The Maestro, the Magistrate and the Mathematician. Tendai Huchu
Tom, who was zombified, Susan, who could manage reasonably well with her zimmer frame, Kathleen, the grouch, who wanted to be left alone to die, and Eric, who liked walking around naked, flashing his willy, saying, “Not bad for ninety-five, hey.” There were too many faces, too many people in these small catacombs. The Magistrate wondered how Brian knew all of them so well when they could only spend a few minutes with each one.
Brian handed him the wipes. “You have to learn how to do this eventually.”
The Magistrate had heard about these places before and the reality was worse than the stories. It was incomprehensible to him that these people, who, after all, were fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, could be rounded up in this Gulag, waiting to die. Was this the fate that awaited him should he stay in this country for too long? Would Chenai allow that? She was already too modern, too westernised.
They had a full yellow bag when they walked back to the sluice. He’d never once changed Chenai’s nappies, there was always the maid for that sort of thing – how he missed her. His feet ached. The safety shoes pinched his small toes. Brian showed him how to use the sluicemaster into which they poured the waste.
“How can anyone send their parents to die in such a place?” he asked.
“You haven’t been here that long, have you? They say people out here are cash rich and time poor. Haven’t you felt how time speeds up as soon as you leave the airport terminal? Sometimes you have the odd long day, but the weeks and months rush by, like that.” Brian clicked his fingers to emphasize his point. A buzzer rang. “I’ll go and get the first one, you go over to the staff room and have a bit of a breather. Brace yourself, they’ll be going off all night.”
The Magistrate took a seat in the staff room, shell-shocked and dazed. He felt as though he was in a dream, drifting through a heavy fog, an alternative reality. The clock said it was after midnight. His back ached from hauling bodies up beds, bending over, picking things up. He was no stranger to the backbreaking hoe work in his grandfather’s fields, yet he was convinced this was a different kind of pain. In the fields with the soft earth beneath your feet and the open sky above, you hardly felt the strain. It was massaged by the soothing voices of family, banter, the gossip about the neighbours, and the satisfaction that your labour was meaningful. There was nothing like watching your seedlings grow, tending them until they matured. It was different from this, this cultivating the field of death, the living dead groaning in their cots.
“You look lost in thought, pal,” the woman in the plastic apron said to him. “Brian says this is your first time and you’re doing alright. Fancy a cuppa?”
“Pardon?”
“Cup of tea.” He nodded. “So what did you do before this?”
“I was unemployed,” he replied.
“Before that. You couldnae ’ave been on the dole all your life now.”
The Magistrate hesitated. It wouldn’t make any sense, here of all places, to explain what his past life had been. “I had an office job. You know, pushing papers.”
“I guessed it. No offence, but you dinnae look too cut oot for this line of work.”
She gave him a cup of tea. He took a sip. It was too milky. The woman picked up a magazine. Another buzzer went off. An orange light on the board near the clock blinked on and off.
“That’s one of yours. You’ve got the east wing, rooms twenty-nine to fifty-five. We’ve got the west.”
As the night wore on, he could hardly keep his eyes open as they went about their patrols. Brian was cheerful and chatty all the time. The Magistrate wondered what a smart young man like him could be doing in one of these places. It was a travesty, he thought, and said it bluntly to Brian in the way one countryman can to another.
“No experience in life is ever wasted, that’s my philosophy.” Brian shrugged. The Magistrate didn’t pursue the issue. He was far too tired for that.
In the morning he walked down the front stairs of the building and inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with sweet morning air. He’d survived the night. Cars crawled in both directions on Ferry Road. He’d forgotten his idea of walking home. It came back to him when he saw Arthur’s Seat in the distance, but he was too exhausted. Every fibre of his being ached. Brian came running after him.
“You look terrible, Baba Chenai.”
“It’s called PTSD.”
“Well, they liked your style in there, though Margo says you’re too quiet, almost like you’re used to hearing other people speak instead of talking yourself. You need to open up, let yourself go a bit. Not bad for a first night, though. There’s a couple of shifts opening up and they’ll have you back if you like.” Brian’s enthusiasm depressed the Magistrate.
“Let me go home first and recover.” They laughed.
He caught the 21 marked for the Royal Infirmary, which took him home. The smell of the care home was snagged onto his clothes. He undressed and threw his clothes in the washing machine, lumbered up the stairs and ran himself a hot bath. He scrubbed himself raw, using copious amounts of gel all over his body. He even washed inside his nostrils to try and get rid of the smell that seemed lodged inside. When he was done, he lay in the water, soaking, feeling the warmth.
After bathing, he found Amai Chenai in bed, asleep. He kissed her on the cheek. Now he understood something about her world. He could forgive her irritability. One night shift was enough to make him see. She muttered something in her sleep. A slight smile was on her face. He embraced her and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
A knock on the door woke him. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock, it was only one o’clock. He stretched, grabbed his robe and went down the stairs, half asleep. When he opened the door he saw Alfonso holding a paper bag.
“I have so much to tell you,” Alfonso said, dashing in.
“Can’t it wait, we’re still sleeping. Inga, you know I was on nightshift.”
“Have some of this, it will perk you up.” Alfonso thrust a quart of whisky at him.
“It’s one o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Then you need it even more,” Alfonso said, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Come sit with me. Look, I’m having a beer, just for you, but I have to dash back to the office in a little while.” Alfonso switched on the TV. It went straight to one of Chenai’s music channels. A rapper was bragging about how he’d been shot and survived.
“Before I forget, you have to listen to this one.” Alfonso brought out a pirate TDK cassette and gave it to the Magistrate. “I told you I would find you a good job, didn’t I? No one can say Alfonso doesn’t keep his promises. They loved you at the care home. They are absolutely raving about you. They said you were magnificent, a stunning debut. Now listen to this, one of their care assistants is going on maternity leave and they want you to cover.”
The Magistrate could tell the praise was exaggerated. There is only so much one could expect for shovelling Augean bucket loads of faeces. Still, any extra work would be welcome, given the circumstances. Alfonso sipped his Stella, his eyes darting about the place. He changed the channel to the news. An earthquake had hit some place and grim survivors loitered about in shock.
“Signs and wonders. The world is coming to an end,” said Alfonso.
“They say that every year.”
“I’ve heard of a man in America who has made the right calculations using secret codes in the Bible that only the righteous can know.”
“I think Newton had it down for 2060, some say the Mayans have it for 2012. There was a guy who said it would happen in 1998, and guess what – we’re still here.”
Alfonso frowned. “My guy has it down for 2010. And now you’ve given me two other dates.” He counted on his fingers. “So which is it?”
The Magistrate sighed,