.”

I looked directly at him. I didn’t know if I’d ever seen him before. 

“I am…I was your judge.”

“You, you…”

I didn’t know what else to say. 

“Sit down, please.”

“I’m wet. So, you were…that was you. I see. Well, goodbye, I have to go.”

I left. It was no dignified exit, but I was unnerved, and walked faster than I had in years. When I got home I just about managed to pull my soaked overcoat off me before I collapsed onto the bed. My heart was pounding and I resolved never to return to the park.

But after a while, my heart rate returned to normal, as did my thoughts. I accepted my reaction, something hidden had come to light again, and I’d been caught off guard, that was all. It was understandable. 

I got up from the bed and I could, not without some satisfaction, state that I was back to my old self again. I stood under the window and said aloud: “He’ll see me again.”

The fine weather made a return the following day, which was a relief, and my coat was as good as dry. I left for the park at the usual time; he wasn’t going to notice anything out of the ordinary with me that might make him think he’d gained the upper hand.

But as I approached the bench I saw he was already there, hence he was the one acting out of the ordinary.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” I replied as I sat down, and in order to take the bull by the horns I immediately added:

“I thought you might not show up today.” 

“Bravo,” he said. “One nil to you.”

I was content with that answer; he was an equal. 

“Did you often feel guilty?” I asked.

“I don’t follow.”

“As a judge, did you often feel guilty? After all it was your occupation to assign to others the requisite amount of guilt.”

“My occupation was to define the law based upon other people’s assessment of guilt.”

“Are you trying to excuse yourself? There’s no need.”

“I didn’t feel guilty. I did, on the other hand, often feel at the mercy of the rigid nature of the law. As in your case.”

“Yes, because you’re not superstitious, after all.” He glanced at me.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

“Only superstitious people believe it’s a doctor’s obligation to prolong the suffering of those who are doomed.”

“Ah, I understand. But aren’t you afraid that the legalization of euthanasia could be misused?”

“Of course it couldn’t be misused. Because then euthanasia would no longer be euthanasia but murder.”

He made no reply. I snatched a sidelong glance at him; he had a sullen, impassive expression. That was fine by me. Although I didn’t know whether his sullenness was due to what I’d said or if he was simply in the habit of looking like that, it was hard to tell, seeing as I’d practically never looked at him. Now I felt like making up for lost time and taking a good look at him, and I did, openly, turning my head to stare at his profile; it was the least I could permit myself when faced with the man who had sentenced me to several years in prison. I even took my glasses from my coat pocket and put them on; not that it was necessary, I could see him quite clearly without them, but I felt a sudden urge to provoke him. It was so unlike me to stare so overtly at a person that for a moment I felt like a stranger to myself; it was an odd and by no means unpleasant sensation. And breaking with my usual behavior in this way had a knock-on effect. I laughed for the first time in years; it doubtless sounded nasty. Without looking at me, he said in a brusque tone:

“I don’t care what you’re laughing at but it doesn’t sound like you’re enjoying yourself. And that’s a pity. In other respects you’re a sensible person.”

His words disarmed me, as well as making me feel slightly ashamed, and I looked away from his angry profile and said:

“You’re right. It wasn’t much of a laugh.”

I wasn’t going to give him more than that.

We sat in silence; I thought about my miserable life and grew gloomy. I pictured the judge’s home, with good chairs and large bookshelves.

“You probably have a housekeeper?” I said. 

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“I’m just trying to imagine what retirement looks like for a judge.” 

“Oh, it’s nothing to brag about. The inactivity, you know, the long aimless days.”

“Yes, time won’t pass.”

“And it’s the only thing left.”

“Time dragging on, filled perhaps with illness, making it longer still, then it’s all over. And when things finally get that far, we’re left thinking: what a meaningless life.”

“Well, meaningless—” 

“Meaningless.”

He didn’t reply. Neither of us said any more. After a while I stood up, regardless of how lonely I felt; I didn’t want to share my melancholy with him.

“So long,” I said. “So long, doctor.”

Despondency begets sentimentality, and the word ‘doctor’, uttered without a hint of irony, sent a wave of warmth through me; I turned quickly and hurried away. And right then and there, before even leaving the park, I knew I wanted to die. I wasn’t surprised; if anything I was surprised not to be. And at once both the depression and sentimentality seemed to evaporate. I slowed my pace, feeling an inner calm that demanded slowness.

When I arrived home, a feeling of distinct calm still within, I took out some writing paper and an envelope. On the back of the envelope I wrote: To the judge who sentenced me. Then I sat down at the small table where I usually eat and began to write down this story.

Today I went to the park for the last time. I was in a strange, almost brash mood; perhaps due to the unaccustomed joy I’d experienced in putting my previous meetings with the judge into words; or, perhaps more likely, because I hadn’t wavered in my decision, not for a single moment.

Once again he was sitting there when I arrived. I thought he looked troubled. I greeted him with more friendliness than usual, it came quite naturally to me. He shot me a quick glance, as though to check if I meant it.

“Well,” he said, “you’re having one of your better days?” 

“I have my good days, yes. And you?”

“Pretty good, thanks. So you no longer believe life is meaningless?” 

“Oh yes, utterly.”

“Hmm. I wouldn’t be able to live with such a realization.”

“You’re forgetting about the sense of self-preservation, a tenacious instinct, which has overcome many a rational decision.”

He didn’t reply. I hadn’t planned on sitting there long, so after a short pause I said:

“We won’t be seeing each other again. I came today to say goodbye.” 

“Really? That’s a pity. Are you going away?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re not coming back?” 

“No.”

“Hmm. I see. Well I hope you don’t think me too forward when I tell you I’ll miss our meetings.”

“Nice of you to say.”

“Time will pass even more slowly.”

“There’re lonely men sitting on plenty of other benches.”

“Ah, you know what I mean. Might I be so bold as to ask where you’re going?”

I’ve heard it said that a man who knows he will die within the next twenty-four hours feels free to do whatever he wants, but that’s not true; you are, even then, unable to act contrary to your own nature, your self. Not that giving him an honest, straightforward answer would have been to behave contrary to my nature, but I’d decided beforehand not to disclose my destination to him, as I saw no reason to upset him. After all, he was practically the only person who would be bereaved by my passing. But what should I answer?

“You’ll receive word,” I said at last.

I noticed he was taken aback, but he didn’t say anything. Instead he reached inside his inside pocket and took out a wallet. He looked through it then handed me his card.

“Thank you,” I said, putting it in my coat pocket. I felt I should go. I rose to my feet. He stood up as well. He held out his hand. I took it.

“Take care,” he said. 

“Thanks, likewise. Goodbye.” 

“Goodbye.”

I left. I had the feeling he remained standing, but I didn’t turn around to look. I walked calmly homeward, not thinking of anything in particular. Something inside me was smiling. After coming down into the basement, I stood for a while underneath the window looking out at the empty street, before sitting down at the table to finish off this story. I’m going to place the judge’s card on top of the envelope.

I’m finished. In a moment I’ll fold the sheets of paper together and place them in the envelope. And now, just before it happens, before I undertake the only definitive act a person is capable of performing, one thought overshadows all others: why didn’t I do this long ago?