“I look at the people in the park. I don’t watch the birds, as many do. I watch the people. They are of interest to me. A unique creature, capable of amazing, impossible things; capable of thought and inquiry; able to perceive as well as promote an object of desire, able to freely choose or freely revoke; capable of joy… and suffering. You might say this is what it is to be human. If so, then what am I?”
January 1st, 1939
Crowning his hat shortly after opening his eyes, Daniel dressed himself; certain of the day ahead. He mounted his breakfast upon his tongue, never with the possibility of soiling his under-shirt. He washed his face with a pot of lukewarm water that sat at the fireplace for four minutes. He flung open his case, listing and logisticizing his shiny tools. With the final button of his shirt, he knew he was ready. A final glance at his even face sighed tranquillity into the morning bustle. He remarked to himself silently of all the encroaching successes, raising his smooth chin and fattening his belt. Red wax lined the base of the candle lighting the dark city dawn of his room.
But then, in the mirror, the face of a woman. He remembered her, and gradually all the determination and strife of the day to come passed away. The woman was sitting with a child, within a wooden frame, pressed against a perfect sheet of glass. He fell to the bottom of his bed. He could not form an idea, or question, evaluating his state of mind. The case next to him lost all its purpose and intention. The suit suddenly wrinkled in the unforeseen despair. The calender became inscrutable and shallow. His clean-shavenness was already leading to stubble. He was so certain, but now he was so unsure. He awoke so early, but now he was already late.
Dear Mr. Farrant Daniel
I was hoping to see you today, or yesterday for that matter. Your disappearance has me quite troubled. The rest of us are convinced you are on holiday. I would never threaten to tell the truth. But I am.
I simply have to have you back here. We are terribly under-manned and under-minded by our authorities. Masters like you are so hard to come by, leaving in droves to the bigger cities. If you have been reading the news, the sickness, Paramortis they now call it, is ravaging Central London. It may spread all the way South very soon and we are in no position to accommodate it.
Please Daniel. If your bills are short, I will pay them myself somehow. If something happened, we can discuss it. If someone died, tell me. You have to come soon. The only reason I’ll accept is if you got the sickness yourself.
Your friend,
Roland
January 2nd, 1939
This letter came at a surprise, since today felt as yesterday and the day before. Daniel could not bring himself out of bed. His employment became a mystery and his source of income perplexing. But Roland always saw potential in him. Daniel had an unmistakable brilliance to his profession, but his career was marked with unavoidable failure.
Resting all his emotions upon the coat-hanger, he finally left in the late sunny morning to have his favourite breakfast. The newspaper landed on his baked open-sky table, with pen and napkins. The waiter and cook knew what he desired every morning, and delivered prudently at the certainty of pay. Treating himself yet again, he sliced the egg into thirds having an equal distribution of yellow and whites. The bread was separated into wedges with their edges trimmed. The pork was seared to perfection with the fat stripped for dogs and beggars. He was then frightened by a black blotch upon his egg, lifting it. Eating cautiously, he saw a burly man at the corner carnivorously piling some cheap, grinded red meat upon his pallet. “We shared a stove, I suppose.”, he thought disappointedly.
While he was coasting along this futile analysis, a woman arrived at the centre of the mostly cleared restaurant. She sat there everyday, slowly taking in the view of long, empty road while being offered the same meal every time. Her face always struck familiar, but like a foregone memory she disappeared before he could capture it fully. No-one had the time, the money or even the patience to talk to a stranger. But he felt her despair. The pain lied in her chest, not her mind. He understood her longing for a longer life. He saw her troubles in their clearest and deepest form. Though she was not mourning as he was.
“Tea, sir”, declared the waiter. “But no sugar. In case you haven’t read in the paper, sugar mill is running low. Baker-strikes might be coming up as well.”
“Well, thank you. I’ve had worse mornings.”
“Midday, sir. Pleasure.”
The young man strode away and the paper was still at the first page.
“Doctor Farrant.” Twisting in bewilderment and almost anger, Daniel saw an old face he had never hoped to see. They looked dumbfounded toward one another, one more resolute than the other.
“… Rolan… Rolls?”
“So. Having a nice, long breakfast on your own?”
“… Yes”
“Need a friend?”
“Well, you see…”, choking at a memory, he held back.
“What happened? You have to explain yourself”, sitting beside Daniel.
“… Roland. This is not something you will understand.”
“No I will tell you I will understand.”
“It’s so beyond you.”
“Oh so its above me, and you’re bloomin’ above me. You’re above us all, correct?”
“I cannot express it in words”
“Then dance it to me or something. Or write it in God-damned blood!”
“You’re a fool.”
“And you’re just John Doe? Normal life, normal feelings. That you can chop off a limb in cold heart when they’re knocked out, but can’t sit in the same room with the poor pleb wailing at his bandage. I’m this close to thinking you’re insane.”
“Well, maybe I am!”
“And that’s precisely what I need, Daniel!… Three dead bodies, no autospy, no police.”
Straightened at what was just said, he stares blankly, sees something and raises up, “Roland…”
“Daniel”
Methodically and with relief, Daniel says:
“You might call it a power of empathy. As a woman feels the cry of her child, as a brother comforts the mourning widower. But no. I see something more. I’ve asked many people, and they don’t see the same thing.”
“Tell me.”