By Elvis Bego.
They knew, considering the price and the location, that the place would be desired, but not that the line of people would stretch out the building and round the corner, even thirty minutes before the appointed hour, so they hurry to the end of the line which keeps getting longer behind them, comically so, as one made sure to acknowledge to the others with little glints of eye, or a curt puff of air from nostril, the wait interminable, interminable, before the first little budge, oh the giggle when it happens, and the exchange of genial looks, as if to say there we are old boy, the politeness of it, as though they all might have this thing if they’ll just be patient enough, but they all want the same one thing, and think the same thing, that in fact they are rivals for it, but no one would betray such ungenerosity, no, of course these other fuckers want it, why wouldn’t they, considering the insane location and the insane price, of course they do, their place in line hardly improving, nothing but tiny little lurches, such is their luck, of course, for everyone to want what they want, and of course it was never going to be easy, but that it would be this hard hadn’t occurred to them even as the listing had said that buyers would be chosen by the board on the basis of a written application, but the listing didn’t say what kind of people were wanted, can we be what they want, they begin to think, but be that as it may, they’re determined to take their chances, make their case, she pregnant with child, he increasingly pregnant with furious desire for this place before he’d even set foot it in it, but these hordes are here to shit on his desire, and taking so long with their visit that the line moves so slow, so goddamned slow, and it dawns on him that every third person is pregnant, it seems, every other woman is fat with child, with that holy aura of imminent delivery, is anyone fucking for pleasure in this city anymore, is anyone not procreating, not carrying a little bastard in a pram or in one of those ridiculous straps, daddy harnessed like a mule, mummy stupefied with biological success, the child an expensive accessory like some branded silk scarf, all dangerously closing in on middle-age, just like themselves, trying to get a foot in the door, so to speak, a foot is all you ever need, then you can push your way inside, but how can you do it when there are three hundred pairs of feet in the door, why are they all exactly like us, except not quite as good, not quite as deserving, or discerning, each probably thinks, and the line going up the stairs very tight, every single body pressed against the one ahead and the one behind, a well-behaved squirming horde, all the way to the second floor, and now from time to time, finally, some of these idiots begin to come down the stairs as others file into the apartment somewhere up there, five rooms, can you imagine, I can finally have a study of my own, and you yours, he whispers, and the kid hers, of course, God I could die here, if only these fuckers would just fucking fuck off, and so, impatiently, they make it to the first landing, and the first floor, and then after a slow eternity, finally, they are at the door and get their feet inside the place, a huge thing dated 1909, squeaky plank floors, bedrooms at the back, and three continuous rooms looking onto the street with its lovely old elms, a long bay window in the middle one, beautiful just beautiful, even with all the work to be done, the ancient, browned wallpaper, the hideous bathroom tiles, even so they love it, want it, they could live here, just as the crowd wants it, some of them wielding measuring tape, already arranging the furniture, how he loathes them, and when the two of them have circled back to one of the three rooms that look onto street they post themselves at the huge dark stain on the floor and make sure to whisper to each other every time a new group of rivals comes into the room, saying, just loud enough, This is probably where he died, poor old man—He must’ve lain here a long time—This has to be where he died, poor old man—This was probably where he died, poor old man—He died here, I’m pretty sure—This is it, isn’t it?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Elvis Bego is a Bosnian writer who now lives in Copenhagen. His work has appeared in Agni, Granta, Kenyon Review, Threepenny Review, Tin House, and elsewhere.
