Читать книгу 150 Stories - Nataniël - Страница 19

Billy-Dean White always thought of Death as a lover. A gorgeous being with long arms and huge hands and eyes that could read your soul.

Billy-Dean White always thought of Death as a lover. Because Death would know all your secrets and take you away from the life that was wrong for you and take you to where everything would be beautiful and you would be beautiful too.

Billy-Dean thought Death would come and whisper in his ear, I love you, I love you. Death would give him wings and they would go up in the sky and play and nobody would have to talk because everything would be clear and they would just go higher and higher and he wouldn’t be scared.

Therefore Billy-Dean often used to walk through town and imagine what everybody’s deaths would be like. For instance, if your partner were as fat as Mrs Lotz, you could go no other way but die under a bus. Or Phyllis would have to be murdered by kidnappers because her husband, Rodriques, had the take-away place. And Sheilah from the boutique would have to miss the road at midnight because everybody knew she slept with a black man.

But Billy-Dean could never imagine his own death. He had always been on his own. By no means could he imagine what his own death would be like. He only knew that the day he died, it would be beautiful. And better still, if he could offer himself as a virgin, it would be more beautiful than any honeymoon photograph could ever be.

But then when he died, he could see nothing. No lover, no honeymoon. He could not feel a thing. No passionate embrace, no hot breath in his neck, no tongue playing in his mouth, nothing.

He waited a while and then he screamed, I’m ready! Where are you?

Far away he heard Death laughing. Death said, You little clown. Where do you think you are?

Why don’t you take me? Billy-Dean asked.

I only take the soul, he heard.

Well, take mine! he said.

This time Death laughed much louder. I can’t find it.

What do you mean, you can’t find it, Billy-Dean said. It’s right here!

That’s your imagination, Death said. And stop using it. You’re dead now, I want the soul.

Where is it then? Billy-Dean asked.

How should I know, Death said. What’s it with you people anyway? Didn’t you have time to prepare?

I thought of nothing else, Billy-Dean said.

Then you find it, little clown, Death said. You have three days till Judgement.

What judgement? Billy-Dean asked.

To see whether you were good or bad, Death said.

I’ve always been good.

Then find the soul.

Wait! Billy-Dean shouted, I have to see you! I have tried to imagine you so many times! Please! Let me see you!

You will only see yourself, Death said. Only yourself in all this space. Isn’t that what you’ve dreamed of? Look, just you. And no-one to scare you. That’s the magic.

Billy-Dean had three days. And the last place he would find his soul would be in his room. But he had to start somewhere. So he closed his eyes.

He was somewhere above the house. Above the street, the garden, the fence so close to the house, and the door to the outside room where he spent the last two years of his life. Inside the room the sun came through the blind and made a yellow line across the bed and the body on top of it.

The body’s one arm was folded behind the head, like that of a beauty queen, the other arm was hanging off the bed. Something like a veil had been draped around the head, but the face was open.

Oh no, Billy-Dean thought. He could not believe how ugly he was.

Oh no, Billy-Dean thought again. Outside the door, in the tiny little space between the fence and the house, were two policemen, a tall one and a short one, Mrs Olivier of the house, Mr B from the garage, Billy-Dean’s youngest sister and his mother.

The tall policeman was hitting the door with his hip. Billy-Dean looked at the hips of the body on the bed and at the hips of the policeman. The policeman gave another thrust.

I was too ugly, Billy-Dean thought as the door opened.

All the people in the little space went into the room.

Mr B from the garage said Oh my God and Mrs Olivier of the house threw up on the short policeman. The tall policeman rubbed his hip and Billy-Dean’s youngest sister lit a cigarette. His mother was hitting her own face with her handbag. Like all mothers who see their dead sons, she said Huh-huh-huh!

Please don’t touch anything, said the policeman with the hip.

Do you have any idea, said the one with the vomit.

Huh-huh-huh!

Well, there you have it, said Mr B, and he picked up the empty pill bottle.

Huh-huh-huh!

He was so decent, said Mrs Olivier, my best lodger.

The drawer is locked, said the sister, and she pulled at the desk.

Please. Don’t touch anything.

Why the hell would he lock the drawer?

Billy-Dean, said the mother, how can you lie there like Marilyn Monroe? How must I tell your father this?

Please, don’t tip on the carpet, Mrs Olivier said to the sister.

On the desk was a drawing of an angel. The sister tipped on the drawing. The one with the vomit looked at the angel. I know that face, he said.

No blood, said the tall one and he touched the body. Billy-Dean looked at his hands.

The policeman tried to take the veil off the head, but it was wrapped around the neck. We’ll remove the body this afternoon, he said.

Ag, don’t worry, said Mrs Olivier, he always paid in advance.

(from White Soul, Maart 1993)