City Stories: Short Fiction
1: The Landlords Funeral
2: Importance of a Good Breakfast
1: The Landlords Funeral
The landlord died in the middle of the night. It was too hot to sleep and I was still awake when I heard the commotion below. I didn't move. Soon sirens arrived and I watched from my open window as they carried him out. His shirt was torn open exposing his white belly. He looked like a giant carp gasping for air.
I didn't sleep. The next morning, Hunter, the landlords cat, was wandering back and forth in the hall waiting for the landlord's door to open. I took him to my room. I opened some tuna, sat with him awhile till he finally fell asleep on my bed.
That afternoon the landlords son arrived. He didn't seem overly upset. I asked him if his father suffered much,
“Greatly.” He said, “but what can you expect when someone drinks so much?”
“I guess.” I said. He said he would be collecting the rent from now on. Then asked if I wished to attend the old man's funeral. I accepted; it seemed OK- I didn't greatly know him but I felt obliged.
The funeral was on the Monday. I took the morning from work and woke early to have my suit dry cleaned. The cemetery was on St. Peters Hill. I ran most of the way and arrived feeling faint and hungry. I rested inside the gate and stood beside a groundsman who was breaking from painting a wall.
The sun was hot and high. It felt murderous as I stood feeling ill and constricted in the suit. The suit was too small and I was sure I looked strange and carried a weird shadow as approached the silent group of mourners beside the grave. It was a small group; the landlord's son, his wife and their six year old daughter. The son turned and nodded to me. It was a reassuring look and I relaxed. The priest finished his thing and pallbearers lowered in the coffin. Then each member of the family took turns to throw in a handful of soil into the hole. The earth was dry and clumped down loudly when it hit the lid.
Then the priest began again, “Ashes to ashes...” We cupped our hands. I felt no real emotion but it seemed impossible not to feel in slightly depressed. Life was unusual but more often than not limited and not much fun. The scene was suitably final. Nobody cried. A dry arid quality purveyed the whole occasion with a feeling absolute deadness. Behind the priest a line of bleached birch trees stood crookedly before the haze of the city.
We prayed once more and then it was finished. Afterwards we walked slowly to the gate. The landlord's son invited me to join his family for a drink. Their was a bar across the road, a dank place but air conditioned with a good array of imported beers.
We sat on stools at the bar whilst the child sat with the mother in a booth by the window. He bought me a drink and we sat savioruing the tall cold beers without speaking.
After we finished he insisted on buying two more. "Out of appreciation," He said, then adding, “My father always believed you a good tenant.” I thanked him and gladly accepted. We continued to sit without a word, enjoying flushing the dryness from out mouths. Occasionally the door blew open with a breath of hot air then by another in a line of depressed and spiritless looking individuals who shuffled up to the bar.
“I'm sorry,” The Son finally said, “I'm not sure what may happen now.”
"How do you mean?" I said. He looked uneasily. I knew then what was coming- he was talking about the building.
"I've got to sell." He said, “Though you know it breaks my heart”
“It's alright.” I said. And it was. It would be bothersome I knew, all that was to come but for some reason nothing seemed to matter that much. Finally we finished out beers and he stood up as if to leave.
“Wait- what about Hunter?” I said.
“Hunter?” He said unaware.
“Your fathers cat!”
“I didn't know he had a cat.”
“Of course.” I said. It staggered me how he couldn't know. The cat was his life. What a thought- such information, at that point, seemed a revelation- it seemed as if now I had been no more a stranger on that hill than he was.
“Hang on.” He said. He walked over to his family. The child grew excited and clapped her hands. He walked back over, “OK I'll come by in the morning and fetch him.”
“OK” I said.
Then he shook my hand and said goodbye. I decided to order another beer. Outside you could see the cemetery up on the hill, it's white trees and dry ground. It was midday, the sun was at it's highest. It seemed too early and maybe late to think about doing anything.
I thought about the Landlord. He'd always been a mystery to me. We spoke only occasionally, mostly about fixtures for the house. I saw him sometimes in the pub. He'd nod if he saw me. Later I'd hear him come in, coughing in the hall, then fumbling with his keys. My knowledge of him better transcribed by a series of sounds; the odd clunk, scraps and coughs of his most intimate routines distilled through walls on hot nights neither of us could sleep. The more I drank the more I began tendering sentimental thoughts for him as one might for a favorite uncle or dog.
I finished my drink and went outside into the heat. It was still early afternoon I considered I could make it to work if I tried but quickly dismissed the idea. I was too far gone. I went home instead.
Hunter was asleep in my bed. He looked up at me when I entered. I sat beside him. By five o'clock I heard those familiar sounds of cars, children and people in the street as the working day ended. Sometime later I put done some tuna for Hunter. I opened a beer and sat watching him eat.
3: Importance of a Good Breakfast
It is good to feel free when you eat breakfast. It is good for the digestion to feel unrestricted. I rarely have time for a good breakfast before work. The stress of employment is a common cause of digestive disorder. On occasions I will book days off in the middle of the week so that I can take the time to really enjoy a good breakfast.
On such mornings I will rise the same time as usual and take my normal train to the city. I will look at all the faces I see every morning whilst inside feeling a great satisfaction- I've always found it important to run ones freedom parallel with the usual subjugations in order to maximize the experience.
After this I will walk for an hour in the busy streets near my offices, watching them slowly empty. The city is particularly beautiful at mid-morning, especially in Spring when the winds drive off the river and turn the tree lined streets into a storm of blossom. In the golden mix of sun and shadow it's easier to gain a vision of the city closer, you may imagine, to the original vision of it's architects, without the interference of people.
Soon after I will find somewhere to eat- usually one of the Pattisserie's on Stellen street, such as La Maison Jaune. The type that makes it's own pastries and the barristers wear white gloves and aprons.
I'll sit at a table in the window and spend considerable time choosing what I would like to eat. I may consume anything from a variety of Greek yogurt, mixed fruit, English muffins, bacon, poached eggs, Spanish ham, salami, French toast, brioche, toast, crepes & pancakes with honey or syrup. I will also have a cappuccino and possibly a Dutch beer.
Whilst eating I will sit and watch the street. It's always of interest to see the types of people who are passing free and uninhibited during the day time hours; usually tourists, students, mothers and nurses with prams. Otherwise drunks, homeless and bohemian types. In between you will see workers, either rushing late for work or scampering between appointments, usually clutching a half consumed snack in their hand.
To finish I will order an espresso, sometimes another beer or even a schnapps. Then for awhile I will read the paper. However, usually feeling tired after eating, I will rarely get past the headlines.
'Fresh Bombs Rock Gaza Peace'
'Floods make thousand Homeless'
'Troops fire on fleeing refugees.'
After this it's usually early afternoon. When I leave I may decide to take a gentle stroll, finding perhaps a quiet square to sit and let the food settle. The rest of the day usually disappearing like a cool breeze
