3

12:33

Getting back to K. wasn’t as easy as he would wish it to be. The wall was everywhere and it was impossible to come through its bricks unnoticed. Melquiades tried making use of the same way he departed for his lengthy student's exchange, but the sea was protected as fiercely as the rest of the country. He resorted to legal methods and applied to the consulate of K. for a visa. He had the citizenship of K. and on account of this single document he had the right to come back. The only problematic issue were the means of transportation he could use, as scarcely any ship, train, or car could enter its borders. After discussing minute details with a consulate, they decided that the best and the safest would be a parachute jump from an airplane which couldn't land in K. but it could fly over the country, not arousing any suspicions and - most of all - hostility.

‘Are you sure you want to come back?,’ the consulate asked surprisingly, worried about his client, ‘You left so long ago. It’s not the same country. When I won this position, I was so happy to leave you cannot possibly imagine. You see, it was always hard for us. We knew that sooner or later it will happen. We had hopes, you see. We knew the language, me and my wife, and we were the only ones who wanted to apply for this job. This is my wife.’ he pointed at the picture of a middle-aged woman, ‘For us, it was a blessing. We're the old generation. And as you can see we couldn't fit the pattern. I’m sorry, I’m a bit overweight. I tried to fight it but I’m hungry all the time. And you can see my face… Taking it all into account there’s no reason to starve yourself every day. I was even fond of dying at some point but then this vacancy appeared out of nowhere. And we could leave…’.

What the consulate was saying would have been moving, especially looking at his facial expression just on the verge of bursting out crying, but Melquiades had no idea what the man was talking about.

Within two days he had all his properties packed in one suitcase and was ready to fly over K. The parachute wasn’t too difficult to operate and the pilot happened to be so precise that, given the exact address, Melquiades was to be set free just over his childhood home. With a moderate swearing and insecure moaning on his part, Melquiades was flying over K. like a dandelion over the meadow. When landing, he fell and accidentally left his suitcase hanging on a tree, but other than that he was safe and standing on his own two legs. After a ten minute walk, he reached his childhood estate.

The house was empty. Wooden walls, doors, floors and window panes got old and darker but the house hadn’t changed a bit. The rooms were just as he remembered them to be, the placement of furniture stayed the same. Even the pots and pans were hanging in the exact same place and, though covered with a big coat of dust, they were just as fit for use as in his teenage years. There was no sign of the father and no sign of Jacob, but one of their photographs dating back to boys' teenage years lied down in the kitchen cupboard. This was the same house he abandoned decades ago. In the cupboard, there was also a property act of the estate and the last will of his father, written with strong black ink and laminated in fear of being destroyed.

All my land and this house I leave to my only son and heir Melquiades G.

Abram G. 17 march 1945

Melquiades was sixty-three. He was certain his father was no longer alive but the reality of his parent’s death so close to his consciousness made him cry for a while. The tears were not so much over his father final sleep, but rather over his own abandoned and orphaned life. But then the weird realization of the father’s last words made him come to his senses. But an only son? Jacob had always been his favorite and, as Melquiades saw in the newspaper, he was still alive. Had there been anything that changed? How come had he become the sole heir of his father’s fortune? Melquiades was sure that his father didn’t love him as much as that. Jacob must have done something to make the father displeased, but what?

The house left him food for thought as well as many pieces of furniture to search thoroughly, but he didn’t find anything. He cleaned and dusted the place and fell asleep in his old bed. Melquiades was at home. According to the will, it was his own house, his own home, and for the first time in years, he slept there like a baby.

For the first couple of days, Melquiades stayed at home, afraid of leaving his oasis. But some sense of duty was born in his heart and one morning he decided to go for a walk. His old town looked more or less the same as he remembered it from the past. Buildings were torn, streets were in need of serious renovation and everywhere you laid your eyes you could see the poverty of its inhabitants. When the morning came, people began walking out of their houses and taking to the streets. They were wearing old badly fitted coats, washed shirts, unfashionable dresses and incredibly worn out shoes. To Melquiades' amazement, the flow of people from blocks of flats was never-ending. He stood there for an hour and observed as hundreds were leaving their place of habitation. The majority went to the market and started buying food. They didn’t seem to be starving. They just seemed poor and haggard. The state of hygiene wasn’t perfect either.

The food on the stalls was, on the other hand, abundant: potatoes and beetroots were large, apples juicy, grapes were of great quality, bread - freshly baked, vegetables transported straight from the fields and the concept of price didn’t even exist. They weren’t paying for the food, they simply walked to the stall, asked for what they wanted and got it with a smile from the seller. After they filled their baskets, the cooking began. They didn’t seem to go to work. Their only job was preparing their meals and God the meals were good. They used spices, which Melquiades had never tasted in his life, they prepared meals with such methods of cooking that he had never been aware of as if for the last fifty years they didn't have time for anything else in the world. They devoured in their plates with passion and intensity, they had dozens of items of cutlery: each for different vegetable and each for every fruit. They drank freshly squeezed juices and beer from huge barrels. They made soups and added soy cream to make it fatty and creamy. They boiled, steamed, fried, baked just as in the past but they learned how to mix ingredients in such a way that the food was not tasty but it was heavenly delicious. With every bite, Melquiades couldn’t but want more. He was besotted with the taste and, everywhere he went, he was given bits to try, cups to drink and sips to swallow. Amazed by how K. solved the problem of the expensive food and malnutrition of its citizens, Melquiades noticed that the number of people inhabiting his town is much higher than it used to be in the past. The size of the town at the same time remained the same.

‘Why don’t you build new houses?’ he asked drinking excellent beer from the cup someone had given him a moment before.

‘You ask silly questions. We can’t. We can’t build anything new. This is the law,’ answered the man with no apparent wish to discuss current affairs.

‘The law? There is a law saying that you cannot build any new houses? But where do you live?’

‘I live with my family in M72. We don’t have it that bad. My uncle died so there are only fifteen of us on 20 meters. Usually, there’s more. You know, if we built new places, we wouldn’t have enough food. Fields would be destroyed. And, you know, it’s not that easy to feed two hundred million people.’

The man laughed as if he was telling a joke.

‘Two hundred million?! How is that even possible?’

‘Two hundred and we’re still growing. You behave as if you were away for some time. Everybody knows how many people live here. We are counted very thoroughly. Of course, there are hunts and displacements which help for some time, but you feel that there’s the crowd. Especially during rush hours when everybody comes back home in the evening.’

‘Do you work? You don’t seem to work. Is there enough food for everybody?’

‘There’s plenty! We don’t waste it, you see. We are the storers. We store food for the winter. Those who live on the farms work growing and picking food in the summer. They work now, we rest. Everybody cooks. We might not read, we might not be like those in N., those fancy people, but we know how to make our meals. You might not even talk in here but you know what to put in your mouth.’

‘What’s N.?’ Melquiades was eating with even greater appetite and considered taking one more portion of this delicious casserole.

The man looked at him with a decadent look.

‘I won’t be talking about N. I never do. My father died there and I don’t want to talk about that. Learn your lesson. You say that you are from K. but you don’t behave as if you were one of us. Once you are from K., you are never going to be from a different place. And those N. people seem to think they are.’

Melquiades unintentionally felt like a traitor. He left the market and returned to his home. The bigger part of his life he spent outside K. but he never stopped thinking about it, dreaming about it and missing it in his own teenage way. And now he was in K. and it wasn’t the same country he had left years ago.