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Recollection Man “It is quite true what philosophy says: that life must be understood backwards. But then one forgets the other principle: that it must be lived forwards.” —SØREN KIRKEGAARD
The Recollection Man is not a man but a shadow—he has pressed the pause button on his life and sought refuge in edited memories of frozen moments. His age remains constant, the years overflow him. He hides from time itself. Now he relives old joys daily, locked in the converted attic of his once grand home, muttering past conversations to himself, repeating actions and gestures once significant. I have visited the Recollection Man for some time now, to bring him supplies and ensure that his bills get paid. He calls me an “administrator,” and I do not dispute the term. I go to him twice a week, more if I am able. I sit at my desk for hours before I leave, pressing the forefinger and thumb of my right hand gently against closed eyes, wishing I could remember how to cry. When the time comes I stand up methodically, removing my hand to reveal my face, and if you were there to see how blank it is you would be shocked. The bus stop is directly outside—I lean against the cold stone wall and gaze at my house while I wait. Ivy has scaled the crumbling red brick and crept into the eaves, the tiles bursting up to leave black cracks through which the water pours when it rains. I will never get this roof fixed. When I told the Recollection Man about this phenomenon he was silent, narrowing his eyes as the information seeped into the soft grey dough of his brain. “If only the Victorians had constructed their roofs entirely from lead,” he finally said. I nodded gravely, fully aware that he was mocking me. WASTE HERE are the words that greet me when I disembark the bus, a sign hanging above the bins to the rear of a builder’s yard. I try not to look at it as I begin the remainder of my journey on foot, up the long lane that leads to a row of dilapidated terraced houses, several of which are empty and grimly boarded up. I take off my gloves so that my hands grow icy and numb on the way. It is always cold on the walk to the Recollection Man’s house. My hands are invariably rigid and blue by the time I arrive. The Recollection Man’s tenant stands by the kitchen window, waiting for me. She tends to his needs—I do not ask about the details—and he allows her to occupy the lower floors of his home. Her skin is pure white, like matte paper, and her dark hair is cut to a harsh fringe, hanging over expressionless eyes like an oversized helmet. You want me to tell you she is like a porcelain doll and it breaks my heart, but I can’t. She is like a machine and it sickens me. The tenant lets me in and I grudgingly place my palms against her cheeks as we stand in the hallway, so that she might remember what cold feels like. We do this each visit, but she can never retain the sensation. She has not left the house of the Recollection Man in three years, and will most likely die there. I will be inconvenienced greatly when the tenant dies, as it will ultimately fall to me to bury her corpse in the backyard. She will not last long now—it is difficult to survive without a past. Climbing the pigeon staircase to the attic, I find the Recollection Man in his corner, as always, wrapped in sackcloth and deep in the throes of some bygone pleasure. I sit quietly until he is finished, watching the way he nods and grins contentedly as he recollects, his curly grey hair bouncing with the motions of his dry, bony head. When he comes up from his trance, for a gasp of the present, I give him any news he might require and jot down his requests for my next visit. Often he will ask me to bring him a certain object, or a particular food, to aid him in his memories. They are usually not hard things to come by: a bag of limes; a handful of gravel; a specific brand of freeze-dried coffee. We speak little, for he has little to say. I stay for only ten or twenty minutes, and as I make my way back down the hall to let myself out, I often stop at an ajar door and watch the tenant as she stares at a mute TV. She will cock her head slightly when she becomes aware of my presence, her helmet-hair flopping limping to one side. A sign that I am to leave. At home I light an open fire, to try and reinvigorate my frozen hands—it takes a little longer to bring them back each time. The soot from the unswept chimney spills onto the hearth and floor. I can taste its gritty bite in the back of my throat. The rain drips heavily through the cracked tiles, soaking the mould-spattered rafters and weakening the structure daily. The air hangs heavy and damp around me, so that I can almost see it. Stray dogs bark angrily at rats in the lane behind, cracked windows rattle ominously in rotten, mush-wood frames. The clock clicks noisily, reverberating in the base of my chilled skull. I pull my jacket around aching ribs and feel the dull weight of the present straining my brittle shoulders. Through a rip in the curtains I watch the light fade. Virescent trees dissolve into the blackening pink of the sky, the two hues merging into a slab of pointless ink. The earth is dragged reluctantly forward by the sharp rhythm of the clock. I do not enjoy any of this mundanity—the muddying of celestial paints—but at least I am aware of its happening.
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