Fifty three minutes

‘Would you like to help heal me? It will only take fifty three minutes.’

The boy glanced at the girl… What was this sale speak? It sounded as though the man was going to use this time to try and explain the benefits of some life-changing holistic product. However, the vagrant on the cobblestone walkway, with the moth-eaten gloves and the stale cigarette breath seemed a somewhat unlikely salesperson. Perhaps that was part of the edge? Perhaps not. Telepathically they agreed, the healing process must be very precise. The vagrant on the cobblestone walkway, with the moth-eaten gloves and the stale cigarette breath, must know exactly what it takes to heal him.

The boy’s first instinct was to resist – fifty three minutes, however precise, was almost an hour of his life. And who knows what this healing process might entail? In fifty three minutes this man could lead them into the gut of Prague, and who knows whether they’d be able to get out before dark?  In fifty three minutes this stranger might lead them to a fate worse than that. However, he suppressed his apprehension when he noticed, once more, the girl’s doe eyes; she was already bracing herself to answer, to agree… Time after time she had impressed, almost intimidated him with her disregard of herself, in flinging herself with abandon to be at the service of others. It had confused him; she made it seem so easy. It had twisted the sometimes dormant knife of guilt inside him, something with which he was born as a result of his privileged lifestyle and his over-developed conscience. Most of all though, his male instincts simplified the situation before further contemplation was necessary: this was a challenge, and she was waiting for him to prove himself.

‘Sure, we’ll help you,’ was his inevitable answer.

‘Follow me,’ the vagrant ordered. Keeping their wits about them, the boy and the girl allowed the man to lead them to a public rose park, with winding paths and public benches. Walking up a hill, they eventually settled on a bench overlooking the neat, crowded buildings, red rooftops occasionally interrupted by a dome or a steeple. The sweet, crisp air seemed to cushion the scenery, and ease them. A period of comfortable silence ensued, during which the boy was almost convinced that the ‘healing’ was nothing more than the sharing of a spiritual experience in a realm which was above spoken language.

‘I collect match boxes,’ the vagrant began, breaking the silence unexpectedly. Scratching in his pocket and producing from it a lonely crown, he handed it over to the girl. ‘There’s a kiosk ten minutes down that way. Would you please go and buy me a box of matches?’ he asked. The girl looked at the boy uncertainly. It seemed innocuous enough. They both stood up to do his bidding.

‘No!’ he protested, ‘You stay!’ he declared, pointing at the boy. Startled, the boy sat down. ‘Boys cannot leave the bench,’ he offered, by way of an explanation. The boy brushed off the suggestions by his imagination of what this might mean. The girl looked to him for reassurance. He nodded his okay.

‘Be right back,’ she said.

‘Now,’ began the vagrant. ‘I often wander these paths alone. I am lonely, but I am not destitute. People judge me. They think I cannot take care of myself. This is untrue. I choose to live like this. I choose freedom.’

Saying very little, the boy listened to the man as he told of his fortunes and misfortunes, the characters in his life, how he had started to build things from match boxes as a small boy wandering the streets of Prague, befriending pigeons. He seemed to be sensitive to the boy’s movements even though his eyes weren’t on him. Every time the boy moved to adjust his posture, the man would flinch or protest.

The girl returned with the match box. The man thanked her, inspected it, held it between his thumb and forefinger and shook it to hear the matches scuttling around inside.

‘Matchboxes and pigeons have some things in common,’ he offered. ‘They are both small and cheap, but when put together they create the most wonderful spectacles. Perhaps you have seen a flock of pigeons take to the sky at sunset? Perhaps then, you know what I am talking about. I used to build castles from matchboxes. Then, having emptied out all of the matches and arranged them around the castle, I declared them sleeping, naked soldiers. Sleeping or dead, it does not matter. It is only a matter of time before sleep becomes death. Then I would use one of the naked soldiers’ heads to strike against the side of the castle and set it alight, watch it self-combust. You see, everything creates its own destruction. It is only a matter of time before death snuffs out life. When this happens, life puts up a fight, and my castle blazes beautifully in the dark. But soon enough, it retreats into smoldering ashes, and darkness takes over. Darkness, like when the pigeons are so many that they block out the sun. Then night takes over.’

The boy checked his watch. Forty five minutes had passed. The boy and the girl reminded the man that he had eight minutes left of his healing process.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Nine minutes.’

‘No, eight minutes,’ the boy corrected him.

‘Yes,’ said the man, ‘Eight and a half minutes.’

‘Seven minutes now,’ said the girl.

The man said nothing. As the minutes passed, he seemed to be retreating further and further into himself, as though preparing himself to be alone once more. The time was spent in silence, watching over the rooftops of the city, noticing pigeons, and seemed warped.

Eventually, fifty three minutes had passed. The boy felt dizzy.

‘Thank you for healing me,’ said the man. With this he stood up and wandered off, disappearing so quickly it was as though he was never there at all.