The Davenport

                                           
                                                        The Davenport 


             
            It was the third day. Three days since that wretched moment when she had walked out the door. He was sitting with his head bent, shoulders slumped, in the middle of the large, overstuffed davenport. Even though the day outside was warm and sunny, and the window was unshuttered, a huge fire blazed in the grate in front of him. His unusually short bathrobe-- on its very first sojourn in the washing machine, it was already stricken-- was splayed rather ungracefully across his knees. On the table in front of him were scattered twelve crumpled cans of cheap beer, while in one corner, the big, old stone ashtray was overflowing with cigerette butts. A stale, smoky atmosphere, augmented by the raging hearth and the tightly shut window, pervaded the room.
              At the moment, in addition to his predominant grief over his abandonment, he was feeling extremely irritated with his uncomfortable position on the sofa. The cushions were exceedingly soft; and his body was half-submerged in the feathery depths. How he had always hated it!.
  “Blasted sofa!”, he cried, slapping his knee. With an ugly frown, he recalled all those times when he had, quite vocally (this brought a devilish smile to his face), expressed this loathing to his wife. But none of his complaints no matter how robust (here the smile suddenly disappeared), had stirred a single hair on her stubborn head!
  “Oh, but you don't understand Peter. It's aesthetically perfect and that is what really matters”, he muttered bitterly, looking quite comical in this pathetic impersonation of his wife.
              The foul mood did not last long. It was knocked aside and urgently replaced by the horrifying vision of the long, empty days ahead, stretching without purpose into eternity. He saw himself— and for some curious reason, he was clad in the same uncouth bathrobe—as the sole animator of the perpetual, unbearably lingering evenings wasted by the fireside. For the moment—and we must forgive him this, considering the depth of his despair-- this vision included none of the ten thousand men and women whom he had befriended over the years and without whose company, he had always felt his life to be impossible. For the future now, was only a desert, and that too a desert full of prickly, thorny cacti, where only he, with his thin, hairy legs dangling beneath his robe, would scale the wide, barren expanses of infinity.
            As he sat thus, thoroughly absorbed in this dystopian imagery, the doorbell rang suddenly, sending jarring echoes through the quiet house. He almost jumped out of his skin. The bell rang persistently; the visitor had obviously thrown all propriety to the winds. Peter was well aware of the identity of this rude perpetrator. Since the door connecting the sitting room to the hall was wide open, without vacating his post, he screamed at the top of his lungs:
  'For God's sake Henry!. What is it?. What do you want?!'.
  'Peter!. You're awake!. Finally, I get a response. Listen, I just came to check up on you. How are you?. Can I come in?', screamed the unexpectedly shrill voice from beyond.
  'No , you certainly cannot come in. I am perfectly fine so leave me alone', he responded petulantly.
  'Fine!. If that's how you feel, fine!', Henry, who was unusually sensitive, was very close to stamping his foot like a child, 'Martha warned me not to come here. She said this would'nt work. She was right. I must be incredibly stupid. You know, this is not the first time I've knocked on your door today. I've been coming here regularly over the past three days. You're incorrigible!'.
  With this angry retort, he turned around and proceeded down the garden path. On the way out, he trampled on a flower bed and overturned the rubbish bin, upsetting in the process, a feline which was innocently rummaging through Peter's styrofoam waste.
  'Fine then. Don't bother coming again', Peter screamed, but he knew it was no use; the footsteps had long receded into the unknown.
              He resumed his lonely, fireside vigil which-- he had an intuition-- would soon come to an end. He was sick of mourning. Already, the stubble on his face had grown into a healthy beard; and the recent neglect of personal hygiene made him particularly uncomfortable. Besides, he had consummed every drop of beer there was in the house. By now, his ennui had become so unbearable, that he was reduced to counting the hair on his knees. There he sat, looking utterly ridiculous, counting meticulously, each and every strand-- the very picture of a demented lunatic.
            At this point, my dear readers, you would be perfectly justified in asking why, our protaganist, despite the agonies of boredom, persists in his behaviour. As a matter of fact, from what you have read up till now, even the question of why he chooses to languish on a piece of furniture he absolutely detests, is entirely applicable. Fortunately for us, the answer can be easily ascertained. For you see, Peter has an ego. Under the present circumstances, this ego has become unusually hefty. Being the kind of person he is—superficial and self absorbed to the extreme—it is the insult meted out to his ego, that hurts him more than the actual desertion. Since he rarely questions himself, the thought that his behaviour might have, in some way, contributed to the eventual catastrophe, would never flash through his brain. As far as he is concerned, he would always remain a victim-- a poor, innocent victim, severely abused at the hands of the mighty Succubus.....

            Please allow me the liberty of skipping over the next few days. For Peter, still clad in his abominable bathrobe, has done nothing but drag himself, without any specific purpose, from one end of the house to the other. Eventually—thank God!—one Wednesday afternoon, he woke up, muttering to himself as usual, but this time, with a faint echo of a firm resolution, made earlier in the night, tossing about in his head. He jumped off the bed, and stretching his arms wide, thought:
  'From this day onwards, I shall begin my life anew'.
Feeling a bit like a wandering little chick freshly emerged from its egg, he rapidly scanned in his mind, the new and improved list of priorities. As far as work was concerned, he had obtained an extended leave of absence. His boss, on hearing of his wife's untimely death had been awfully generous...
            An exquisite vista of slow, leisurely days unhampered by horrible deadlines and even more horrible matrimonial errands, unwound itself majestically before his mind's eye. The way he saw it, he had emerged victorious from his tribulation in Hades a few days ago, and was now being welcomed into the wide, warm embrace of the benevolent, bearded fathers of Heaven...
            He was a free man now. His time was his own. He was not obliged to wash the dishes or take the car out for its weekly wash. He could roam around all day in his robe. His wife had always insisted that he turn off the lamp as soon as they got into bed. Now, he could read late into the night. He was not answerable to anyone. His earlier nightmarish vision of a sad, lonely life shuddered itself to pieces....
              A pitiful growl from somewhere deep within his bowels cut the reverie short. He thought of the hearty, scrumptious lunch which was probably being served at that hour in the warm, little cafe down the street. Flinging his ear-muffs aside, he hurriedly shuffled to the bathroom. About an hour later, he emerged, fresh and glistening, clapping his hands gleefully and looking exactly like a sea lion. Wrapping himself in a towel, he walked over to the staid, mahogany bureau and slid open the top drawer. He shrieked. The container was empty.
  'Where in God's hell are all my socks', he sreamed in an agony of frustration.
    For a moment he stood still, completely at a loss as to what to do. For the last ten years of their married life, his wife had arranged the socks in neat little rows in that top drawer for his convenience. And in all those years, he had never wondered, not even once, where those socks came from, or where they went after he had recklessly discarded them, everyday, on the floor, by the side of the bed. Well, what now?. In his blissful meditations of an hour ago, he had never even thought of taking such domestic exigencies into consideration..
            He sat at the edge of the bed, completely non-plussed. And then, slowly, amazingly, a tear escaped his eye, which was followed by another, and then yet another, until a steady stream was rushing down his face. Eventually, throwing all caution to the winds—for God's sake, there was no one else in the house!--he threw himself on the floor, and clutching his hair in his hands, began to bawl uncontrollably....