would we be able to help them?”
Alvar was frightened. His mother had become hysterical: she was rocking backwards and forward in her seat and there were red patches on her cheeks.
At that moment they finally heard the sirens, faintly at first, then stronger.
“I told you so,” his mother said triumphantly. “Someone’s on the way who’ll know how to deal with this. We’re ordinary people, Emmauel—we can’t get involved with such terrible things, we would only make it worse. You’re not supposed to lift an injured person. They could become paralyzed. Do you hear, Alvar?” Suddenly she turned toward the back seat and looked at him, her face flustered. Alvar kept silent. He was terrified. His father gritted his teeth and drove on, at a slightly lower speed now, shaken by what had happened.
Alvar sat on the sofa, remembering this incident. And it occurred to him that he had inherited his mother’s cowardice. It was linked to an inability to take action and it had been sown in him at that very moment. The moment when the woman staggered across the road stretching out her hands and his father had sped away. And Alvar felt that something inside him had been snapped clean off. That was why as an adult he was incapable of connecting with another person. Why he discreetly but very efficiently blocked any attempt at conversations with others. He hated using the telephone, for example. He could barely manage to make a call when a situation arose that he could not manage on his own. Whenever the telephone rang his heart leapt into his mouth. It was ridiculous, and yet it was real. He just wanted to be alone in his own universe, without having to deal with anything. He got up and returned to the window and peered out nervously. A police officer had arrived and was making notes on a pad.
Later, as Alvar sat in front of his television watching the news, he pondered this cowardice again. It was mankind’s worst feature. Everyone sat like him, watching misery on a global scale while they all thought that somebody else ought to do something about it. His thoughts made him feel depressed, and he found a book on the shelf, turned off the television, and made himself comfortable. Reading was always comforting. He instantly disappeared into a world of fiction and everything around him was forgotten. He read for two hours, then went to the bathroom and had a shower. Afterward he made his packed lunch for the next day, put four shirts and some underwear in the washing machine, and returned to his seat in front of the television. He watched a program until the washing machine had finished. Then he hung his shirts on hangers, turned off all the lights in the living room, brushed his teeth and went to bed. His eyelids began to close. He thought about this day, now over. The crash outside his window, the disturbing memories. Nevertheless, he thought, quietly contented, no big, nasty surprises, no situations he was incapable of dealing with. No great joys either, but he was okay, in good health and sleepy. He had sold two pictures. And tomorrow would come and it would be exactly like today, filled with the same activities in the same order. The years would pass and the days would remain the same, broken into short segments that he would live through one by one. In time he would start to slow down, become more sluggish. His vision would deteriorate, as would his hearing. So his life would proceed until the fifty-three years he believed he had been allocated were up.
Suddenly a thought struck him like someone throwing a spear at his chest. The feeling made his eyes widen. What was this? A distressing feeling of panic. Surely he was not going to start having trouble sleeping now. He had never had any problems with that. Perhaps it was his age: was he about to go through a midlife crisis, as some men did when they reached their forties? He turned over onto his side and pushed the spear away. He felt as if it had scratched him. He
Alvar was frightened. His mother had become hysterical: she was rocking backwards and forward in her seat and there were red patches on her cheeks.
At that moment they finally heard the sirens, faintly at first, then stronger.
“I told you so,” his mother said triumphantly. “Someone’s on the way who’ll know how to deal with this. We’re ordinary people, Emmauel—we can’t get involved with such terrible things, we would only make it worse. You’re not supposed to lift an injured person. They could become paralyzed. Do you hear, Alvar?” Suddenly she turned toward the back seat and looked at him, her face flustered. Alvar kept silent. He was terrified. His father gritted his teeth and drove on, at a slightly lower speed now, shaken by what had happened.
Alvar sat on the sofa, remembering this incident. And it occurred to him that he had inherited his mother’s cowardice. It was linked to an inability to take action and it had been sown in him at that very moment. The moment when the woman staggered across the road stretching out her hands and his father had sped away. And Alvar felt that something inside him had been snapped clean off. That was why as an adult he was incapable of connecting with another person. Why he discreetly but very efficiently blocked any attempt at conversations with others. He hated using the telephone, for example. He could barely manage to make a call when a situation arose that he could not manage on his own. Whenever the telephone rang his heart leapt into his mouth. It was ridiculous, and yet it was real. He just wanted to be alone in his own universe, without having to deal with anything. He got up and returned to the window and peered out nervously. A police officer had arrived and was making notes on a pad.
Later, as Alvar sat in front of his television watching the news, he pondered this cowardice again. It was mankind’s worst feature. Everyone sat like him, watching misery on a global scale while they all thought that somebody else ought to do something about it. His thoughts made him feel depressed, and he found a book on the shelf, turned off the television, and made himself comfortable. Reading was always comforting. He instantly disappeared into a world of fiction and everything around him was forgotten. He read for two hours, then went to the bathroom and had a shower. Afterward he made his packed lunch for the next day, put four shirts and some underwear in the washing machine, and returned to his seat in front of the television. He watched a program until the washing machine had finished. Then he hung his shirts on hangers, turned off all the lights in the living room, brushed his teeth and went to bed. His eyelids began to close. He thought about this day, now over. The crash outside his window, the disturbing memories. Nevertheless, he thought, quietly contented, no big, nasty surprises, no situations he was incapable of dealing with. No great joys either, but he was okay, in good health and sleepy. He had sold two pictures. And tomorrow would come and it would be exactly like today, filled with the same activities in the same order. The years would pass and the days would remain the same, broken into short segments that he would live through one by one. In time he would start to slow down, become more sluggish. His vision would deteriorate, as would his hearing. So his life would proceed until the fifty-three years he believed he had been allocated were up.
Suddenly a thought struck him like someone throwing a spear at his chest. The feeling made his eyes widen. What was this? A distressing feeling of panic. Surely he was not going to start having trouble sleeping now. He had never had any problems with that. Perhaps it was his age: was he about to go through a midlife crisis, as some men did when they reached their forties? He turned over onto his side and pushed the spear away. He felt as if it had scratched him. He
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