Sweethearts And Husbands
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“I’m sorry,” I said, “but we’re going to have to ask you two to leave.”
The man and woman looked at each other. The husband shrugged his shoulders in a way that suggested he was used to being told what to do by women like me who were only pretending they didn’t know better than him. He turned back towards the bar without saying anything more.
His wife followed suit, looking as if she wanted nothing so much as for us all to go away now. She had her hand on my arm when she went past but it wasn’t enough of an excuse not to be rude about someone else’s business.
It would’ve been easy just then to tell them off or even throw something at their heads from behind the counter, which is why I resisted doing either thing because there are times when you need people around you who can take care of themselves.
You don’t want to get into fights with everyone in town; otherwise, where will your friends come from? People should look after one another, especially those who aren’t always able to fend for themselves.
That goes double for husbands and wives: they shouldn’t let anyone bully them out of places like this unless they really feel threatened. They might think they’re safe here but that doesn’t mean they’ll never run up against trouble again.
If they keep getting pushed around by strangers everywhere they turn, sooner or later some of these bullies may decide to make life difficult for them both. Then how long before they start thinking twice about coming anywhere near the place? What happens then? Well, I suppose it depends on whether the couple has any sense of self-preservation left inside them.
Some couples stay together through thick and thin no matter what gets thrown at them. Others break apart under pressure. But most of them end up dead somewhere along the line. Sooner or later, every relationship comes down to a question of survival.
“You’re right,” the woman said, turning round once more. “We’d best be moving on.” Her voice sounded tired and resigned. She gave me a final glance over her shoulder before heading back to the door. As soon as she stepped outside, I heard her husband call out to her.
She stopped walking and waited until he caught up with her, then started talking quietly while keeping her eyes fixed firmly ahead of her. When they reached the car park, I saw them climb into their vehicle and drive off without bothering to say goodbye.
There was nothing wrong with what happened next – except perhaps that it took place in broad daylight instead of late at night, which made things easier for me since I could see everything clearly.
Still, it wouldn’t have mattered too much if I hadn’t seen it happen myself. After all, the whole point of having witnesses is so that you can prove what actually did occur. In this case, though, I couldn’t help feeling that maybe I oughtn’t to have bothered trying to find out exactly what had gone on between them. Maybe I should’ve kept quiet about it altogether, simply pretending I knew nothing about it.
Perhaps I’d done the right thing by letting them walk away without interfering. At least I thought so at first. Only afterward did I realize that I still had plenty of questions about what happened. Questions such as: Why did the man behave in such a strange manner?
Was it possible he was suffering from some kind of mental illness? Or was he merely drunk? Did he have a history of violence?
Had he ever hurt his wife before? How many times had they argued in public places like this one during the course of their marriage? Were they planning to divorce? Would they try killing each other if they got home?
These kinds of thoughts passed through my mind as I watched them drive off. I tried hard to ignore them, but eventually, they began to nag at me. By the time they finally disappeared from view, I felt sure I needed to talk to somebody about what I’d witnessed.
Not just anybody, but someone who understood what I was going through. Someone who could give me advice on how to deal with situations like this one. Somebody who could explain to me how to handle the situation properly. Who better to speak to than Mr. Smith, the local councilor?
Mr. Smith lived in a small house on the outskirts of town, surrounded by fields full of sheep. He spent most of his days sitting alone in front of his computer screen, writing letters to various government departments and agencies.
Whenever he received replies, he sent copies straight back to the same organizations, asking them to reconsider their decisions. Sometimes he wrote to newspapers and magazines, complaining about the state of affairs in our community.
Other times he called radio stations and TV channels, demanding answers to specific problems. Most of the time, however, he sat staring at his monitor and typing away. Occasionally he’d switch on the television set to watch news bulletins or documentaries about foreign countries.
Once in a while, he also read books written by authors whose names he recognized. The only problem was that none of these activities seemed to do him any good whatsoever.
His health continued to deteriorate, and he became increasingly forgetful. It wasn’t long before he forgot how to write, and even longer before he lost the ability to use the keyboard. Eventually, his hands were unable to hold anything steady enough to allow him to type, so he switched to using speech recognition software.
This meant that whenever he wanted to send an email or post a message online, all he had to do was press a button on his remote control and wait for the words to appear on the screen. All very convenient, but not particularly helpful when it came to expressing himself creatively. And yet despite his failing memory, Mr. Smith’s passion remained undimmed.
He didn’t care that nobody else shared his views anymore. Nor did he seem to notice that almost everyone now regarded him as a cranky old fool. Instead, he carried on doing what he always did. Writing letters and emails, making phone calls, and sending faxes to anyone who would listen.
Even when there was little chance of success, he refused to give up. If he believed something needed changing, he went ahead and changed it anyway. No matter how pointless it might have been. For example, he used to spend hours every day driving around the countryside, visiting farmers’ markets where he bought fresh produce direct from the source.
Then he drove to the nearest supermarket, picked up whatever looked appetizing, brought it back to his house, cooked it, ate it, and repeated the process again and again. Every single morning, afternoon, and evening. That way, he managed to eat three square meals a day without spending money on food.
But then one day he realized he no longer enjoyed eating the stuff he’d prepared himself. So he stopped cooking altogether. Nowadays, he never cooks a meal unless he has visitors coming over. On those occasions, he’ll prepare a special dish for them, usually involving meat and vegetables.
When he gets bored of preparing the same dishes, he buys ready-made frozen foods from the supermarket. They’re cheaper and more convenient, but they don’t taste half as nice as what he makes himself.
One day I decided to pay Mr. Smith a visit. I knocked on his door several times, but he ignored me completely. Finally, after waiting patiently outside his house for nearly two hours, I gave up and left. A few minutes later, I saw him walking down the street towards me. We exchanged greetings, and then we started talking.
After exchanging a couple of pleasantries, I asked him why he hadn’t answered my knock. “I’m sorry,” said Mr. Smith. “But you see, today is the day I go into hospital.”
“What are you having done?” I asked.
Mr. Smith hesitated for a moment, unsure whether he should tell me. At last, he replied: “They’ve told me I need to be operated on urgently. There’s nothing wrong with my heart, but apparently, there’s something strange happening inside it. Something which needs fixing right away. Otherwise, I won’t survive much longer.”
“That sounds serious,” I said. “Are they saying your life may actually depend on it?”
Mr. Smith nodded slowly. “Yes, exactly like that. In fact, if everything goes well, I could come out of this alive and healthy once again. This means I can continue living here in peace and quiet, just as I am now. Without anybody bothering me. Or trying to change things for the better. You know, the usual sort of thing.”
We walked along together, chatting pleasantly. As we approached the end of the road, Mr. Smith suddenly turned to face me. “By the way, do you happen to remember a man named John Smith? He lived somewhere nearby, years ago. Not far from here, perhaps a mile or so away. Do you think maybe he’s still around?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, I heard some people say that he died recently. Of course, I couldn’t believe it. Because I knew him quite well. And I thought he must have gone on living somehow. Maybe in another place entirely. Perhaps even on Mars! Anyway, I wondered if you happened to know anything about it.”
***
The next time I visited Mr. Smith, he greeted me at the front door wearing a pair of dark glasses. “Hello, Simon!” he called cheerfully. “How are you feeling today?”
“Not too bad, thanks. How about yourself?”
“Oh, fine. Just great. Why don’t you come in and sit down for a bit? Have something to drink first, though. Tea or coffee?”
“Coffee will be lovely.”
As soon as I sat myself down, Mr. Smith produced a small glass jar containing two large pills. One pill had a red label; the other one was blue. “Would you mind taking these tablets with your tea?” he asked.
“No problem.”
After I swallowed the pills, Mr. Smith poured us both a cup of black coffee. “So, what brings you round here today?” he inquired.
“Just passing by, really. Thought I’d drop in and see how you were getting on.”
“Fine, thank you very much. The doctors say I’m going to make a full recovery. Apparently, all I need to do is stay off work for a while until I feel fully recovered. Then I’ll be able to get back to normal.”
“And what did they find during their examination?”
Mr. Smith took a sip of his coffee before replying. “Nothing unusual, I suppose. It seems there’s nothing physically wrong with me whatsoever. My heart works perfectly normally – not a trace of any kind of disease or abnormality. Everything looks absolutely perfect.”
He paused briefly as if searching for words. Eventually, he continued: “In fact, the only reason I needed an operation was because I kept thinking about dying. That’s when I realized I might have been worrying unnecessarily. So I went to the doctor straight away and explained the situation.
They examined me thoroughly and found no sign of anything untoward. But they insisted I take the precautionary measure anyway. To avoid any unnecessary complications in the future. Now I’m sure everything will turn out fine. No problems at all.”
“You sound pretty confident,” I remarked.
“Of course I am. I wouldn’t worry otherwise. Besides, I’ve got plenty of friends who keep telling me I shouldn’t give up hope yet. People like my neighbor Mrs. Jones. She says she knows someone whose husband has cancer, and he’s doing extremely well.
Even though nobody expected him to pull through. And I’ve also spoken to a friend of mine, a woman called Jane, who tells me her mother-in-law passed away peacefully after suffering from Alzheimer’s Disease for many years. Her family wasn’t expecting her to die either.
Yet she managed to hang on for several months afterward. All without ever showing signs of pain or discomfort. And then finally, there’s my own father. Who suffered from severe arthritis for over twenty years. Despite being unable to walk properly himself, he refused to let anyone help him. Instead, he spent every day sitting in his armchair reading books and newspapers.
Eventually, he lost consciousness. After which he never woke up again. So I reckon I’ve got more than enough reasons to remain optimistic.”
I didn’t reply immediately. I wanted to hear what else Mr. Smith would say. When he spoke again, however, he seemed to have forgotten about our earlier conversation. “Anyway, where were we talking about?” he asked. “Ah yes. This morning, I saw a news item on television about a man called John Smith. A local resident, apparently. Although I haven’t seen him around lately.”
“What makes you think he lives near here?” I replied. “Because it doesn’t look like he does.”
“That’s right. He used to live somewhere nearby, but now he’s moved elsewhere. Or so I understand. Not far away, perhaps. Somewhere in this area. In fact, I can almost guarantee it.”
“But why should you know that?”
“It just came to me. Out of nowhere. Don’t ask me how. I simply felt compelled to mention it.”
“Have you actually met him?”
“Yes, I have. Quite recently, in fact. At least, I believe I did. We chatted for quite some time. About various things. Like the weather, for instance. Which reminds me, it rained heavily last night. Didn’t it? Anyway, I remember asking him whether he knew anybody named Simon.
Because I thought maybe he could tell me something useful about him. You see, I was curious about the circumstances surrounding his death. What happened exactly? Whether he died naturally, or suddenly fell ill, or whatever. But unfortunately, he couldn’t shed any light on the subject.
The End