He awoke early that day, with a feeling of excitement and anticipation. It took him a minute or so to achieve full consciousness, and as he floated through the twilight sleep that precedes wakefulness he savoured the feelings that had eluded him for more than twenty years. There was something energizing about them, like a shot of whiskey that could put a spring in a man’s step and lend him false courage when his was failing.
He awoke early as he had for the past twenty-five years, without the aid of an alarm clock or a wife, although his alarm was carefully set as a backup every night. Each night he would check it for the correct time, and each morning after his bath, before tying his tie. It didn’t matter whether it was a workday or Sunday, or even his yearly two week holiday. Ernest couldn’t wake up at any other time, even if he had wanted to. His punctiliousness set the tone for his day, reassured him that there was order and predictability in his life. Knowing what would happen at each hour of the day gave him an illusion of security and control.
He was on his annual holiday now. He had gone to the same village on Lake Balaton for the mud baths and the waters ever since he could remember. At first he came to drink the famous mineral laden water that was prescribed for gastrointestinal ailments that were beyond the doctors’ powers to cure, but as the years went on and he started to develop rheumatism, the doctors added the mud baths and the famous hot springs.
Ernest suffered from a series of vague complaints from the time he was a young man that forced him to live a carefully regimented life. At least that was the way he explained it to himself and to those regulars at the spa who liked to compare ailments with him, feeling secretly superior when their complaints exceeded his. He had pains in his stomach that kept him up part of the night, and often he awoke exhausted with a sour taste in his mouth. Early every morning he walked down to the spa that was built next to the lake where the thermal springs and warm mud were believed to be most effective. He would take his tall glass of mineral water and walk along the shore for half an hour, sipping and grimacing.
During the rest of the year his symptoms came and went, and it seemed to him that whenever the routine he had laid out for himself was disturbed, they increased. He hated to be hurried in any way, or diverted from his path. The rare emergency at work was enough to give him a pounding headache, while being detained in traffic with no way to escape could bring on an attack of nausea. Whenever these things happened, he would pay especially close attention to his routine for the next couple of days. Maintaining a balance, a give and take was essential to the functioning of his world.
When he awoke that morning and glanced at the clock it said 5:15 a.m. The rooster in the next yard began to crow and Ernest closed his eyes and smiled. He knew he wouldn’t fall asleep again, he never did. He just wanted to listen to the old rooster wake up the world without distraction. Because it was always after his self assured crowing that the sun rose and life in the village began. (Did he perhaps feel it his solemn responsibility to wake the world and make sure it continued every morning?) Ernest willed himself to relax and listen without counting the number of crows.
A dog barked somewhere and a gate creaked nearby. It was time for the milking, and soon the cows would be driven to pasture by the village boys. He felt for his glasses in the half light, then went to the window. The floor under his bare feet was cool and he realized with a start that he hadn’t put his slippers on. Outside the sunrise had coloured the world in pink and shadow. He could smell manure and mud which reminded him of his last mud bath. He hadn’t enjoyed it. It made him feel dirty and it made him feel trapped as if the mud were trying to pull him down. It was hard to move his arms and legs with the mud sucking him in like that. His heart had beaten fast and he broke out in perspiration. He was embarrassed to ask the attendant to let him out, so he endured it in silence. But the hot springs were different. They made him feel languid and sensual. He could almost feel the healing taking place in his joints, the tension being released from his muscles. Lying there in the warm water with the bubbles tickling his skin as they rose to the surface he had lost track of time and place. He had roused himself reluctantly when the attendant brought his towel.
But now it was time to get up. He didn’t want to be rushed, yet he couldn’t be late. He had planned his morning carefully, down to the last detail. He wanted to be there in plenty of time for the 7:45 train. It was the train that took him back to the city every year at the end of his holiday. And today was the end.
This was to be a special day, the most special in his life. Everything must go just as he had planned, and he knew with unquestioned certainty that it would, as long as he stuck to his plans, as long as he followed the rules. He turned from the window and strapped on his watch. He held it to his ear and registered its even ticking, then glanced at the time. He knew that it took exactly sixteen minutes to walk through the village to the train station — he had walked it every day over the last two weeks. If he gave himself an extra ten minutes just in case, he would arrive in plenty of time.
Ernest poured tepid water from the clay pitcher into the wash basin. He noticed for the first time the flowery folk motif that decorated the pitcher. He washed his face and hands and under his arms, then slicked his hair back with a wet comb. Out of habit he checked his nails and decided they did not need attention. He had chosen and laid out his clothes the night before so everything would be ready. He felt a surge of pleasurable excitement as he regarded his white linen suit. He had bought it years ago for a special occasion and couldn’t remember wearing it since. Indeed, he couldn’t remember any occasion he would call really special since that summer. It still fit him, and if it was out of style, he wasn’t aware of it. He didn’t wear it to the office because it would have been too daring, too out of character. It was important that he blend in with the others in their sober gray suits, that he not disturb the order of the universe. It was important that he maintain the status quo for the sake of his job and the pension he would collect in his old age. So he remained dependable Ernest who was polite to everyone but spoke to no one unnecessarily. Ernest who left the office precisely at 5:15 with his umbrella under his left arm and his briefcase in his right, whose desk was cleared every night and his chair set at precisely the same angle when he left. No one knew where he lived; no one was ever curious enough to find out. They saw him walk out the door and down the street, then forgot about him. They didn’t see him counting the steps to his apartment building, didn’t see him pause in confusion and distress if the number came out wrong, nor see him backtrack until he could make it come out right.
He felt invigorated after his wash. After finishing his toilet he lined up his toothbrush, toothpaste and razor in a row and folded the towel neatly next to them. Then he dressed, putting his clothes on in the precise order that had become a lifetime habit. His shoes were last, and he gave them a perfunctory wipe with the soft cloth he carried in his suitcase.
Ernest regarded himself in his white suit. For a moment he saw a man twelve years younger, wearing the suit for the first time. There was hope in his eyes, and a light he hadn’t seen since. In a moment of self indulgence he allowed himself to think about that summer. Was there anything to regret? He refused to believe that. Could his life have turned out differently? He felt an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his stomach as he considered that question. He was what he was. His personality, his habits, the routines that circumscribed his life had already been established. It would have been no good trying to change them. Not even for Julia. It wouldn’t have been fair.
He had bought the white suit after meeting her. They spent the two weeks of his holiday talking and walking and drinking the sulphurous water. She had laughed at his precise, quirky habits, at his anxieties over punctuality and his irrational fears. She dismissed them as unimportant, as things that got in the way of enjoying life. Julia wanted to travel, to experience new things. She liked life to be unpredictable. She fascinated him and frightened him. She represented the unattainable. Somewhere deep in his unconscious she represented a part of him that was alien and disturbing. He was drawn to her, knowing he could never have her.
Until she let him know that he could. She promised him things he never dreamed of, possibilities that terrified him. It was up to him, she said, as she took the glass of foul smelling water out of his hand and poured it on the ground. He looked at her, shocked. “But I need that water to get better,” he said. She laughed and shook her head. Then she kissed him and smiled. “No you don’t,” she said.
He went back for another glass of the mineral water, but when he returned, she was gone. The bitter water washed the taste of her kiss from his mouth. He convinced himself that it would never work, that he couldn’t live up to her expectations. And the next day he went back to the safety of his life.
Ernest checked his watch and saw that he was in good time. He looked around his room, picked up a book and packed it in his suitcase, straightened things (he had already packed his clothes the night before), and opened the blinds. He picked up his suitcase and closed the door carefully behind him. No one was in the yard and he left unobserved.
The dust of the road covered his shoes as he walked, but for once he didn’t care. A lightness seized him and carried him forward, past the farmyards and garden gates, across the narrow creek with its bunches of nettles growing along the bank. Today he didn’t bother avoiding them. He passed the old stone church lopsided with age before he became aware of the weight of his suitcase pulling on his arm. He set it down and regarded it dumbly. And he began to laugh. Then he went to the hedge at the side of the road and hid the case behind it. He felt much lighter now, and as the sun gathered strength, he began to sweat. After a moment’s hesitation he removed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. Beyond the village he saw the field of sunflowers, their flat, open faces seeking the sun. Poppies grew at the edge of the field, he noted with surprise. Why had he never seen them before?
Ernest turned left at the crossroads. He walked through the tunnel and saw the railroad station on the other side. He felt his heartbeat quicken. He checked his watch with a feeling of relief. He was in plenty of time.
There were two or three people waiting for the train, looking sleepy and uninterested. One man was reading the morning paper, his leather briefcase propped against his leg. He was going into the city, to his office, the way he no doubt had on countless mornings. Even his gray suit looked familiar. Ernest felt a kinship with him. He watched him for a couple of minutes as he turned and creased the pages of the newspaper and scanned the articles in precise order. First the front page, then the sports, and finally the financial section. Ernest felt that he could predict his every move. There was nothing about him he didn’t know, so he lost interest.
There were only a few minutes left and Ernest felt a sudden stab of anxiety. What if the train didn’t come? What if he couldn’t make his feet move in time to meet it at precisely the right moment? What if all his preparation was for nothing? His heart beat so fast that he felt dizzy and weak. And then, from far off he heard the whistle and saw a puff of smoke in the distance. An icy calm descended on him as the train drew nearer. He walked with measured steps to the edge of the platform and waited for it to round the bend. The roar of the train filled his ears and the smoke clogged his nostrils. His eyes saw only the black engine hurtling toward him, the platform attendant’s warning lost in the noise. He let his white jacket fall onto the tracks, and slowly, gracefully, with impeccable timing stepped out into air after it.
ANAIS NIN - her journals and writings
CARL JUNG - his writings and unique view of the human psyche
CLARISSA PINKOLA ESTES - her ability to combine storytelling and Jungian psychology
