Art and Things

Part one of Stefan Podsiadly’s A Well-Oiled Heart is featured in the current printed edition of Art and Things. For those of you who can’t wait until next month, the whole story from start to finish is here online for you to enjoy.

The old man had barely opened the door to the downstairs bathroom when the stench hit him. He grimaced and didn’t enter. With all his weak arms could muster, he threw the bones in as far as possible, adding them to the collection. The light never went on anymore - he did not want to see how large that pile was - but he remained there looking into the darkness. It seemed utterly black. A chilling sound came, brittle like a rattlesnake’s caveat.  The bones were shifting under their own weight and spreading across the dirty floor tiles. He shut the door quickly.

The old man wiped his hands on the stained apron about his middle. Pulling some matches from his pocket, he struck one and leant down awkwardly to light the incense he had left by the door. Remarkably potent little sticks; their thick, musky odour diffused more than he thought possible of that dead smell. The pale wallpaper behind it was stained in streaks from the pungent smoke.

Standing straight took the air from his chest. His hand reached out to the wall for support. His legs trembled. A fleeting idea told him to blame his dizziness on something external, that fetid stench or the incense maybe, but he shook his head. He was old, and it wasn’t just the wrinkles that reminded him. He stared at his hand against the wall; watched his veins, little canals sluggishly delivering blood to the tips of his fingers. The old man studied those aged fingers until his breathing returned to normal and he had found his focus again; he was only halfway through his work. When he went to the door to check the locks, the letterbox snapped open.

“Bring out your dog.”

The old man jerked back from the voice. A pair of eyes peered through the letterbox. The old man didn’t recognise them but he wasn’t stupid; it was one of the boys from the shops. The old man cursed himself for not realising they had followed him home. He had been so absorbed in his work, rushing back to scribble down the results of his little excursion.

“We wanna play with your dog!” Said the pair of eyes. The old man could hear calls of encouragement coming from others outside.

“Let him out, come on!”

“Don’t be mean. We won’t hurt him.”

“And we’ll bring him back!”

It wasn’t the taunts of the little brats that worried the old man; he barely heard them. It was simply that pair of mischievous eyes, sliding back and forth across him and his hallway.  Those eyes, piercing deeper toward the kitchen.

“Urgh, it stinks in there, Mister.” The eyes added, and the little nose under them wrinkled in disgust. The old man hoped it was the incense. Quickly, he grabbed the closest weapon to hand, jabbing the end of an umbrella through the letterbox, shouting,

“Get out of here, you mongrels. Don’t you know better than to poke your head into someone else’s letterbox? I should call the police.” There was a yelp and the letterbox snapped shut like a bone breaking. “Now go home.” He barked.

The old man doubted the boys would leave just as much as he himself would call the police, but now they knew he wasn’t going to put up with their games. Even so, he waited there, listening, half-crouched and holding the umbrella like a machine gun. His face was blank, as though it had become slack to give more energy to his ears. There was no noise from the street. No footsteps, no talking. The silence stretched out like a shadow at sunset; elongated.  The old man licked his lips.

Suddenly there was a bang. The old man instinctively thrust the umbrella at the door but the letterbox hadn’t opened. He stood up straighter. Another bang, louder, and the old man knew what it was. He put his head into the front room just in time to see an egg smack the window. Through the albumen oozing slowly down towards the sill he watched the boys ready another assault. He sighed, a strange mixture of sadness and relief. There was nothing he could do to stop the brats. Their bodies were too young and quick. Nothing he could do that wouldn’t hinder his own work. So he fled for the kitchen. The banging continued for some time but the old man smiled. As long as they are throwing eggs, he thought, they are not peeking through the letterbox.

The kitchen was a mess. There were coils of wire and scrap metal and crates and boxes of all sizes strewn carelessly about the floor and the worktops. On the stove was a large cook pot. Its fleshy contents bubbled away as the old man stood by it. Even on a low heat the fat was spitting at his sleeves, mottling them just like the yolk on the front of his house. The old man didn’t care. He never turned towards the pot or looked down to wipe his sleeve. He never even felt the little pinch of hot flecks on the back of his hand. He was lost now, his concentration held solely by the round table in the corner of the kitchen. Or rather, by his work, which was sitting on it.

The old man pulled at his beard, studying his handiwork. It was exceptional. With grubby fingers he packed a pipe with a rich, dark tobacco and puffed, just admiring his accomplishment. It had never been his vocation. It had never even been a hobby. But he was good at it. All those years of working behind a desk to realise his hands had such talent. At least he had found out; he could not imagine himself without his work now. Puffing harder, the old man’s pipe flared intensely and smoked billowed around his head, threading through the edges of his beard. It began to taste like he was smoking incense so he tapped out the tobacco into the cook pot and flung the pipe over his shoulder to the other side of the kitchen. He couldn’t work with a pipe in his mouth anyway, and now was time for the most delicate procedure.

The heart needed to keep beating or else it wouldn’t power the rest. But blood rusts the cables like acid burns a leaf; the thing would rot from the inside out in a matter of days if he were not careful. The old man took a battered notebook, curled from sitting in his pocket, and laid it open on the table for reference.

He had developed a method of siphoning the blood out while feeding in a replacement. As the blood was draining, distilled water was pumped through the cables – to clean them – and then oil. It was amazing how much more robust a heart was running on oil instead of blood. But the process was always messy and the heart had to keep beating. The old man readied his equipment, pulling various apparatus out from under the clutter. The brain was trickier to hook up yet the siphoning was a much simpler procedure. It was infuriating, to go through all of the intricate nuances with the brain just for the heart to stop. It had to keep beating. The old man tightened his apron and set to the task. He worked furiously.

“I tell you what, Victor,” he said to himself afterwards, pouring the bloody water down the sink, “I don’t know why you worry sometimes.” He left the hot tap running to stop any congealing in the pipes and ran his hands under briefly.

There were two chairs by the table, scuffed and worn. The old man pulled out the nearest and sat down to get a closer look at his work. He didn’t feel nervous, but noticed a slight quiver in his lips that made his beard tremble. It was natural, he supposed, now that he was so close. Clenching his teeth to steady himself, he pulled a few finishing tools down from the worktop. He filed the uneven edges that had previously escaped his eyes, buffed the chest sheen with his clean sleeve and checked that the pistons in its legs worked properly. After bending them back and forth a few times they continued the movement on their own. It was waking up. The old man pressed the small switches hidden flush about its body and little motors began to hum into life. He sat back to watch and patted his pockets to find his tobacco. Cursing his pipe for never being where it should be, he hobbled over quickly to retrieve it, kicking the clutter out of the way. By the time he had got back up, so had the cat. The old man laughed and clapped his hands a little. His eyes, like dark pits in the dim light of the kitchen, never strayed from the animal. The cat didn’t have any eyes, just a shiny, hairless head.

The old man came to stand closer. He smoked his pipe smugly, occasionally stooping to blow the fumes in the little creatures face. Almost there, he thought. Now he had to find out if it had been worth all the sweat and trouble.

He held out two fingers before the animal’s nose. It leant forward slightly and the man drew a large circle in the air. The sensors built beneath the metal skin picked up the movement and its head whirred loudly as it followed his fingers. The old man grumbled and pulled a small tub of grease down from an open cupboard. With his tongue between his teeth, the old man ran globules of grease over the creature’s neck. When he repeated the experiment, there was no jarring squeak of dry pivots.

Next the old man clicked his fingers at various points and distances around the cat. It turned its bald head to face every sound. The old man chuckled; how many times had he wired it wrong and ruined its senses? Not today. The cat was lucid. He picked up his notebook and wrote eagerly on a fresh page, smacking the full stop down hard. The pencil went behind his ear, where his wanton hair kept it snug; the notebook went into his pocket.

“Good, you can hear me, but can I hear you?” He asked the little animal. It was moving tentatively towards the edge of the table, peering over to the floor. He pushed it back roughly towards the wall. Its heavy metal legs gouged the tabletop. Holding a finger up, urging obedience, the old man reached over to stand a radio upright on the worktop. He moved it slightly to avoid any spits from the cook pot and turned it on.

It was serendipitous that the cat could talk at all, but the old man was not going to waste a bit of luck; after so long working, he was due at least some. How it worked exactly, he had no idea so he tried to not think too hard on it, but it was intriguing to say the least. He tuned the radio slowly. It crackled and hissed at him, static erupting at different volumes. Suddenly, he heard it; a sharp, low rumble, like loud breathing. He stopped his own breath and inched the volume up. The old man pursed his lips and called to the cat. It responded, meowing harshly through the radio. There was an unnerving quality to its voice, just like the dog before, but the old man had learnt to ignore it. He was too pleased to worry about something so inconsequential. He clapped again and considered a little dance. Lack of both room and lung capacity stopped that celebration, so he contented himself with smoking another pipe instead.

“At last.” He said. Three senses in as many minutes. It boded well. There was no reason now that it would not be able –

The cat shifted its weight sharply and the table rocked, spoiling the old man’s mood. He let the pipe fall out of his mouth and pushed the creature harshly back to the wall.

“Not yet.” He said firmly. It looked at him with its head turned slightly. Suddenly, he felt embarrassed at treating a little animal with such force. It had done exactly as it should have up till now, more so; it was eager. He ground his teeth at his actions and froze momentarily, leaning over the table towards it, worried that he may have stunted it in some way. It seemed oblivious to his pains, sitting back on its hind legs with a clunk. Its tail, a perfectly straight rod of familiar metal, tapped the table in a precise rhythm. He sat down as well, trying to relax his knotted shoulders as much as he could, and flashed an awkward smile for the cat.

“Don’t you want to have a bit of fun first? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A bit of fun before you go wandering?” It meowed through the radio at the old man’s cosseting words.  “How about a ball to play with? No, wait. What about a piece of string?” The old man reached over to the worktop to pick up a loose wire about a foot long. He giggled as he held it out before the cat. “Go on. It’s a big worm. Get it! Go on.” The old man’s feet tapped a beat and he hummed a silly melody. The radio was silent. The wire wriggled in the old man’s gnarled grip and the cat watched it swing left and right. Watched it.

“Play with it!” The old man shouted, banging his sweaty fist on the table.

“Victor!” A voice cried suddenly. The old man’s head whipped round.

“Victor, where are you?” The old man scrambled to his feet. He was torn momentarily between the voice and the cat. Finally, he picked up an empty crate and overturned it onto the little creature on the table. By the time he was in the corridor, she had called again.

“Come quickly, Victor. Where are you?”

Hurrying through the hallway, the old man did not notice that the incense had gone out or the umbrella lying on the doormat. He held the small of his back and took the stairs at fast as he could.

It was dark in the bedroom, with only a thin sliver of light cutting through the pitch curtains. It fell on the bed, picking out the dull reds and browns of the duvet. In that slice of pale light, the old man could see her legs turning as though in discomfort. He hurried quickly to her side.

“Victor. Where have you been?” Her face was wan and her skin flush with her skull. Of all the weight she had lost, it was the weight from her face that worried the old man most. He could forget – had forgotten – her previously plump bosom and wide hips. But when he looked at her now she seemed vague and shadowy, like a distant relative of herself. Her eyes rolled wildly around the room before settling on him. She asked the question again.

“Only downstairs, my love.” He said, taking her withered hand. “What do you need? Tell me. Anything you want.” He felt her weak grip, their leathery hands coarse against each other. She breathed awkwardly.

“I’m scared, Victor. I can’t see properly. Why can’t I see properly?” A tear rolled down her cheek, undulating over the wrinkles. He ran his fingers through her lank hair and kissed her forehead. It was strange; even though she had been bed-ridden for some time now, and even though she looked dissimilar to the woman he married so long ago, she still smelt the same to him. And when he closed his eyes and kissed her forehead again the years retreated and awakened blissful memories. The old man sighed.

“What’s wrong with me?” She asked. He looked at her.

“It’s just the pills. It’s a side effect, my love, that’s all. It will go away.”

“I want to go out, Victor. I want to see the sun.”

The old man froze, both hands holding one of hers. He couldn’t let her out, not in her condition. Afraid she might be able to read it from his face, the old man went over to the window. He narrowed his eyes to see through the gap in the curtains. It was dusk; the gloaming silently smothered the houses further down the street, chasing the sun towards the other end. She was so frail and needed rest. What if those schoolboys were still outside, lurking somewhere down in that dark end of the street? There was some egg on the outside of the window. No, she definitely couldn’t go out.

“You shouldn’t.” He said, looking back to her once he had composed himself. “You’re far too weak, my love. You need to rest. Rest is the best thing.” His hand gripped the curtain till his knuckles went white. She turned her head groggily towards him.

“Please, Victor, I want to see the daylight. It’s been so long. Where are my shoes?” She tried to prop herself up, eyes searching round the darkened room, frowning. Quickly, before she spotted her dusty red slippers at the foot of the bed, the old man whipped the curtains open and the last remnants of the day’s sun washed over the bedroom; an intense ochre. She put a hand over her face fearfully and fell back against her pillow, groaning. He smiled. Rest really was the best thing for her.

“You see, my love? You see? You must rest. You’re not strong enough yet. What good is the sun if it only makes you worse? You must rest and take your pills. Have you taken you pills?”

“No.” She said weakly. The old man shut the curtains and made her take the medication. He watched her slowly sip the water he had left on the bedside table before he had gone to the shops. She was so thin, her skin almost translucent, he was sure he could see the liquid spreading around her body. It seemed to revive her temporarily and they shared a warm smile. The old man couldn’t find any words so he sat there smiling at her until her eyes closed and her shoulders slumped. Then, he puffed the pillow around her feeble head and gave her another kiss. He whispered,

“Nothing but rest now, my love. Things will change soon. But until then-”

“The doctors. Have the doctors found a cure?” She asked, her voice suddenly bright.

“Almost. A few more weeks, at most.” The old man had always been able to lie easily. He had learnt the skill as a young man, sitting in a tiny office selling things he didn’t believe in. But his words weren’t a lie as such; just that the doctors had nothing to do with it. The old man coughed fitfully into his hands. He needed to check on the cat.

“Don’t leave me.” She begged, as though she had sensed his thoughts. The fingers on one hand rose slightly, reaching out for him. He took them.

“Never.” He replied and hummed a rising melody until she was asleep.  The pulse in her wrist syncopated his.

“Never.” He said. Then he got up and left the room.

He was unsure now if those pills were helping her survive or just dulling the pain. She was getting worse even though he was upping the dose, well beyond what the doctor suggested. He ground his teeth. He knew what was best for his wife, not some upstart doctor. He knew how to cure his wife. No doctor or shaman or scientist could say that. It was all written down, a work beyond their understanding. And it was nearly finished. Nearly. He gripped the banister as he descended the stairs; it shook violently.

He shut the door to the kitchen to avoid waking her up again and took the crate from top of the cat. It was curled up - or at least almost curled up. Unused to its own body, it took a moment to stand. The wire lay where he left it. The old man sat down holding his head, trying to slow the thoughts that were buzzing furiously against the inside of his skull. The spine of the notebook in his pocket bit into his leg.

He was unsure how long he spent staring at the floor, at his battered old pipe, at his worn old boots. Rubbing his temples feverishly, he finally managed to suppress the image of her face and he took a deep breath. He could not work well if he was thinking too much about her. As a grateful distraction, he realised he could no longer smell incense and so picked up his pipe and smoked it, staring at the cat. It called to him through the radio. Clenching the pipe between his teeth, he ran his hand down the creature’s metal back. It called again and he increased his strokes, studying its reaction.

The animal seemed to call in time with his hand on its neck. He sat forward a little, alert. Could it sense it? The meows filled his ears, slicked them. Had it worked this time? He took the cat on his lap, wincing at the weight of it. It kept calling, raising its head to look at him. He smiled and joy filled his heart like oil. Was it was working at last? He had hardly done anything but sit down, so what else would explain it? It had to be. His strokes became quicker, lavishing adoration on the metal cat. Maybe it had felt relief or happiness when he had lifted up the crate? Or maybe it felt safe now he was back in the room with it? Could it feel? He knew that he could not make it happen, but had it finally evolved on its own? It must have! It grew a voice of its own, why not affection, pleasure, love and understanding? After so long waiting, it was the most natural thing in the world, evolution. It must be. It had to be.

Suddenly he jerked with horror. A chill ran across his skin. Hairs rose. What if it wasn’t? What if it was just like the rest? Looking suspiciously at the cat, the old man’s thoughts turned darker; the briefest moment of suspicion quickly clouded everything else like oil above water.  Fool. He chastised himself. He had let his mind meander too much. Being with her, he had lost his focus, become excitable. His mind was still upstairs, kissing her, reliving days long ago over. He bit his lip hard and embraced the concentration that pain brought.

Even so, now, back in the kitchen, time raced as he was consumed entirely by doubt. His change of mood made his mouth turn grotesquely and he could taste blood.  The radio crackled. The cat called again, shifting its weight on his legs. Was it really feeling his hands running across it? Was it calling to him or just because it could? Had it grown? He held the animal out before him. It looked at him. He dropped it upon the cold floor tiles.

There was a heavy thud and a crack of tiles splitting under the animal’s weight. It was spinning around between his feet, trying to right itself. It was still calling, just the same as it had when he stroked it.

The old man regretted kicking the creature, but he had been unable to think of another way to vent his disappointment and his anger and his crushing frustration. He howled in pain, bringing his foot up to his lap to inspect it. The cat had not moved an inch. When the throbbing in his toes had subsided, he slumped back in his seat, fatigued and racked with confusion.

Some incipience of social understanding had been evident in his little creatures. That was mostly due to the sensors he had implanted, but it still should have been enough. For some reason, it crippled them far short of their abilities. He had given them eyes and ears, why did they not use them properly? Oh, they could look, but it didn’t take him long to realise that they couldn’t actually see. It was infuriating. Worse still, they could talk – something they had discovered all on their own - but it didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t a question or an answer. It wasn’t a cry or even a statement. He had worked tirelessly to bring some fruition from it, to build on it, push it on to where it should be - where he needed it to be – but it still eluded him. For all his work on the brain the answer should have been palpable. He glowered at the cat, which had finally got back on its feet. It looked back blankly. Even taking them out to the shops, where dozens of people always waited, everyone excited to see his animals, never produced any reaction at all. Nothing. The little beasts lived in purdah. What good was that?

Enough was enough. Rummaging his pockets, he found the animal’s tag. The tag only ever went back round their neck once he was sure the animal was of no more use. He looked down at the name. Theo. What a stupid name for a cat. But then, it was a stupid cat. He fastened the tag round its neck. Theo was Theo again, pointless and dead to any useful purpose.

The old man picked up the cat roughly and marched it through to the dining room. Flinging the door open he turned the light on with his knuckles. A hundred tiny motors hummed and all the little heads looked towards him. Maybe more than a hundred. They were tiny, chitinous creatures, beetles and insects - they scurried across the floorboards on metal feet – and countless cats and dogs and birds. Then the room was silent. Thankfully, their voices only reached so far; but even so, the radio never moved near this room. He could put up with their stupid eyes but not a choir of those dull voices. There was no feeling, no love. It was a never-ending dirge. He dumped the cat on the floor amidst them, knocking some of the others over. Shape and movement; there was no process in their idiotic heads but that. Nothing. Theo would be right at home.

After so many failures it was a wonder he had the tenacity to keep going. But from the first to the last they had increased immeasurably in craftsmanship. He would keep going because he had to. He thought of her for a moment, her delicate hands, before flicking the lights and closing the door.

In the early morning, when he was sure the pills would keep her asleep, he would creep down to the butchers and throw the contents of the cook pot in their bins. Then, a quick rummage in the scrap yard for parts and he would be home by dawn. He would always keep his eyes keen of course, for a roving cat or a dog slumbered in its kennel, but chances were he would have to take another trip tomorrow night solely for that purpose. There was worryingly little evidence of pets locally these days. A few times now he had had to travel to the woods to hunt for strays. Still, there was always a chance, however slim, and if he could get all the resources in one trip tonight, he would work himself without sleeping till it was done. He could never sleep well anymore, not lying next to her like she was. He considered going up to check on her, even got as far as the stairs, but decided against it and let his thoughts come back to what was more important. Going back into the kitchen, he sat at the table. He pulled out his notebook to study a few pages, then took the pencil from behind his ear and began to write.

It took two pencils and copious pipes for him to feel positive. His notes had produced half a dozen quality points to follow up and he was eager to get started; a stray would be sufficient. He went upstairs to see her sleeping, immersed in unfathomable dreams. He smiled and left her. Then he filled a bag with the contents of the cook pot and put on a long coat, oiled against rain. The umbrella went back into the rack and the door shut gently behind him.

The old man walked briskly under the street lamps until he came to a gap between two houses; here, the back alleys began, stretching out like nerves between the irregular clots of buildings. They ran all the way to the other side of the city. He didn’t hesitate. He pushed deeper. Occasionally, voices would drift down from open windows, or the sound of television and music would seep through the cracks in doors, but they seemed utterly alien to him. Nothing crossed his path, human or animal.

After the butchers he stopped to smoke a pipe. When he had finished, he lingered there for a few minutes more, leaning against the wall of some derelict building. It had once been a hotel, he remembered, but the name he could not recall. They had never stayed there, although she would always look up at it when they had passed by. “It has such pretty windows” she used to say.

In the very early morning, the old man laid his trap on the edge of the forest. The moonless sky gave only a dead colour, but his eyes had adjusted enough to work without the aid of a torch. There was a satisfying feeling in his gut, the hunter waiting, ready.

It took an hour to catch a fox. He spent the time contemplating how quickly he would become accustomed to her metal skin, free from wrinkles; how quickly he would grow used to her cold lips, kissing him goodnight.

Stefan is originally from Brighton but currently lives in South Korea. He is 24. Illustrations by Kila Carr-Ince.