Morpheus by Katharina Hacker

From Elpenor

Oh no, not again!

What do I mean? What do you think I mean? It just keeps on happening, and there'll be no end to it. It's not as if you'll be the last.

The last what? The last person to blunder into me, wake me up, have nothing better to do than blindly plant his feet down just where I'm sitting. As if the world weren't a big enough place. As if there weren't enough people one could barge into and disturb. Now for goodness sake don't knock my bottle of wine over as well. I've had enough to drink, have I? And how would you know, might I ask? Drink myself into the grave? Well, that's what I've been trying to do for the past two and a half thousand years. No, nothing, forget it. Anyway, I expect you're in a hurry. I mean, I don't suppose you're here at the station just for fun. Hasn't arrived? You came to meet someone and they didn't turn up? Well, I suggest you go back home then.

No, I'm not in a bad mood, I haven't felt a louse running over my liver, as you put it. For one thing I rather doubt if I have a liver. For another, vermin steer clear of me. They have a good nose-lice, I mean, and fleas too-just like dogs. The other day that Alsatian, the one over there with the policeman, practically climbed on top of me while I was asleep. It was scratching and pawing at me, and when I woke up with a start it set up a howling as if the ground had suddenly opened up at its feet. You should have seen that policeman's face! He yelled at the cur and gave it such a kick in the ribs that it skidded a yard along the floor, squealing like one of Circe's swine. That noise-first thing on waking, too!-revolting. I made myself scarce, otherwise I'd have been next. With that squealing in my ears. You think time's passing, you keep hoping for a bit of a change, but no. The same ugly mugs, the identical noises and irritations. With dogs, too, it's always the same: first they don't see me, and then their noses tell them that I ought to have disappeared from the face of the earth long ago. Squealing! Even though it was a dog and not a pig. Always moving on in a hurry, being jolted out of my sleep and moving on. It's as if everybody comes into the world with his own personal irritations that are as much a part of him as his own face-born with a bit of bad luck specially designed for him. It's all fixed from then on, the ill-luck keeps repeating itself for as long as your hair's still growing. Moving on in a hurry, being jolted out of your sleep-I know all about that!

And there was I thinking I'd found myself a nice quiet spot here. But then that cop with his dog the other day, and now you. Now don't get in a huff! No idea what I'm burbling on about anyway? And why Circe? Just something that crossed my mind, a memory. A thought that suddenly struck me. Now there's an unpleasant expression. Makes you think of enemy troops, at night perhaps, lying in wait to attack you. Might be shades of the dead, hungry for blood. A sudden commotion, shouting. Horrible. Do you see that fellow over there? He's got a nasty cough, he reckons it's chilly out here, yes, the one with the cardboard. He fastens a big piece of cardboard round his chest to keep the draught out. He must have slept on a building site last night, anyway back he came with a white builder's helmet under his arm, looking as surprised as if someone had presented him with a giant coffee cup or a bucket, bending over it as if he were about to vomit, but he didn't-nothing inside him anyway. In the night he sometimes wakes up and yells Poor Tom! It jolts me out of my sleep every time. It's so cold, he always mutters, and he shivers even when it's summer. I expect it's the schnapps that does it. Me? Not likely! I don't trust any of those pale or colourless liquids. Poor Tom! But good places to shelter in are few and far between, especially in winter. The winter forces you into horribly close companionship, everybody huddled in the same warm places, shaken about by the trains above and below, fighting for the spots over the ventilation shafts. You're helplessly exposed to other people's habits. The way one of them scratches his back and softly hums to himself. You see his hand going up and you know he's about to start humming. What is most terrible is what you already know, and that knowledge doesn't protect you from the repetition of it. It scrapes your skull bare, you've no eyelids, your ears are made of glass.

You can't imagine all the people who turn up here. Poor Tom! The words and voices fasten on to your heels like hungry cats, they fawn on you, and their claws lacerate your skin. Ten times over you try to drown them, but eleven times they prowl through your mind, names and words from who knows where, always with some bit of a thought attached to them like a scrap of skin. If only at least one could sleep undisturbed. Look, now the bottle's empty. Do you happen to have a corkscrew on you? Not even that? God! Listen, since you're hanging around here anyway, why don't you go into that shop over there and buy one? The wine's on me. Don't worry, it's not some rot-gut. They always get pinched. At one time I had a whole collection of them, corkscrews I mean. That was when I was still going around with a handcart. It has its advantages-blankets, a few books maybe. On the other hand you tend to get dirty. Doesn't do the suit any good. Have to have it cleaned quite often anyway. And then people ask you if you're looking for work, when you have a handcart, I mean. Delivering their shopping, or coal, or soil for the graveyard. It's unspeakable. In the end I just abandoned the handcart somewhere. First I was going to dump it in the river, or better still send it rolling off a roof. The crash might be quite fun, I thought, the shattered axle. A harmless amusement. But then I decided against it. I try to avoid attracting attention. And I accidentally left the corkscrews in it. They were in a little grey suede bag. Five corkscrews. Luckily I did remember to take the cups. Look, two small gold cups. Aren't I worried that…? No, nobody thinks they're genuine. I saw the cart again later, some bloke had found it and decided to take it. He's dead now-his liver, or his lungs. It's always the same story, organs are a bore. Now, are you going to buy a corkscrew or not?