By Lida Prypchan
A scythe on its shoulder, grim and skeletal, with long stride,
that’s how, as a child, I imagined death. (Antonio Machado)
In his sixties, Mr. W. was a well-preserved man. He was perhaps a little more tired than before and had lost weight over the last few months, but this he attributed to too much work and too many worries. He thought it might not be a bad idea to have a general check-up… The doctor on duty came out of his cubicle, death written all over his face. Mr. W. had a year to live – the handwriting was on the wall! Leave him in peace, no dedications, and no prohibitions; if he begins to suspect something tell him the truth. Such were the recommendations the doctor gave his family. Mr. W. demanded an explanation and got it. He was silent for a while, then, in his room he wondered whether it was a punishment or a blessing. Never before had he contemplated his own death, he was always so absorbed in his life – he thought it was other people who died, not him. Why on earth had he gone to the doctor? To learn that he had one year to live? Did it make any sense to know that, to spend the little money he had to find out?
Twenty years working in one office. Twenty years waiting for a little financial freedom so he could dedicate himself to what he had always dreamed of – writing science fiction. What cowardice! That night his last thought was, “I didn’t face up to life, so I won’t face up to death. I shall die as I lived – a coward – but when death comes it won’t find me so easily.” The next day he left on a trip around the world. On the way he met a lot of people; he didn’t do much thinking, just joked around until it was time to go back to his room. Then he left the light on, because death could be stalking him – lying in wait for him somewhere. He checked every corner, poured himself a drink – a double – then another and another, until dawn broke and he fell asleep.
Eleven months passed and he returned home. He had one month left and had to take care of the arrangements. He chose his coffin. It had to be the most somber and elegant one, because even in death he must be elegant, he thought with a smile. He ordered his coffin to be placed in the top room of the mansion he had just purchased, which had three hundred and sixty-five rooms. The purpose of installing himself up here was that death would have to climb a great number of stairs. With any luck it would arrive exhausted and decide to be indulgent, or maybe it would trip while going up the endless steps to his room, then 0 farewell, cruel world! – death would be dead, and he’d be the first man to have conquered it! Since death was a social event, he made out invitations to his funeral, asking his chosen ones to arrive a day ahead and spend the night in the mansion, where they would find “Black Russians” for cocktails – his real intention being to create confusion for death in the midst of so many guests.
The night arrived. The guests were uncomfortable silent, but seeing how animated the host was they decided to enjoy the songs played by the orchestra he’d hires, which was playing one or other of two pieces with the ominous titles Fatal Kiss andLoves that Kill.
At three in the morning they retired to their rooms. The music continued. A very pale, almost gray man entered the ballroom and silently began to climb the stairs. Without any tripping or hesitation he found the room where Mr. W. was sitting comfortable on the couch, reading a book. There was no need to knock at the door; it opened of its own accord. Looking across the hallway they recognized one another. Mr. W. got up from the couch, lay down in the coffin, closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. Death went over to the couch, picked up the book and read this:
“My grandfather used to say, ‘Life is surprisingly short. Now, when I think back on it, it seems so compressed that I can hardly understand, for example, how a young man can contemplate riding on horseback to the nearest town without the concern (barring
