fractures from anxiety

PENGUIN BOOKS

Marcus Bastel was born in Frankfurt in 1967. Hewas internationally educated in fine art practice,studying for his degree in the UK before pursuingpost-graduate studies in Amsterdam. He has wonseveral awards and his video work has been shownacross Europe. Screenings in the late 1990s in Am-sterdam, Glasgow, Manchester, Milan and Pariswere accompanied by invitations to publish. Earlywritings include art catalogues and his first collec-tion of short stories Part of the narrative first publishedin 2004. Having taken some time to focus on his ca-reer development within the Computer room of theBAGD course at Central Saint Martins College ofArt & Design, Bastel is now creatively a force to bereckoned with. This long awaited second volumedraws together still more of the different strands ofhis writing to date. He lives in London with two cats.

[email protected]

Penguin Books

FRACTURES FROM

ANXIETY

short stories by Marcus Bastel

Penguin Books

Published by the Penguin GroupPenguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, EnglandPenguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USAPenguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, AustraliaPenguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2Penguin Books India (p) Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, IndiaPenguin Books (NZ) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads, Albany, Auckland, New ZealandPenguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, Englandwww.penguin.com

First published 200510 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1Copyright © Marcus Bastel 2005All rights reservedThe moral right of the editor has been assertedSet in Baskerville/9.5ptTypeset by Rowlands Phototypesetting Ltd, Bury St Edmunds, SuffolkPrinted in England by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subjectto the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent,re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’sprior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that inwhich it is published and without a similar condition including thiscondition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The other woman

First time bloomer

The bird

Underneath

The signing

Hostage

Whats it’s like being a man when the sun pops out

Extra strong

Precisely

The German (excerpt)

Ideal parties

Small town diners

7

11

14

19

22

26

29

CONTENTS

33

36

40

43

48

THE OTHER WOMAN

Ruthie was eighty-seven when they came for her.They rang the bell and when she opened up theytold her that they would have to take her away. Toldher she was to old to live by herself like she haddone for the past thirty something years, ever sinceWalt had passed. She didn’t understand what theymeant, so they told her again, with patience still, butshe could hear the edge of their voices taking on asharper tone, like you would with a disobedientchild, like she had done with her own, about sixty-five years earlier. She remembered.“It’s because of them,’ and her hands moved

about to illustrate that them were somewhere outthere watching and preying on her. ‘They want totear down this, my house and build something mon-strous on top and it’s just me who’s been holdingthem up to get started, isn’t it?’They kept their voices low, when they told her

that she was imagining things and that that too wasreason why they were here now to take her.‘Well I ain’t going nowhere,’ she said to them.That’s when they brought out the paper, held it

right in front of her nose and told her what it said.One of them turned it over to read it out loud toher. The paper said, that she would have to go be-cause the law had decided for her to, had decided 7

she was too old and too alone and probably toocrazy to be by herself any longer, but they neverread her that part.To get packing they said, just the essentials for

where she was about to get going to, there wasn’t asmuch space as she was used to in her house.She protested of course, raised her voice to them

like anyone in the same position would. Youngerones who were more familiar with the laws mighthave called in a lawyer to slow them, but it was athought that never crossed Ruthie’s mind.She had silver coloured hair, that she spent a

great length of time with every morning to makeher look decent. The hair looked big on her, becausethe skull had just a thin layer of skin stretched overit that she managed to contort into warm smiles ifshe wished. The rest of her body had grown smallover the years, when she walked she was bent for-ward some and made small considered steps as shewas afraid of stumbling over herself and breakinga bone in the process. Now she made hurried steps towards the sitting

room to sit down in her most favoured chair by thewindow, the one she had sat in when she saw themcome up the walkway. Those old wrinkled handsheld onto the armrests with a stubborn fervour. Toldthem again that she would not go, but there was anunease in her voice and she felt close to tears as ifshe knew that she would not have the strength tobattle it out.After maybe an hour they had her packed, car-

ried the whole chair to the van to take her and un-loaded her at the other end, a place she could tell8

fractures from anxiety

to be filled with old people. Ruthie didn’t see herselfas old, she still harboured thoughts and memoriesfrom a long way back, but they were fresh as if theywere lived just yesterday. They took the chair with the stubborn old

woman into a room with two beds, one being occu-pied by a brittle looking lady who was asleep. Thebag they had packed for her containing what theyhad considered the essentials for living, they placedon the bed, said it was hers to take and this the roomfor her to live life from this moment on.And they left.That was the moment when the tears came run-

ning from her watery eyes, they were silent withouta word or a sob. Not like tears younger people cry.She knew that her tears didn’t matter to anyone butherself anymore, nobody would listen or try tomake her be better. That was the reason they justquietly streamed from her eyes and to anyone look-ing at her then she would look like an old womanwith a lost mind who ran tears for no reason. Butthere was still a lot of feeling inside the old womanand it would take a long time to make it all die, be-fore she herself could go.Over time the old lady curled up more inside her-

self. Had to be taken from her room to be fed morn-ing, noon and evenings. In the afternoon theyplaced her in her old chair by the window. After-noons was when a little life merged into her eyes,sometimes a content smile would play around thinlips, like she knew things or remembered things orperhaps even saw things. Rarely anyone noticedthough because she was being left alone most of the 9

(story title)

time and the other woman was often just laid out inbed and asleep and when she wasn’t the two ofthem hardly spoke to each other. Ruthie grew evensmaller and became more fragile.Her house had been bulldozed and built over just

like she had imagined when they had first taken her.She did have the strength of someone wantingsomething then, even when the strength was weakas it came from an old lady, but now she had almostnone left to grip onto the arms of her chair or evenhold and lift a cup.Just over two years after Ruthie had arrived, she

went to sleep.The next morning the woman in the other bed

stirred and woke at the same early hour as everymorning. She rustled some with the blanket, thenturned on her back to look up at the ceiling wherein her younger days she had seen stars. Then shewent quiet again, listened for the noises she was ac-customed to, listened and turned her head, shiftedher body to look over at Ruthie. She looked hardwith weakened eyes to see some bit of movementand listened harder to hear a breath, but deep insideshe knew that Ruthie had passed and she was in aroom filled with death. She got panicked then, pushed the bell to ring for

a nurse. They came and checked and whispered, be-fore they left to return in greater numbers to takeRuthie away, and to take Ruthie’s things away.There wasn’t much and it didn’t take long. The old woman saw how it would be when it was

her time.10


FIRST TIME BLOOMER

The first thing I remembered was light, a crackle of,which was suddenly there in a distance. It was outof my reach and I saw barely a shimmer of it. Astime went by the shimmer grew, sometimes suddenjerks would enlargen the gap, letting more gleaminglight stream in. Then one day after a storm therewas a final crackle, then I lost balance and startedto fall. On my way down I kept hitting things I couldas yet not comprehend, they felt hard and I feltbruised and dented, unable to move when I finallyhit ground, which presented itself soft and moist. Isat there for a while, shaken from the fall, shakenfrom the first moment I had left my shell. The lightwas not as bright as it had seemed earlier, the sourcehad expanded but its intensity lessened. I don’tknow how long I was down there before I felt move-ment close by. Just moments later I was trampledon, careless by a squealing monster reeking a vileodour, I must have lost consciousness during thisand when I finally came through it was dark and Ilay buried deep, barely able to breath, trying tostretch beyond my confinement. The urge lasted, I kept on pushing upward, to-

wards where I suspected light to be, aching for thefresh breeze I had briefly tasted. Sometime later Icould feel something burst, I was afraid when I firstfelt it, but it was like loosening a too tight belt and 11

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from then on I started to shoot up, felt unstoppablein fact. Once I saw the light again my complexionchanged, I felt strong and healthy, looking up inwonderment at those stood around me, most whis-pered and smiled from time to time, conveying thewisdom they had picked up in their long live’s. I felta certain pride to be associated with them and be-lieve that they too looked at me with encourage-ment. So I grew, a little every day though often toolittle to see with the naked eye, still I knew I was get-ting taller. There were moments of despair however,I clearly remember the time I was ravaged by somebeasts, almost torn to pieces, bent and disrespectedand all along I screamed in silence, yet they didn’tseem to hear. I was still little then, and wonderedwhether this was to be the end or whether I wouldmake it through and grow strong again, perhapsstronger than I had been before.I healed, it was touch and go for a while, but in

the end I came through, tougher if slightly dis-figured. A strange bump had formed just aboveground, on my left side. I had a sense of left andright front and behind even if an outsider may findit hard to see me that same way. Many winterspassed and I grew tall, some who stood and admiredmy size and strength, thought me bigger than aver-age and a prime example. The days a small rodentor larger pig would do me any harm were longgone, but as yet I had failed to produce flowers orfruit. It was then that I realised that I had been miss-ing something inherent to most others around meand although that in itself was not overly strange Istarted to notice the talk which had spread. 12


With little else than growing further to do, Ithought the problem over, putting it down to thetrauma I had endured in my early years. It was spring, perhaps the later half of April

when I could feel them sprout, high above groundthey started popping from beneath the bark tinybuds that send shivers through the rest of me beforeturning into small white blossoms who would bearfruit in the near future. I can not express the thrill Ifelt by what nature presented me with this first time,but it was repeated many times over for as long as Ican think. Even now as I stand old and scared fromthe many seasons I saw, not bearing as many blos-soms as in my heydays, the excitement of that firstblossom indicating another cycle of life to start re-mains the same.

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(story title)

THE BIRD

It was tiny she thought as she looked with big eyesat the small creature that moved about her out-stretched palm. fluff not quite feather yet coveredthe bird as it hopped about. Everything was small,even the noises it made. She felt its warmth, saw theheart pulsate in steady rhythm. She was only sevenand knew that her mum would never let her keepit, but looking down she felt so full of love, there wasso much want to look after it, feed it, befriend it, sothey could relax together without the anxiety thatwas so apparent now.Soon her mum would come out and wonder

what she was up to, then she would tell her to ridherself of the little fluffy thing and wash her hands.That’s what she would do. Unless, unless there wasan exception. She had learned about exceptions awhile ago. There was what she could and couldn’tdo and then there were exceptions. Although excep-tions were mostly made for other people she knewthat one day she would be allowed to have one ofher own. Maybe this was it. She decided not to tell her mum, instead got a

shoebox from the garage and made a little nest forthe bird. Worms and water was what birds liked andthat’s what she would provide for the little thing. Shewould have to give it a name so they could be proper14


and call each other something, even though the birdwouldn’t be able to call back cause it was probablynot a parrot and only those could speak. She put the shoebox on the shelf in the garage

when her mum called for dinner, looked inside withgentle eyes once more, before putting on the perfo-rated lid to allow for airflow. After dinner she wouldtry to come out again, say good night to the littlebird, would know what to call it and thought Lizzya good name. Lizzy the bird, she thought, as she waswalking towards the house, after her doll by thesame name.‘Doreen, go wash your hands and get to the

table,’ her mum said when she walked in throughthe kitchen. ‘And hurry, your dad is in a mood andyou are holding things up.’Doreen anxious now, not wanting to be shouted

at, sped up, rigidly soaped her hands and scrubbedher nails, then looked in the mirror. Saw thickblonde hair and re-did the red clips that kept it fromfalling in her face. Her blue eyes sparkled with ex-citement when she walked into the dining room andsaid hello to her father. Who looked her over, thennodded in approval and told her to get seated.‘Little people like you still have to obey the rules,

just like big people.’ He pointed at his watch.‘Sorry dad,’ she said and looked down on her

plate, moved the food around with her fork andstarted eating. When they finished their meal Doreen got up to

help her mum clear the table, careful not to trip shecarried the plates and glasses into the kitchen. Hermind was on Lizzy. She was about to sneak from the 15

(story title)

kitchen onto the lawn, when her dad’s voice stoppedher.‘I don’t know where you are trying to go. but it’s

the wrong direction, your bedroom is upstairs.’She stopped dead, then slowly turned and with

hanging shoulders walked past her father wholooked at her wondering what his daughter was upto.After Doreen had gone to bed and was asleep for

some time he said to his wife, that now at almosteight, Doreen started to develop her own mind asto how to do things and they had to be careful toguide her in the right direction. His wife gave him atired nod from across the room.

The next morning the girl woke when she heardher father leave the house. For a moment she laythere, listened to the silence before she could hearher mum in the kitchen. She thought of Lizzy andjumped out of bed, got dressed then ran down thestairs and through the kitchen onto the sun coveredlawn. Her mum shouted a good morning andlooked on as the little girl crossed the lawn and wentinto the garage. She was behaving a little strange, she thought, a

tad out of kilter, then went on to prepare breakfastfor the two of them.Doreen went up to the shelf to take down the

box, careful not to wake the bird in case it was stillasleep. She carried the box outside and knelt downon the grass before she took off the lid to look at thelittle piece of fluff that was curled up on itself, lyingthere quietly and unmoving. For a moment Doreen16


just sat quietly watching.She waited for movement, then stretched little

fingers and gently stroked the small creature. Thebird felt clammy and cold, not like it had the daybefore when she saw its chest pulsate with heartbeat.Her fingers pushed and the bird rolled, its little headlolling from side to side. ‘Lizzy,’ the girl sobbed, her big blue eyes filled

with water her shoulders shaking back and forth.Suddenly her mum was standing next to her. Shelooked down at her daughter and from her into thebox with the dead creature.‘What’s that in the box Doreen?’‘It’s Lizzy,’ she said through a steady stream of

tears, ‘she’s dead.’Death, thought her mother, what a strange con-

cept at the age of seven. ‘Where did she come from,’she asked.‘I found her under the big tree by the fence yes-

terday.’‘And you didn’t tell!?’Doreen shook her head.‘Well, lets bury it where you found it,’ her mother

said. She went into the garage to get a shovel, thenwalked up to the tree by the fence, dug into the softsoil till a hole was made big enough for the shoebox,that had once carried Doreen’s shoes and had nowturned into a coffin. Looking down at her daughtershe could see that Doreen was in fact wearing thoseshoes.The little girl was still crying when she put the

coffin into the hole, her mum quick to cover it withsoil. 17

(story title)

‘Do you want to say something? Now is the time,’she said impatient.‘Lizzy,’ Doreen said, ‘she was a good bird, please

keep her warm and look after her god. Thank you.’Tears were rolling down her cheeks, when her mumturned to take the shovel back to the garage.‘Now go wash your hands,’ she said as she walked

away.

18


UNDERNEATH

I lost track of time then but it seemed like it hadbeen dark forever. The reality was that little morethan an hour had passed. I did not know. I hadmade the best I could of the position I was in and itnow bordered on something remotely emulatingcomfort. In a very abstract way that is. My cheekwas pressed against the soft damp ground, the kindyou get in a dense pine forest. It had a nutty smellto it and after some time I could taste that smell, itbecame so thick that I could almost chew it like youwould a good wine.My mind started to drift again, always wondering

about the what if, as I remembered moments goneby. The sole reason why I was out here now was thatI could. I didn’t have to stay in the dirty city whichI had inhabited for the past 10 years. I was lucky inthat way, many others still scrambled about in thebig cities of the east trying to scrape a living to-gether. Many of my friends were still doing just that.I was lucky, to get the opportunity to leave when Ihad wanted to. I had sold or put into storage thethings you couldn’t carry, then hopped on a planeto come out here. I had bought a used car in a lotat the edge of town where I had touched down,then driven almost 3000 miles stopping here andthere taking the time I wanted cause time I had inabundance. I had driven through blizzards were the 19

(story title)

rain had been beating down so hard that I had topull off the road to let it pass, seeing blurred light-ning in the distance then hearing the violent rumbleof thunder so close that it would hurt my ears. Morethan once I felt small, in a country which stretchedso far around me and not one soul anywhere. Nowthat I was here I heard the breeze blowing throughthe tall of trees around me, I thought I could feelthe slight movement of their roots underneath. Ihad gotten hyper sensitive to my surroundings, pick-ing up on movements and sounds as much as beingable to savour the soil.I remembered back home, how the neighbour-

hood had been terrorised by a bunch of kids thatlived somewhere near, they would kick the doorsand spit in your face, there was no sense in talking,like they spoke no language, could not comprehendnotions beyond their aggression. They had neverknown of the silence out here. I had left them behind, abandoned them, to-

gether with the rest of my life.I had to cough just then, could feel my chest

painfully contract as it was gasping for air. Once Icalmed I tried to shift position, move my legs, but Icould barely feel them, let alone move. My left armwas twisted backwards trapped under my body, theright hand I could move a little, but there was noth-ing to hold on to, nothing that would keep me fromslipping.I woke with the first light that shone through the

crowns of trees, reaching the ground here and there,the light a haze, moisture rising. The green of ten-der shoots so bright and fresh almost close enough20


to touch. The smells very different now that theearth warmed and right at the edge of my vision Icould see some grazing deer slowly moving theirheads up and down, listening into the distance andsuddenly they run and are gone and I cough again,this time tasting blood. Then I can hear what made them run, the faint

bark of dogs, and knowing, that where there aredogs there are people. I listen into the distance, thevolume of bark growing, getting ever closer, thenmake out a voice or maybe two for it would besenseless to talk to oneself, but not perhaps to talkto the dogs. Now I can hear the crackling of woodbroken by treading feet, the rustle of leaves and Istretch out as best I can ready to shout for help butonly a crackle leaves my throat. Again I try in des-peration, but only the pain in my chest grows louder.I hear a sniffling sound not far and as I open myeyes I stare into the face of a young golden retriever,tongue hanging from its mouth, saliva running. Ithas floppy ears and big brown eyes, and as I look athim I can feel tears well up inside and as if the dogwas to console me he starts licking my face. I neverfelt such intense elation. I hear the mans voice then, not from close by

however, but from afar calling for the dog who hes-itates then waves its tail, turns and runs in that play-ful manner young dogs do when they play, stilltaking scent gradually fading into the undergrowth.

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THE SIGNING

I read about it in the paper, Elmore Leonard wouldbe signing his books today, in a shop, in town, 12:30till. I was in the bathtub when I read it, thought

James Ellroy first, always did, always confused thetwo before I got it right. I had a book of short storiesby Elmore. That was all, he wasn’t Ellroy he was El-more, I pondered as I played with foam bubbles andtried to keep the paper from drowning. Elmore, 12:30, the signing was close to where I

worked. I could make it there and back during mylunch hour with some time to spare for a sandwich.The idea was formed. I left work 50 minutes after Igot there to get my book signed and maybe buy an-other while I was there. I took some of my short stories to give to the man

in return. An exchange of goods and appreciation.I would take them out of the bag as I was to retrievehis book and casually push them over. He would look up, raise an eyebrow in a ques-

tioning manner and I would nod at him as if to say,‘It’s ok, these are for you, you can keep them andread them and perhaps if you find time, you can getback to me with some words of encouragement andwe can be friends.’ Something like that anyhow. Then I stood in the queue that stretched to the

nearest corner outside the shop. The sun shone22


down, it was a bright warm day, one of the first thatyear, the queue was slow to move. It took twentyminutes till I saw the man, sat behind a desk, sparepens to his left, a pile of his books between me andhim and two people ahead. I browsed the titles onthe table, none meant anything so I picked up thelatest, somehow thinking that it was good to read ei-ther the early works or the late works then compare,and as a writer myself I would look at how thingswere done, then and now. One man in front of me now. I ruffled through my bag, to retrieve the book I

had brought to avoid any queue, it had been a need-less exercise. My short stories were in the same bag, just that I

couldn’t bring myself to take them out. Least of allput them on the table in front of the man, nodding.My palms got sweaty and my mouth went dry whenit was down to me to move up, I put the two booksdown and he said something I couldn’t make out.He was 81 then, and I couldn’t hear. My knees trembled. I told him my name. C U S he asked. I didn’t understand, then it

dawned on me that he spelled it out and I nodded.‘All the best’ and ‘Take it easy’ he wrote. ‘For Mar-cus’ he wrote above, and underneath he signed hisname. I said thank you, took the books and moved on,

my nerves calmed, I relaxed, somewhat excited. Later that day I wondered why it had been me

who’s nerves gave in when I stood in front of him,clearly it was down to him to be nervous. 23

(story title)

Later still, I regretted that I hadn’t been boldenough to push my stories across the table, nodding. We could have been friends.

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fractures from anxiety

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