He does not know, but He is the centre of the Universe.
Everything everyone else does, they do solely for the effect it has on Him. This is their only purpose, whether they are aware of it or not.
On this basis, Jasmine Phoebe Nurul, a supermarket checkout girl at His local branch of Asda, was briefly more important than the King of Swaziland, because on a rainy Tuesday in late December, she closed her aisle just after He'd put down His lasagne ready-meal, His pack of out-of-date bread rolls, and His half-bottle of half-priced Kumala Cabernet Sauvignon, but before He’d reached the front of the queue.
She did not know that she had just accomplished her raison d’être. After storming out of the shop, He avoided Asda for the next month, choosing instead to go the extra 200 yards to His local Tesco Metro. By the time He’d run through their limited selection of pre-cooked meals and returned to Asda, she’d quit her job to start a Data Entry course, during which she will fall in love with her instructor, move in with him, get pregnant, marry, have a further two kids, and as far as is possible, live happily ever after, and not once think back to that December evening, despite the fact that everything she did after that was effectively irrelevant, because she never crosses His path again.
In January, the King of Swaziland regained his rightful place, when He reads in the Metro that the girl chosen at the annual Reed Dance in September is pregnant, and therefore qualified to become the King’s thirteenth wife. He'll read this with a mixture of amusement, jealousy, and disgust, the latter engendered by the closing comments, which despite the frothy reporting style of the rest of the article, points out that the lavish celebrations hardly befit a country ravaged by the highest AIDS rates in Africa, and one of the lowest average wages. He does not know, of course, that the Swazi people only suffer – only exist – because the King of Swaziland has to be King of something, and has to come to His attention on that particular tube journey home.
He does not know because it is not in the scheme for Him to know, any more than it is in the scheme for Jasmine Fletcher, née Nurul, to know.
We know.
But just because we know does not mean that we have any choice in the matter. As we elegantly manoeuvre the other bit players in this grand farce into position – as we cue their lines, and make sure that the right props are in place at the right time – we are painfully aware that we have as little free will as those we manipulate.
The question that entertains us, in rare idle moments, is whether our careful work means that even He is denied free choice. And if that is the case, we wonder whether there is after all, any purpose to the Universe.
When He reaches His cold studio flat in Fulham, He is feeling lonely, a reaction to the very idea that someone could have 13 wives, and even before the microwave pings to tell Him that His cottage pie is ready, He has logged onto the dating site He has recently subscribed to.
And at that moment, Alice Sinead Flannery (AKA Celtic_Stunner) becomes more important than the Pope, the President of the United States of America, the Queen of England and Bono from U2 combined. Because waiting in His inbox is a wink – a sign of interest, a wordless hello, an invitation to reply.
He hesitates. Though infrequent, winks and even the occasional cheery email have come His way before. But not, as a rule, from someone who He might actually like to go out with. And His attempts to contact those He might like to go out with have, so far, come to nought, with even those who deign to reply swiftly losing interest.
He decides, as He munches His dinner straight from the microwave-warped plastic container, that brevity is probably best. After all, she has only winked at Him.
“Hi Celtic! Or should I call you Stunner?” He types, and then quickly erases.
Two hours later He clicks send on His non-committal three line response, and only then does He notice the spilt gravy on the Ikea rug.
We watch over the course of the next two weeks as the emails between them become more flirtatious, and as the lack of joy that characterises His life momentarily eases. We observe His reactions to our carefully crafted stimuli, not knowing if they are the right responses, nor what they are supposed to mean. And we wonder, what will happen when He dies? Will it all end, in a heartbeat? Or will it continue, under its own momentum, as irrelevant as the rest of Jasmine's life?
He is wracked by nerves before and during their first date, and talks too fast, too loud, too much. His attempts at humour fall flat as she sits quietly, exhausted from a week of late nights both at work and play, wondering why He doesn’t look as cute in real life as His profile photo. A little later, during their second awkward silence, He thinks the same thing about her when He finally gets round to looking at her properly. In truth, a lack of sleep and a mad rush from work to their chosen rendezvous means that she looks and feels tired and lacks the colour that a few brushstrokes of blusher would have given her, but He does not know that, and merely feels resentful disappointment. In truth, His profile picture was taken 18 months previously, towards the end of a summer holiday, and the tan and the relaxed smile are a long way from His present winter pallor and nervous manner. Eventually she pleads an early start the following morning, and begins to leave, and He is left staring moodily at her half-finished glass of over-priced red wine and His nearly empty pint of beer, wondering where He went wrong and whether He can stand the idea of ordering and drinking another pint on His own. But then she turns back to Him, a perplexed frown on her face. She apologises once more, and as He bravely nods, she reaches the decision we have primed her to reach.
“Look,” she says, hazarding a half smile, “I really am beat, and I’ve been lousy company, but I’m not normally like this! And I would like to see you again. I’ve got a friend who’s throwing a big party this Saturday, and, well, would you like to come?” He does not know that a large part of the reason He is being invited is that her friend has been threatening to set her up with a date if she doesn’t bring her own, and that her friend’s previous matchmaking attempts have been, without exception, excruciating failures. That, and the fact that this is a Valentine’s party, have driven her close to the point of making her excuses and crying off. He eagerly accepts her invitation, and the smile that lights up her face makes Him forget about the discrepancy between profile picture and real life. He offers to walk her to her bus stop, and on the way, He is more relaxed, and she is less distracted, and by the time her bus arrives they are both genuinely looking forward to meeting again.
It is obvious to us, even if it is inexplicable, that the fact that we know is necessary. And so perhaps the fact that we wonder is also necessary. And were we to decide not to follow the instructions that appear unbidden in our heads, then that too would be necessary, be planned, be part of the scheme. So we take what simple pleasure we can in doing our job as efficiently and neatly as possible. And we continue to wonder.
The party is out of the city, and she picks Him up in a battered Volkswagen Polo. She gestures to the back seats, where there are a pair of scruffy sleeping bags.
“I forgot to tell you to bring one,” she says. “They’ve got this huge barn, where everyone will bunk down. Well,” she smiles coyly, “everyone who decides they need to sleep!”
There are a few of us who wonder if this is about just a moment in His life, and not the entire thing. Perhaps his life is only a vehicle to set that moment up, whether it is a poignant event, a dramatic experience, a heartfelt emotion, or even just a single, exquisite thought. And after that moment, perhaps He too becomes irrelevant, his purpose served. We wonder if the instructions in our heads would then stop, and if so, whether we would then have free will. We wonder what we would do with it.
And would we know that moment when it occurs? And if not, perhaps that moment has already been and gone.
It’s three o’clock in the morning and He’s sitting on a bench overlooking a small lake, with Alice by his side, her hand in His. The party is still in full flow, and the heavy bass notes reach them even in this secluded spot. He’s feeling a little light headed after too much cheap lager, and too much frenzied dancing, but despite this He’s anxious and holds her hand limply, self-consciously. He’s only half listened to her story about the escapades of one of her friends – He suspects that it was an ex – and when it ends He doesn’t know what to say. He stares up into the cloudless night just as a hunk of ice and rock that has been travelling for millennia throws itself against the Earth’s atmosphere for His benefit. He watches the afterglow of the fiery trail slowly fade, unsure whether this ghost of its passing is real or just an optical illusion; a trick played on his mind by his light-sensitised vision. He tries not to think too much about this, tries just to remember the moment of celestial beauty, tries hard not to wish that He’d had His camera with Him. In the pause afterwards, still staring at the sky, wondering what the chances of seeing another such glorious vision are, He squeezes her hand and then turns to her.
“Do you ever wonder...” He says, trailing off as He realises He doesn’t have the words to say what He wants to say.
“Hmm?” she murmurs, though she’s not really listening; her eyes are locked on His mouth, wondering when He will kiss her, wondering what it will be like, and wondering how much longer she can sit on the cold bench.
“Never mind.” He replies, and bends down towards her waiting lips.
(c) Liam Hogan, 2009
Liam writes, because to not do so might negate his existence. He works, because to not do so would leave him destitute, or at the very least, short of the nice bottles of Rioja he is partial to.
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