Berti drove with his usual impetus into the dining hall and looked around.
Most of the residents of the Memento Mori Luxury Retirement Home were already seated, obediently waiting for breakfast.
The smell of toast and orange jam hung in the air, and nurses with fake smiles patiently shuttled around, delivering or bringing in new arrivals.
He knew these faces by heart.
This was Mervyn. An incredibly eloquent fellow with a bubbling diction. He could babble twenty-four hours a day, signing any piece of paper he could lay his hands on; a rather natural reflex, considering he'd been a banker for forty years.
A little further along, the blind and terribly tiresome Professor Lloyd. A specialist in arranging spontaneous and repetitively boring law lectures, combined with extensive discussions of excerpts from his own works.
Joyce. A lively old lady with advanced dementia who couldn't sit still. She spent her days wandering the corridors, driving the staff crazy and arousing the sincere envy of the other residents – she showed no signs of age-appropriate physical deficiencies.
The problem arose during meals. Joyce, as a rule, contented herself with a spoonful of pudding and, taking advantage of the caregivers' inattention, would run into the corridor. Nurses usually ran after her with flying hair, shouting encouragingly,
"Good soup, Joyce!" Take another spoonful from the lady!
And this is Dr. John. Everyone called her John, even though she was a woman, and Berti was almost certain she had a female name. Unfortunately, he couldn't remember it right now.
And Paddy. A cheerful and childish Irishman who had just entered the dining room with a loud "Yooop!". An eternally satisfied tea lover ("Oh, tea! Wonderful!") and a fan of Westerns ("Oh, cowboy! Wonderful!"). Very prone to hiccups, which could often torment him for four days straight.
And Mrs. James, and Anaphylis, and Hilda—whom it was best not to approach without a stick—and Paula—a delightful old lady, and Karla—tireless in chatting about the weather, and Norman Morgan—the former pilot, and Muriel ("Oh! Muriel died last week!")—and a whole host of others who had been stuck in this place for years. Some of them had never spoken a word, as Berti was surprised to discover from time to time.
But today there was someone else...
Across the oval table sat an unfamiliar woman, her hair heavily tinged with gray. An exceptionally beautiful face, distinguished movements, a smile that could overwhelm the toughest pensioner, and that striking resemblance... To someone you knew long ago and someone you still remember...
Berti stared, captivated, for a long moment.
And then he made a manly decision.
He straightened in the stroller, discreetly tucked a piece of the protruding, unruly diaper into his waistband, rubbed his hands together, and set off.
He was doing quite well—he deftly avoided the pouffes scattered on the Persian rugs, avoided a head-on collision with the newspaper table, and was practically reaching his destination when Fat Rosi spotted him.
"And where are you going, my dear? You're not allowed to sit by the open window, you'll catch a cold!"
With that, she took the stroller in her muscular hands and pulled it in the opposite direction.
Berti cursed silently and gnashed his false teeth in indignation.
"A cold! To a man in his prime...! How dare he!"
During breakfast, he wasn't sure what he was eating—instead, he was devouring the stranger with his eyes.
He watched her cut toast, spread jam, take a sip of tea, gracefully raising her little finger, and prayed silently that she wouldn't have multiple sclerosis, memory loss, or Alzheimer's.
And he contrived every possible way to get to her without alerting the nurses.
Unfortunately, he wasn't given a second chance.
As if discovering his nefarious intentions, Fat Rosie approached the table and chirped sweetly,
"And now, good Bertie, go to his room and take a pill! Which pills does Bertie like best? Red or green?"
The question was so utterly stupid that Bertie didn't bother to answer.
He simply watched the stranger go, sighing heavily, and surrendered to the nurse.
He fell into a strange state. Left alone in his room, he couldn't sit still. He wheeled the wheelchair aimlessly from wall to wall, trying to calm his racing thoughts. He felt terribly agitated inside; something he hadn't felt in at least half a century.
He glanced at the clock. It was nine-fifteen. He couldn't make another attempt at contact until lunch, about three hours later. But that was too long, holy crap! In that time, you could develop a severe neurosis that neither green, red, nor even pink pills would help!
He accelerated the wheelchair and braked at the last moment in front of a wall. He felt like kicking something. If only he could kick...
Nine-seven! Who the hell said time was relative? Someone very famous, that was for sure, but who was it? What to do?!!!!!!
Nine-twenty.
A letter! You can always write a letter! Bertie rushed to the desk, dug out writing paper and a freshly sharpened pencil. And his hand hovered over the blank page. What next?
"Dear Madam. We don't know each other..."
"Dear Madam. Today at breakfast..."
"Dear Madam. Please forgive my boldness..."
"Dear Madam. I realize I'm behaving like a schoolboy..."
"Dear Madam. Did you like the toast?"
He crumpled the note and threw it angrily on the floor. What idiocy! Who cares about toast?! He might as well have been writing about black pudding and faggots! Although toast is, of course, decidedly less disgusting...
Ten o'clock.
That's it. I can't think of anything more. It sounds terribly stupid, but it will have to do. At worst, I'll be ridiculed. It's a big deal... I already have one foot in the other world... One more failure won't change much. Just life itself.
"Dear Madam.
I love you.
Yours sincerely,
Robert Durnsley, room 22."
He licked the envelope. Now it was time to find someone who could fulfill the useful function of a postman. Nurses were out of the question, due to their innate intrusiveness. But there were the cleaners – sad shadows wandering with plastic bags full of old syringes and overflowing diapers. No one had collected my rubbish yet today, so any minute now…
He waited for half an hour.
It was shocking, but he had never been so happy to see a cleaner in his life.
“Listen, boy,” he grunted, trying to hide his nervousness, “I wonder if you could do me a favor. Well… I have some correspondence here… that needs to reach a certain person. The problem is, I don’t know their name or surname…”
The cleaner smiled to himself.
“They think I’m an idiot,” Bertie’s fist clenched reflexively. “Get ready to throw the letter in the bin!”
"...I don't know her name or surname, nor do I even know which room she's staying in... But she's a new person, a very respectable lady... I'm sure it'll be easy for you to find her—it's not every day someone new comes, is it? Ah! And would you be so kind as to bring back any answer? Thank you very much."
The cleaner disappeared. All that was left
was to wait.
Eleven-thirty.
What a fool I've made... I swear. What a mess I've become! Shame, shame! After all, I can always pretend to be a sclerotic... Oh man! You're not fifteen! What idiots..."
There was a knock on the door, and the cleaner's rather unfocused face appeared.
"The lady's sending you a reply."
Berti almost had a heart attack. He grunted in thanks and began to wrestle with the envelope with a trembling hand. He finally tore it open and pulled out a sheet of paper written in neat, calligraphic handwriting. He read the first few words and shook his head in amazement. He read it again, smacking his lips in surprise and raising his eyebrows.
"Dear Sir,
I'm glad you finally told me! Because I've loved you for almost seventy years! Do you remember Maggie O'Reilly? I recognized you perfectly at breakfast! I'm glad you recognized me too.
Maggie, room number 54."
Maggie!!!
Berti jumped in his wheelchair with excitement. But how? How? How is that possible?! He opened the door and raced towards the elevator, turning the wheels with gusto.
The elevator whined upward for an eternity, and Berti repeatedly pinched himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming.
He apprehensively stopped in front of room 54. The door was ajar.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and entered.
Maggie was sitting in her wheelchair, leafing through a glossy magazine. She lifted her head and, looking in his direction, said,
"Hello, Harold. Make yourself at home.
And yet..." He felt a deep pang. Alzheimer's.
She burst into loud laughter.
"Just kidding! Go up without worry, Robert!
" "A strange sense of humor," Berti exhaled with relief. "Is that really you?"
"Really," Maggie smiled again, "an extraordinary reunion after all these years, isn't it?
" "Unbelievable!" he said, moving as close as possible, "and what's most incredible is that you recognized me.
" "Oh! That wasn't difficult! You stared at me for a good three-quarters of an hour. It's hard to ignore such obvious signs of interest.
" "I stared... I wonder what to say. So many years... Seventy, right?
" "Let's think," she raised both hands gracefully, "we last saw each other in Edinburgh. On June 13, 1935, to be precise, so in four days it will be seventy. You count like Archimedes himself—I'm impressed!
" "And as always, you radiate joy and are bursting with humor! Do...do you know how old I am now?
" "Do I?" she laughed, "but of course! Ninety-eight." And I'll tell you even more! We're the same age!
"You don't look like your age at all!"
"Oh, you complimentary person!"
They both laughed, and then silence fell.
"How are the children?" Robert asked.
"They're dead now," she smiled sadly. "I still have one grandson and a whole host of great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren. And yours?
" "I have a son. Well over seventy. But he doesn't move anymore and doesn't recognize me. Severe rheumatism and severe sclerosis, you know...
" "I understand," she nodded gracefully, "but you didn't park here just to chat about the children, did you?
" "Your directness frightens me...
" "And what else is left? Unless you want to postpone the chat until later? I'll look in my diary," she pretended to search for her notebook. "Let's say... in two years at six?" We'll be there, I think, after afternoon tea and before dinner. "
Berti burst out laughing loudly.
"So, shall we get to the point?
" "Absolutely," she placed her hands on her knees and made a curious face. "I'm listening, Robert."
Robert looked at her for a long moment. So long, in fact, that at one point he found himself absently counting the wrinkles on her forehead.
"Ugh... how should I put it...
" "You're blushing like a schoolboy, my dear. Maybe you'd prefer to write it down? It'll be faster.
" "You're impossible!" Bertie wagged her finger. "Can't you see I'm nervous? Maybe you could help me a little?
" "I'll try," she smiled again. In fact, she was laughing nonstop.
"You care about me. Don't you?
" "True." Bertie felt his face heat up as he heard his own words. "And I always have... All these years!" I looked for you, but you disappeared like a stone in the water... I thought you'd finally written me off... I didn't want to impose... Besides, that officer who was hanging around you...
" "A mistake of a lifetime," she shrugged. "I chased him away about a year later and left for Australia... I really wanted to meet you then, but I was afraid you wouldn't want to talk to me. I ended up playing a nasty trick on you...
" "They say time heals all wounds," Berti smiled sadly.
They both fell silent.
"Does it heal?" Maggie looked him in the eye.
"I don't think so. Well," he corrected himself quickly, "not entirely. But it allows you to see things from a different perspective.
" "And how is your perspective in the twenty-first century?
" "I regret terribly that I'm not in the middle of the twentieth. " It could have been so beautiful...
"It will be again." Maggie leaned over and kissed his cheek.
"It will be again?" Robert pressed his lips together, holding back the tears welling up in his eyes. "Isn't that ironic? We've been together for almost two hundred years, drinking through straws, and still making plans for the future?!
" "It will be," Maggie repeated with conviction. "Some people experience more in a week than others in decades.
" "Perhaps. Perhaps. I've had an awful lot of time to think lately... I've been stuck in this place long enough... And you know what?"
She nodded questioningly.
"I really was crazy about you this whole time. And you know what else?"
She nodded a second time.
"Fate, or whatever you call it, is a calculating and cynical bastard. It allowed me to meet you after all these years... and I'm happy." And on the other hand... I feel terrible regret... Why so late?!
Maggie took his hand in hers.
At that moment, Spotty Emma peered into the room curiously.
"And there you are, Bertie! Have you come to visit your mother?"
Bertie gasped indignantly, but Maggie squeezed him warningly.
"I see the little ones have taken a liking to each other," Emma continued, smiling, opening the door wide. "That's very nice. Very nice! And now we'll go and have lunch and get some papo. Then we'll take Bertie for a bath, scrub her, change her diaper, and powder her. And in the afternoon, sweet-smelling Bertie can come visit again.
Let go of the master! Don't hold her so tightly! "
Bertie was almost ready for a severe stroke. Maggie made a discreet move and whispered,
"Don't worry... see you this afternoon..."
And without protest, she allowed herself to be driven to the dining room.
Bertie watched her go...
It had been a good day.
One of the best he'd ever had.
That evening, he tossed and turned in bed, trying to fall asleep. Herds of wild horses galloped in his head, and thoughts flashed in and out of nowhere. From the corridor came the chiming of a clock and the giggles of nurses on the night shift.
Outside, rain fell, and the wind rattled branches against the gutters.
He died before dawn.
The first rays of the rising sun filtered through a gap in the curtains, illuminating the resident's medical records:
"Robert Durnsley. Age 98. Pneumonia. Severe fever for the past week. Has not regained consciousness for two days."
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