Free Kleinzeit by Russell Hoban

have in mind.’ He was nervous, opened the glockenspiel case clumsily. ‘You need a table for this thing, really,’ he said, sat down cross-legged, glockenspiel in his lap. The floor of the corridor was hard and cold. Autumn maybe, up on the street. Winter here.He took out of his pocket the tune he had written in the hospital bathroom.
    Are we going to do it
here?
said the glockenspiel.
    Here, said Kleinzeit, started plinking. Sister stood across from him with the shining helmet in her hand. The silver notes piled up like an anatomically ignorant skeleton putting itself together. Passers-by grimaced, shuddered, looked at Sister, dropped money into the helmet. Kleinzeit and Sister didn’t look at each other. Kleinzeit concentrated on reading the notes he had written. The inside of his head chattered and squeaked like a speeded-up tape, but he did not slow it down to listen. Sister held the helmet as money dropped in, said Thank you, wondered about the tune Kleinzeit was piling up, wondered when Redbeard was going to appear.
    Kleinzeit finished the tune, played it again with fewer mistakes.
    Not again, said the glockenspiel. I don’t feel well. I have a headache.
    Kleinzeit improvised. Miscellaneous parts of skeletons accumulated in the corridor. Passers-by groaned. Kleinzeit got into a
Dies Irae
motif, depression hung like a fog over the jumbled bones, Sister ground her teeth, money dropped into the helmet. The glockenspiel, crazed, abandoned itself.
    ‘There was a chap with bagpipes in the street, but nothing like as bad as this,’ said a man to his wife as he dropped money into the helmet.
    ‘One doesn’t know what to make of it,’ she said. ‘What drives them out of doors like this?’
    A young man with a guitar looked at Kleinzeit, looked at Sister, inquired with his eyes.
    No, answered Sister’s eyes.
    Redbeard came along smelling of wine, of urine, of rising damp and mildew, not wearing the bowler hat. He looked at Sister, looked at Kleinzeit. ‘Oh, aye,’ he said. ‘Huftytufty.Yum Yum, music, everything laid on. So fast, so quick.’
    ‘What?’ said Kleinzeit.
    ‘I’m out,’ said Redbeard. ‘You’re in. Just like that. The poster hasn’t even changed yet. Now playing: BETWEEN, THE TURNOVER, and you.’
    ‘That’s how it is,’ said Kleinzeit.
    ‘That’s how it is,’ said Redbeard. He seemed about to say more but didn’t. Ponging and lumpy with his bedroll and carrier-bags he lurched away.
    Kleinzeit improvised some more. He made up a tune for whatever walked upside down in the concrete and placed its cold paws against his bottom.
    From deep down, from far below, Underground said, Listen.
    I’m listening, said Kleinzeit.
    Remember, said Underground.
    I’m doing my best, said Kleinzeit. The deep chill and the silence flowered from him like heat from a radiator. The deep chill and the silence flowed through him, glazed the air, made frost flowers of silence on the air, filmed pools of sound with clear thin ice of silence.
    Listen, said Underground.
    I’m listening, said Kleinzeit. From the tune for whatever walked upside down in the concrete he went on to a tune for the silence.
    Not necessary, you know, said Underground.
    Only for the money, said Kleinzeit. My apologies. His bottom felt frozen, one with the concrete, the silence and the rock below.
    Sister stood holding the helmet, listening to the clink of money falling into it. I don’t know if this is right, she said to God.
    What’s wrong with it? said God.
    Is it, I don’t know, heathenish? said Sister.
    You’ve got to move with the times, said God.
    Are we talking about the same thing? said Sister.
    One usually does, said God. I mean how much is there to talk about really. It’s pretty much all one thing, isn’t it.
    I said is it heathenish, said Sister.
    I know you did, said God, and I said you’ve got to move with the times.
    Thank you very much, said Sister. It’s been a great help talking to you. I really mustn’t keep you