Read Online The World of the End by Ofir Touché Gafla - Free Book Online
Authors: Ofir Touché Gafla
Tags: Fiction
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names and proceeded toward the seventh building on the left.
He thought about giving Marian, a vehement vegetarian, a hard time about her building, which held aloft the immortal sign of the meat industry. Burger jokes would surely be a part of their future in this slaughterhouse-free world. He opened the main glass doors and walked inside. Astonished by the size of the lobby, he began to comprehend the enormity of the building—if each building had a thousand apartments spread over twenty-four floors, then by simple arithmetic each floor had some forty-two apartments!
“Unbelievable!” he called out, advancing toward the elevator doors. They opened, but the sight of the grand piano at the far end of the elevator, which was more like a wedding hall than a device for transporting people up and down the height of a building, stopped him in his tracks. The piano player was bent over the ivories. He played a soft tranquil melody, utterly oblivious to Ben’s hesitant entry into the elevator. Ben pressed 11, recalling the instructions given in the orientation. The doors came together and the elevator sailed up. Once it eased to a stop, he prepared to step out, but taking in the vastness of the halls, he turned to the pianist who, without lifting his head, said, “What time did he or she die?”
“I don’t remember the exact hour. A little before noon,” Ben said.
“You need the left wing,” he said, motioning him out of the elevator.
Ben thanked him and stepped through the open doors. Following his instructions, he scanned the numbered and initialed brass plates, which were positioned right in the center of the gleaming steel doors. Suddenly he realized the final detail. The jumbled numbers on the left side of the hall all shared a common trait: they were more than thirty, (and less than sixty) except for the last one, nearest the elevator.
Ben smiled in recognition. The apartment numbers marked the exact minute the person had passed away, which was why some doors had the same number but not the same initials. The statistical principle of standard deviation worked in this world, too, Ben noted, considering amusedly the chances of two people with the same initials dying on the same day, at the exact same time. Ben, figuring that the right wing started with 1 and ended with 29, ran full throttle down the hall, delighted to discover that only one door had the initials MM. He filled his lungs with air, let it seep out for a long moment, and then knocked on the door. The creeping fear that Marian wouldn’t be home was stilled by the sound of advancing footsteps. A soft feminine voice cooed, “Arthur, what took you so long?”
Before Ben could process the question, the door opened, revealing the last woman in the world he expected to see.
5
A Thousand Words: A Picture’s Monologue
You nasty, crude, insensitive humans! Allow me to protest! Years have passed since the initial daguerreotype, and I, in my innocence, believed that you had evolved along with the apple of your eye, your raging technology. But to my chagrin it seems that each new breakthrough has only set you back a square. The unbearable contempt, ungratefulness, and despicable ease with which you treat us—as though we shall eternally serve you!
Sometimes, in my wildest dreams, I wish that all of the world’s camera lenses were encased in a permanent fog. Perhaps then you’d show some contrition, perhaps even take a vow not to maltreat us, even though you, me, and my band of sisters all know the worth of a human word, which brings me to my point of contention: I don’t know which bastard came to the conclusion that I’m worth a thousand words, and if I did know, I’d find a way to settle the score with him in the dark-room. I do know what the bastard meant. He thought he was complimenting us. As though the comparison to a thousand words would pad our self worth and puff up our pride; as though a thousand were the ultimate number of words one could
He thought about giving Marian, a vehement vegetarian, a hard time about her building, which held aloft the immortal sign of the meat industry. Burger jokes would surely be a part of their future in this slaughterhouse-free world. He opened the main glass doors and walked inside. Astonished by the size of the lobby, he began to comprehend the enormity of the building—if each building had a thousand apartments spread over twenty-four floors, then by simple arithmetic each floor had some forty-two apartments!
“Unbelievable!” he called out, advancing toward the elevator doors. They opened, but the sight of the grand piano at the far end of the elevator, which was more like a wedding hall than a device for transporting people up and down the height of a building, stopped him in his tracks. The piano player was bent over the ivories. He played a soft tranquil melody, utterly oblivious to Ben’s hesitant entry into the elevator. Ben pressed 11, recalling the instructions given in the orientation. The doors came together and the elevator sailed up. Once it eased to a stop, he prepared to step out, but taking in the vastness of the halls, he turned to the pianist who, without lifting his head, said, “What time did he or she die?”
“I don’t remember the exact hour. A little before noon,” Ben said.
“You need the left wing,” he said, motioning him out of the elevator.
Ben thanked him and stepped through the open doors. Following his instructions, he scanned the numbered and initialed brass plates, which were positioned right in the center of the gleaming steel doors. Suddenly he realized the final detail. The jumbled numbers on the left side of the hall all shared a common trait: they were more than thirty, (and less than sixty) except for the last one, nearest the elevator.
Ben smiled in recognition. The apartment numbers marked the exact minute the person had passed away, which was why some doors had the same number but not the same initials. The statistical principle of standard deviation worked in this world, too, Ben noted, considering amusedly the chances of two people with the same initials dying on the same day, at the exact same time. Ben, figuring that the right wing started with 1 and ended with 29, ran full throttle down the hall, delighted to discover that only one door had the initials MM. He filled his lungs with air, let it seep out for a long moment, and then knocked on the door. The creeping fear that Marian wouldn’t be home was stilled by the sound of advancing footsteps. A soft feminine voice cooed, “Arthur, what took you so long?”
Before Ben could process the question, the door opened, revealing the last woman in the world he expected to see.
5
A Thousand Words: A Picture’s Monologue
You nasty, crude, insensitive humans! Allow me to protest! Years have passed since the initial daguerreotype, and I, in my innocence, believed that you had evolved along with the apple of your eye, your raging technology. But to my chagrin it seems that each new breakthrough has only set you back a square. The unbearable contempt, ungratefulness, and despicable ease with which you treat us—as though we shall eternally serve you!
Sometimes, in my wildest dreams, I wish that all of the world’s camera lenses were encased in a permanent fog. Perhaps then you’d show some contrition, perhaps even take a vow not to maltreat us, even though you, me, and my band of sisters all know the worth of a human word, which brings me to my point of contention: I don’t know which bastard came to the conclusion that I’m worth a thousand words, and if I did know, I’d find a way to settle the score with him in the dark-room. I do know what the bastard meant. He thought he was complimenting us. As though the comparison to a thousand words would pad our self worth and puff up our pride; as though a thousand were the ultimate number of words one could
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