Page 38 of The Square

“Whatever you like, Mr. van den Berg. Is there anything special you’d like to have?”

“What time is it?”

“Almost noon, sir.”

I nod, considering. I scratch at the stubble on my chin that is now approaching proper beard status. Someone else shaved me while I was unconscious, but when I awoke initially, it still hurt to lift my arm. And then I just grew lazy and decided to not care. It’s the first time in my life I’ve had anything resembling a beard. I think I hate it.

“Erm,” I mumble, “let’s have pap and wors, yeah? Do we have Rhodes gravy?”

“I believe we do, sir.”

“All right.” I nod and Liam withdraws his head and begins closing the door. “Liam?” I say, just as it’s almost shut.

“Sir?” he says, poking his head back in.

“How the fok did I get here, man?”

This is a script we play out every day. Every day I ask the same question and every day he gives a variation of a non-answer. Today’s version is…

“Pap and wors with gravy, sir. It’ll be just a few minutes.” And he goes.

I take a breath. Let it out. Allow my hand to drift down the post of the bed next to which I’m standing. It’s been two years since I was here with Eliza. But then again, I was with her here just moments ago.

I’ve had the same dream every night now for the past few nights. Or possibly the past few weeks. It’s become impossible to tell. Or perhaps I’ve been here for all of eternity. Perhaps nothing is real and I am simply a figment of the universe’s imagination.

Whether I am or not, the pinch in my ribs feels real to me and I suppose that’s all that really fokken matters.

How, though, am I here? Here in the manor I purchased after my last time here with Eliza? After my last time with Eliza at all? The last time I saw her. The last time…

Is she the reason I’m here? Did she somehow save me and bring me to this place as some sentimental homage to our time together?

No. The simple answer is no. That’s the most absurd fokken thing imaginable. But, then again, my life has become fokken absurd. So I’m not ruling out any theory, no matter how ludicrous.

Perhaps I didn’t deny Death this last time, after all. Perhaps this is what Death is. For me. Stuck in the last spot I ever visited before it all came unglued. Life. Quietly and without my awareness, but unglued nonetheless.

Sartre mused that “Hell is other people.” I might suggest in return that Hell is actually their absence.

Fok, man. All this convalescing is causing me to become soft and ruminative. And that ain’t no good for nobody.

I shuffle over to the window and look out on the estate I own, the former haven that has become my unexpected prison for reasons passing understanding. A light mist has begun falling outside. The smell of pap cooking on the stovetop is starting to waft throughout. And the awareness that I’m being held here—by someone—as a virtual prisoner; the awareness that somewhere in the world right now, my business is not being run by me; the awareness that I have no clue what’s become of Christine and Danny; the awareness that… fokken hell, man… that I’ve become soft, and ruminative, and have begun making noises in my sleep that sound to Liam as if I’m goddamn crying… bring me to a probably overdue decision.

I ain’t staying here much longer.