Knud Sørensen, Michael Goldman" />
  • ABOUT
  • PRINT
  • PRAISE
  • SUBSCRIBE
  • OPENINGS
  • SUBMISSIONS
  • CONTACT
The Missing Slate - For the discerning reader
  • HOME
  • Magazine
  • In This Issue
  • Literature
    • Billy Luck
      Billy Luck
    • To the Depths
      To the Depths
    • Dearly Departed
      Dearly Departed
    • Fiction
    • Poetry
  • Arts AND Culture
    • Tramontane
      Tramontane
    • Blade Runner 2049
      Blade Runner 2049
    • Loving Vincent
      Loving Vincent
    • The Critics
      • FILM
      • BOOKS
      • TELEVISION
    • SPOTLIGHT
    • SPECIAL FEATURES
  • ESSAYS
    • A SHEvolution is Coming in Saudi Arabia
      A SHEvolution is Coming in Saudi Arabia
    • Paxi: A New Business Empowering Women in Pakistan
      Paxi: A New Business Empowering Women in Pakistan
    • Nature and Self
      Nature and Self
    • ARTICLES
    • COMMENTARY
    • Narrative Nonfiction
  • CONTESTS
    • Pushcart Prize 2017 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2017 Nominations
    • Pushcart Prize 2016 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2016 Nominations
    • Pushcart Prize 2015 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2015 Nominations
    • PUSHCART 2013
    • PUSHCART 2014
Fiction, LiteratureJune 7, 2016

The Congratulant

Artist Work

Artwork by Fraz Mateen. Image courtesy of ArtChowk Gallery.

Click here to read the original in Danish.

Marius Beck had been big, in both connotations of the word. And he still was, in one sense, even though the oldest pair of pants that he still used once in while had gotten kind of floppy around his once-even-more-substantial rear. But he could still fill out a car seat, and one of the big American ones at that. When he sat down, he sat. And that meant, among other things, that he couldn’t turn around. There were too many immobile kilograms involved.

This made it difficult to drive in reverse, because he never got used to using the rear-view mirror, let alone the side mirror, for that matter. When they moved into the new house in the extension of the housing development (the lots in the original development weren’t large enough), after a week he had gotten the mason to demolish the back wall of the garage and extend the driveway around the house, so he could leave home without going in reverse. It helped protect the house, the landscaping, and the flagpole. But then the house ended up sitting more or less in the middle of a traffic circle. He did have the driveway pavers laid somewhat artistically, so it didn’t end up looking so bad. And at the same time he was able to demonstrate that he was still an industrious and practical man.

Here it must also be said, that Marius Beck and his wife don’t live on the farm anymore. It was sold – and sold out of the family. It’s best not to mention it.

Their farm wasn’t just one of the largest, it was the second largest within several neighboring parishes. And since the owner of the largest one stretched his interests across the region, not to mention nationally, it was Marius Beck who had been the prominent one in their community, was on the council and everything. He had been chairmen – if you can say it that way. He had been chairman several times over.

It was the chairmanships that he missed these days. His leadership and delegating work on the farm had dwindled the last few years. It was like there wasn’t enough to sink your teeth into with just one farmhand and a livestock manager. He missed those council meetings and delegate meetings; things with meaning, having responsibility.

He missed the contact with other important men, missed trading handshakes with the region’s parliament representatives when they met in Karup or Kastrup, missed having the chance to contribute an intelligent and well-thought-out remark. He started to feel so alone that sometimes he started chatting with people he met by chance on the street – even people that he, in days past, wouldn’t have given the time of day: newcomers, the lower class, people like that.

He was going to be 80 soon. That would have to be planned quite carefully, if his reputation was going to be preserve and his respectability extended into a brand new decade.

 

The list of invitees was complete, Helga figured. She sat at the kitchen table with a notepad, and there had been a long pause, almost a silence, from the adjacent dining room, where Marius lay on the sofa, planning. She counted. There were 70 names – and many of them were now single. So there probably wouldn’t be more than 110. It wasn’t like it used to be, back when their generation didn’t take up so much room in the local cemeteries.

“I guess I’ll have to go out and buy some cards,” said Helga.

In a somewhat long-winded manner, Marius explained to this member of the female species, that if the old editor were still there, and he had gotten an invitation, then the newpaper would have known well in advance that there was an upcoming birthday they ought to do something with.

He cleared his throat in there. It made the sofa creak. It was pretty old and didn’t match the new dining room furniture at all, but Marius couldn’t be persuaded to get rid of it when they moved from the farm. Now it creaked some more. He must be getting up.

He appeared in the door frame. “It’s a shame we don’t know the editor,” he said. “If it was the old one, we could have sent an invitation.”

Helga remembered the old editor well. They had been with him a couple of times, back when Marius was still one of the newspaper representatives, unless it was the board he was on. It wasn’t always easy to remember if it was one thing or the other that got him out of the house. Sure, she remembered the editor.

“But I guess we can’t,” said Marius, almost to himself, but still directed enough towards Helga that it seemed natural for her to respond, “What can’t we?”

“Send an invitation to the editor,” he hissed.

“I’m pretty sure he’s dead,” she said.

Marius made a sound that wasn’t meant to be complementary. “The new one, of course.”

Helga couldn’t see why they would invite the new editor, when Marius didn’t even know him. She said so. They were in the kitchen, where she was usually the one in charge.

In a somewhat long-winded manner, Marius explained to this member of the female species, that if the old editor were still there, and he had gotten an invitation, then the newpaper would have known well in advance that there was an upcoming birthday they ought to do something with. You know, for their own sake, they have to follow the important events going on in the area, and sometimes they need a little help.

But the new one? No, they probably couldn’t. Marius sat down heavily at the table and began waiting for his coffee. Helga said, “You could always invite schoolteacher Krogsholt. You know he contributes to the paper.” Marius mumbled something about “that twirp of a teacher” – he and Helga had of course always been supporters of charter schools, and he was even on the board of one, back when there was one here, and that’s why they never held schoolteacher Krogsholt – the public school teacher – or the principal, in very high esteem. But the more he thought about it, the more he thought that it could still be a possibility. Krogsholt was a local, and they had been with him at countless events like golden anniversaries and the like, and he could sing with the others when the songs were handed out. And read telegrams, maybe.

Marius nodded. “Go ahead and send Krogsholt an invitation.” The rest of his statement kind of got lost in the chaw with which Marius occupied himself while the coffee maker was brewing. But it wasn’t necessary to hear every word to conclude that he seriously doubted Krogholt’s mental faculties in this regard.

 

A couple of sips into cup number two, Marius said, “You’d better write them today.” And after coffee, Helga made her way to the town center to buy appropriate invitations and stamps at the stationery store. Marius stayed in the car around the corner. It was a no parking zone, but if he kept the motor running, no one was going to come and say that he was breaking any laws. Some cars did get backed up, and there were also a few childish hotheads who honked their horns. Marius pretended he didn’t notice. It wasn’t his fault they didn’t know him. In a way he enjoyed the commotion, and welcomed Helga back without the least sarcasm. It made her wonder. From inside the store she could hear that the street traffic wasn’t moving along at its normal rhythm, but still she had taken her time, looking at a couple of storefront windows. Maybe she should get something for the birthday party.

Marius said, “How about a little pick-me-up, since we’re in town.” And he got the vehicle moving, drove forward a couple hundred feet, then turned left into the hotel parking lot, right in front of the city bus that, luckily, had its brakes in good working order.

“You don’t almost turn 80 everyday,” said Marius.

Continue Reading

1 2 3 4 View All →

Tags

DanishfictionKnud SørensenMichael GoldmanStory of the Weektranslations

Share on

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Pinterest
  • Google +
  • LinkedIn
  • Email
Previous articleSkeletons with Music
Next articleGratulanten

You may also like

Billy Luck

To the Depths

Dearly Departed

Ad

In the Magazine

A Word from the Editor

Don’t cry like a girl. Be a (wo)man.

Why holding up the women in our lives can help build a nation, in place of tearing it down.

Literature

This House is an African House

"This house is an African house./ This your body is an African woman’s body..." By Kadija Sesay.

Literature

Shoots

"Sapling legs bend smoothly, power foot in place,/ her back, parallel to solid ground,/ makes her torso a table of support..." By Kadija Sesay.

Literature

A Dry Season Doctor in West Africa

"She presses her toes together. I will never marry, she says. Jamais dans cette vie! Where can I find a man like you?" By...

In the Issue

Property of a Sorceress

"She died under mango trees, under kola nut/ and avocado trees, her nose pressed to their roots,/ her hands buried in dead leaves, her...

Literature

What Took Us to War

"What took us to war has again begun,/ and what took us to war/ has opened its wide mouth/ again to confuse us." By...

Literature

Sometimes, I Close My Eyes

"sometimes, this is the way of the world,/ the simple, ordinary world, where things are/ sometimes too ordinary to matter. Sometimes,/ I close my...

Literature

Quarter to War

"The footfalls fading from the streets/ The trees departing from the avenues/ The sweat evaporating from the skin..." By Jumoke Verissimo.

Literature

Transgendered

"Lagos is a chronicle of liquid geographies/ Swimming on every tongue..." By Jumoke Verissimo.

Fiction

Sketches of my Mother

"The mother of my memories was elegant. She would not step out of the house without her trademark red lipstick and perfect hair. She...

Fiction

The Way of Meat

"Every day—any day—any one of us could be picked out for any reason, and we would be... We’d part like hair, pushing into the...

Fiction

Between Two Worlds

"Ursula spotted the three black students immediately. Everyone did. They could not be missed because they kept to themselves and apart from the rest...."...

Essays

Talking Gender

"In fact it is often through the uninformed use of such words that language becomes a tool in perpetuating sexism and violence against women...

Essays

Unmasking Female Circumcision

"Though the origins of the practice are unknown, many medical historians believe that FGM dates back to at least 2,000 years." Gimel Samera looks...

Essays

Not Just A Phase

"...in the workplace, a person can practically be forced out of their job by discrimination, taking numerous days off for fear of their physical...

Essays

The Birth of Bigotry

"The psychology of prejudice demands that we are each our own moral police". Maria Amir on the roots of bigotry and intolerance.

Fiction

The Score

"The person on the floor was unmistakeably dead. It looked like a woman; she couldn’t be sure yet..." By Hawa Jande Golakai.

More Stories

Sunday

“There’ve always been Sunday mornings like this,/ when God became young again/ and looking back you see/ that childhood was a Sunday morning.” By Kendel Hippolyte, celebrating Kamau Brathwaite’s 85th birthday.

Back to top
One last love letter...

April 24, 2021

It has taken us some time and patience to come to this decision. TMS would not have seen the success that it did without our readers and the tireless team that ran the magazine for the better part of eight years.

But… all good things must come to an end, especially when we look at the ever-expanding art and literary landscape in Pakistan, the country of the magazine’s birth.

We are amazed and proud of what the next generation of creators are working with, the themes they are featuring, and their inclusivity in the diversity of voices they are publishing. When TMS began, this was the world we envisioned…

Though the magazine has closed and our submissions shuttered, this website will remain open for the foreseeable future as an archive of the great work we published and the astounding collection of diverse voices we were privileged to feature.

If, however, someone is interested in picking up the baton, please email Maryam Piracha, the editor, at maryamp@themissingslate.com.

Farewell, fam! It’s been quite a ride.

Read previous post:
Tracing Ink in China

"My curiosity was piqued: Who are the people getting tattoos? Who is doing the tattooing? And, are there any female...

Close