A short story by Stephen Foster published in the English-language Havland Reporter newspaper in 2023.
IT BEGAN subtly. If he were a writer he would have compared it to the breaking of the waves on a distant shore. He was not, so for him it came as a false calm, a heckle of relief as the numbers trickled in. A few gentle pats for himself on the back, the genial click that precedes the thunderclap of a solid shot. The man that a generation, rural and urban alike, had hailed as their voice sat there, sipping a cold one as that title, and all his other laurels, were from him cruelly divided. “At least it’s all over.”
A few desultory calls came in, the usual tepid half-eagerness, half-consternation used to determine whether the words of condolence or congratulation were in order. He was still in the grip of the false calm, so he assured them that the latter was the correct response, and satisfied they went away. He did not know it yet, but he would soon realise that he was alone. His secretary had of course retired for the evening, Paul was at the watch party, Jonas no doubt tallying the numbers as they came in for the official records. He had just ended the call with his wife, who had in no uncertain words told him not to make excuses for himself.
A spasm. The grip of the false calm began to slip. His fingers, betraying him, made a darting motion towards the phone again. He stood up, as if to call for someone, saw the empty state of the baroque office for what it was. Then he sat down and reached for the phone again. Paul – the party. Jonas – still working. As his index finger searched for the first key his mind came up with half a dozen answers and he dismissed them all. He could bother someone but at that moment that was more effort than he could muster, so he was alone. The index fell back and so did he, into the solid leather-backed chair, the chair on a pivot to nothing, endlessly turning in place.
turn turn turn
His breath rate increased. He found that, in these times, the brain did not manufacture stimulus. Instead, it demanded it. Adrenaline sought out something, anything, to justify itself, and so he began to hum the opening to Good Morning Havland, a silly little ditty six bars long, a silly little ditty he could hum, a silly little ditty over and over, silly little silly little ditty. Still the word panic didn’t occur to his mind, instead his fingers went for the cold one cold one all over him. What was that? A break in thought, another spasm, a fearful twitch? He had to clean it, no, had to move. So Filip Jorgensen of the Jorgensens, a political dynasty stretching back to the first post-election unity government, stood up to head to the toilet, the toilet that was located to the immediate right of his baroque office down two corridors and a sharp right, you had to ignore the “out of use” sign in front of the door because the cleaner often forgot to take it after he was done. The toilet, the toilet, then what? It was only when his future began to contract in front of him that Filip understood the umwelt of a cornered animal.