An Eastern Wind Blows

An Eastern Wind Blows

They waited quietly in the living room for death to roll in. There would be nothing much to see. No galloping horsemen or fiery serpents, no parting clouds or heavenly choirs, nothing biblical at all, not even trumpets. Born by the wind it would arrive like a last fell season, silent and inevitable. Still, they wanted to mark the occasion.

    Neville’s calculations showed death would arrive around 6.30pm, and they had spent the day in preparation. Margrethe had decorated the living room with a mixture of Christmas tack and New Year streamers - nothing too fancy, but enough to indicate an effort. Without electrical power, an old hand-cranked gramophone provided their only entertainment. They had only one worn record that played over and over again: La Marseillaise.

Neville looked at his watch. “It’s just about time, Margrethe.”
“Oh dear, how it flies.” She rose and hurried to the kitchen. Moments later she returned with a chilled bottle of Bollinger, a never opened anniversary gift to mark their fifty years of marriage.
“I thought this would be appropriate. “ She handed him the bottle.
“Splendid idea, Margrethe.”
“Should we move to the balcony?”
“Yes, why don’t we.”

    From their sixth floor apartment they could almost see the ocean far to the east. Below them, the estate sprawled dull and lifeless, but above the setting sun turned the autumn sky beautifully crimson. A few gulls soared lazily on the thermal updrafts between the concrete high-risers. Besides the gulls they had seen no life for days. People had long since left the eastern shores, hoping in vain to cheat death for another week or two.

“Here we go, my dear.” Neville popped the champagne and poured two flutes to the rim.
“What a wonderful evening.”
“A pity the children couldn’t be here,” said Neville.
“Well, they have their own families now, best they spend it with them.”
“Indeed.”

    They sipped the champagne in silence as La Marseillaise flowed from the living room and death passed unnoticeable from east. Not a sudden warlike death, but a slow lingering decline that began that day shortly after 6:30pm. How long it would take was anyone’s guess, but in most cases less than a week. Death had already cleared the Pacific and most of Eastern Asia, now it was North Americas turn.

“Should we go back inside? She rubbed her bare arms. “I’m getting a chill.”
“I can get your cardigan.”
“No thanks, I’d rather go inside.”

    They returned to the living room and Margrethe lit a few candles to ward off the evening dim. Sitting next to each other on the couch, they finished the Bollinger while dusk turned to darkness. La Marseillaise stuck in a scratch: gloire est arrivé. gloire est arrivé. gloire est arrive. Neville got up, reset the needle and gave the gramophone a few cranks. He returned to the couch and pulled out the revolver.

“It is time Margrethe.”
“Oh dear, how it flies.”