Mr. K. is casting a final glance at the mirror of the hall. He notices a hair on his lapel. He picks it carefully between his thumb and forefinger and goes to the kitchen. He steps on the pedal of the trashcan and lets the hair fall inside the black plastic bag. He goes back to the hall. He straightens his jacket and takes a look at himself once again. His clothes are well ironed, his shoes polished, his thin grey hair combed meticulously towards the right side of his head to cover his bald scull.
"I am leaving" he announces loudly enough to be heard. As he stands on the doorstep, closing the door behind him, he furtively makes the sign of the cross. His mother was a woman of God. When he was a little boy, she used to take him to church every Sunday. Every time the family prepared for dinner, they all had to make the sign of the cross before they started eating: "Blessed be our Lord that we have food on our table". Now, whenever he wakes up, leaves home, gets ready for an important appointment, arranges his desk's drawers, has dinner, goes to bed, the sign of the cross is the umbilical cord that still binds him to the beloved mother.
She died ten years ago.
He is heading towards the bus stop. His steps are slow and calculated, his back hunched, his paper case hanging heavily at the end of his long hand, disproportionate to the rest of his body. It's a beautiful day, a faint breeze is blowing. He meets a neighbor. It is Mr. N., the insurer, who also goes to work at this time. A very decent man with a son attending high school. Mr. N. greets him and Mr. K. returns the greeting: "Have a nice day! Have a nice day!"
Mr. K. is fond of repetition. He says "Have a nice day" more than once, so does he make the sign of the cross or checks the time on his watch. Repetition makes him feel safer. Sometimes, he will even start a conversation: "How is your wife, the child doing?" "The little one passed the Lower exam? Congratulations. Congratulations". And as walks away, he mumbles to himself "Fancy, little Lambros is now a grown boy!" And he is taking delight at the thought, as if the neighbor's son were his own. But his own son has gotten his diplomas, finished Law School years ago and got married.
*****
There are lots of people in the bus stop. It seems the 6:50 bus has not arrived on time. Mr. K. is standing beside a blonde lady that snorts with impatience. He has never seen her before at this time. He can't help but stare at her double chin. Someone should warn her about the dangers of fatness.
The woman turns suddenly to him: "What time is it?" "It is seven past two", replies Mr. K. Both remain silent afterwards.
A guy keeps mumbling between his teeth "You lazy dogs, a nice state we have..." Some people nod approval upon hearing him. He is also fat. Bald and fat.
The bus appears around the corner. Mr. K. takes a quick look at his watch: it is seven past eleven. He is waiting for the big crowd to get on first, as everyone pushes to grab a seat. He invalidates his ticket and grabs a handle. He does not mind having to stand throughout the trip, it won't take that long. Besides, the seats have germs.
"Why are you late? It is past seven, who will make me good if I get fired?" It is the fat and bald guy who yells at the bus driver. Mr. K. is not at ease. He does not like fights. He has hardly engaged in a fight throughout his whole life.
Many others come to the bully's support: "We will protest", "You‘re unacceptable". The fat and bald guy stands in the middle of the brouhaha, feeling proud of himself. He is today's hero. The worst of it all is that the driver makes no reply. Maybe the poor guy fell asleep. His eyes are somewhat swollen. In that case, what is there to reply? But maybe there is another reason: maybe he does not want to reply. Just because he dislikes fat and bald guys too.
*****
"Depreciation expenses less depreciation incorporated in the operational cost equal..." Mr. K. leans over a balance sheet and makes calculations for the hundredth time with his pocket calculator. His minuteness has saved the company more than once from errors and aimless print-outs. He always makes calculations with his hand calculator, as he does not trust computers.
One might say with good reason that Mr. K. takes delight in seeking and finding defects in everything. His mission in life is to correct errors. His former supervisor used to praise him in front of other employees, at every opportunity. "Mr. K. is a model of professional conscientiousness. A really remarkable employee". This was enough for a modest man like Mr. K., to make him give his best shot. What do young lads know of business...their only concern is to see the last of projects as fast as they can. The pleasure of underlining small errors with a red pen, of choosing the most calligraphic font, of enlarging the margins between the lines to make a document easier to read is something beyond their comprehension.
"Still not finished?" His new supervisor is standing beside him.
This one is a young fellow with bushy hair who typically walks up and down nervously. He is also different, harsh, full of self-confidence. The road to success is to him a running field where the fastest wins and people like Mr. K., slow and meticulous, give him the fidgets. Last week he was heard complaining to the boss: "Mr. K. has been with the firm for all these years, loyal to its ethics but...he delays the whole department. He can no longer meet the demands. Besides, he's old..." The boss interrupted him with a sign of impatience, obliging him to leave his sentence unfinished. He and Mr. K. had been together in the firm from the very beginning; he would not let a newcomer make him suggestions. The event was reported to Mr. K. by the boss' private secretary who had been eavesdropping all along and who was ravished at the ridicule of this repulsive "Mr.-know-all". And Mr. K. with the calm perseverance that always characterized him, continued his perfect work.
But something had broken.
"The balance sheet will be ready in ten minutes", he informs the supervisor, without lifting his head.
*****
Another tiring day is over. Mr. K. walks slowly to the house. He has gotten off the bus one stop earlier than usual to walk. His doctor has advised him to exercise.
But this time he feels exhausted. His head is heavy and he's short of breath. He should have gone home directly.
The truth is he's getting tired. In moments like this, he remembers that he has not been on vacation for long. His wife, a very patient woman notwithstanding, has started to complain lately. That they should get out of town for a few days, go to some sea resort and take a rest, like everyone else.
That's what he needs: some rest.
Upon entering the house, the thick smell of chicken and potatoes baking in the oven comes to his nostrils. He goes to the bedroom to change his clothes. He puts on his blue silky pajamas to take a nap after lunch. He then goes to the kitchen and takes place at the table. His wife has taken the baking pan out of the oven and placed it on the table of the veranda to let it cool a little. Now, back turned, she prepares the salad over the sink. She has put on a fresh tablecloth. A white one with green squares.
Then, Mr. K. notices a fly on the table.
The fly strolls seemingly carefree but Mr. K. can tell its alertness. It walks on the line of a green square, like a rope-walker.
Mr. K. is staring at it, waiting patiently for it to do the fatal mistake. Waiting for it to ENTER the square.
The fly, as if knowingly, grinds on, walking right on the green line. "C'mon, enter the square...Enter the white square" The power of suggestion. The power of will.
All of a sudden, the fly makes the mistake. It enters the square. With a quick move, Mr. K. traps it inside a transparent water glass. He remains aloof, watching the fly slamming itself against the walls of its jail of glass in panic.
"Will you eat or will you stand there playing with the fly?", says his wife, a harsh tone in her voice. Mr. K. is lifting the glass slowly. The fly is now too dazed to escape. Mr. K. reaches his hand quickly and, with an elegant and adroit move, he squashes the fly. Right between his thumb and forefinger.
"I am leaving" he announces loudly enough to be heard. As he stands on the doorstep, closing the door behind him, he furtively makes the sign of the cross. His mother was a woman of God. When he was a little boy, she used to take him to church every Sunday. Every time the family prepared for dinner, they all had to make the sign of the cross before they started eating: "Blessed be our Lord that we have food on our table". Now, whenever he wakes up, leaves home, gets ready for an important appointment, arranges his desk's drawers, has dinner, goes to bed, the sign of the cross is the umbilical cord that still binds him to the beloved mother.
She died ten years ago.
He is heading towards the bus stop. His steps are slow and calculated, his back hunched, his paper case hanging heavily at the end of his long hand, disproportionate to the rest of his body. It's a beautiful day, a faint breeze is blowing. He meets a neighbor. It is Mr. N., the insurer, who also goes to work at this time. A very decent man with a son attending high school. Mr. N. greets him and Mr. K. returns the greeting: "Have a nice day! Have a nice day!"
Mr. K. is fond of repetition. He says "Have a nice day" more than once, so does he make the sign of the cross or checks the time on his watch. Repetition makes him feel safer. Sometimes, he will even start a conversation: "How is your wife, the child doing?" "The little one passed the Lower exam? Congratulations. Congratulations". And as walks away, he mumbles to himself "Fancy, little Lambros is now a grown boy!" And he is taking delight at the thought, as if the neighbor's son were his own. But his own son has gotten his diplomas, finished Law School years ago and got married.
*****
There are lots of people in the bus stop. It seems the 6:50 bus has not arrived on time. Mr. K. is standing beside a blonde lady that snorts with impatience. He has never seen her before at this time. He can't help but stare at her double chin. Someone should warn her about the dangers of fatness.
The woman turns suddenly to him: "What time is it?" "It is seven past two", replies Mr. K. Both remain silent afterwards.
A guy keeps mumbling between his teeth "You lazy dogs, a nice state we have..." Some people nod approval upon hearing him. He is also fat. Bald and fat.
The bus appears around the corner. Mr. K. takes a quick look at his watch: it is seven past eleven. He is waiting for the big crowd to get on first, as everyone pushes to grab a seat. He invalidates his ticket and grabs a handle. He does not mind having to stand throughout the trip, it won't take that long. Besides, the seats have germs.
"Why are you late? It is past seven, who will make me good if I get fired?" It is the fat and bald guy who yells at the bus driver. Mr. K. is not at ease. He does not like fights. He has hardly engaged in a fight throughout his whole life.
Many others come to the bully's support: "We will protest", "You‘re unacceptable". The fat and bald guy stands in the middle of the brouhaha, feeling proud of himself. He is today's hero. The worst of it all is that the driver makes no reply. Maybe the poor guy fell asleep. His eyes are somewhat swollen. In that case, what is there to reply? But maybe there is another reason: maybe he does not want to reply. Just because he dislikes fat and bald guys too.
*****
"Depreciation expenses less depreciation incorporated in the operational cost equal..." Mr. K. leans over a balance sheet and makes calculations for the hundredth time with his pocket calculator. His minuteness has saved the company more than once from errors and aimless print-outs. He always makes calculations with his hand calculator, as he does not trust computers.
One might say with good reason that Mr. K. takes delight in seeking and finding defects in everything. His mission in life is to correct errors. His former supervisor used to praise him in front of other employees, at every opportunity. "Mr. K. is a model of professional conscientiousness. A really remarkable employee". This was enough for a modest man like Mr. K., to make him give his best shot. What do young lads know of business...their only concern is to see the last of projects as fast as they can. The pleasure of underlining small errors with a red pen, of choosing the most calligraphic font, of enlarging the margins between the lines to make a document easier to read is something beyond their comprehension.
"Still not finished?" His new supervisor is standing beside him.
This one is a young fellow with bushy hair who typically walks up and down nervously. He is also different, harsh, full of self-confidence. The road to success is to him a running field where the fastest wins and people like Mr. K., slow and meticulous, give him the fidgets. Last week he was heard complaining to the boss: "Mr. K. has been with the firm for all these years, loyal to its ethics but...he delays the whole department. He can no longer meet the demands. Besides, he's old..." The boss interrupted him with a sign of impatience, obliging him to leave his sentence unfinished. He and Mr. K. had been together in the firm from the very beginning; he would not let a newcomer make him suggestions. The event was reported to Mr. K. by the boss' private secretary who had been eavesdropping all along and who was ravished at the ridicule of this repulsive "Mr.-know-all". And Mr. K. with the calm perseverance that always characterized him, continued his perfect work.
But something had broken.
"The balance sheet will be ready in ten minutes", he informs the supervisor, without lifting his head.
*****
Another tiring day is over. Mr. K. walks slowly to the house. He has gotten off the bus one stop earlier than usual to walk. His doctor has advised him to exercise.
But this time he feels exhausted. His head is heavy and he's short of breath. He should have gone home directly.
The truth is he's getting tired. In moments like this, he remembers that he has not been on vacation for long. His wife, a very patient woman notwithstanding, has started to complain lately. That they should get out of town for a few days, go to some sea resort and take a rest, like everyone else.
That's what he needs: some rest.
Upon entering the house, the thick smell of chicken and potatoes baking in the oven comes to his nostrils. He goes to the bedroom to change his clothes. He puts on his blue silky pajamas to take a nap after lunch. He then goes to the kitchen and takes place at the table. His wife has taken the baking pan out of the oven and placed it on the table of the veranda to let it cool a little. Now, back turned, she prepares the salad over the sink. She has put on a fresh tablecloth. A white one with green squares.
Then, Mr. K. notices a fly on the table.
The fly strolls seemingly carefree but Mr. K. can tell its alertness. It walks on the line of a green square, like a rope-walker.
Mr. K. is staring at it, waiting patiently for it to do the fatal mistake. Waiting for it to ENTER the square.
The fly, as if knowingly, grinds on, walking right on the green line. "C'mon, enter the square...Enter the white square" The power of suggestion. The power of will.
All of a sudden, the fly makes the mistake. It enters the square. With a quick move, Mr. K. traps it inside a transparent water glass. He remains aloof, watching the fly slamming itself against the walls of its jail of glass in panic.
"Will you eat or will you stand there playing with the fly?", says his wife, a harsh tone in her voice. Mr. K. is lifting the glass slowly. The fly is now too dazed to escape. Mr. K. reaches his hand quickly and, with an elegant and adroit move, he squashes the fly. Right between his thumb and forefinger.