Jagannath

Who is Arvid Pekon?

Despite the well-known fact that it’s the worst time possible, everyone who needs to speak to a governmental agency calls on Monday morning. This Monday was no exception. The tiny office was buzzing with activity, the three operators on the day shift bent over their consoles in front of the ancient switchboard.

On Arvid Pekon’s console, subject 1297’s light was blinking. He adjusted his headset, plugged the end of the cord into the jack by the lamp and said in a mild voice:

“Operator.”

“Eva Idegård, please,” said subject 1297 at the other end.

“One moment.” Arvid flicked the mute switch and fed the name into the little computer terminal under the wall of lamps and jacks. Subject 1297 was named Samuelsson, Per. Idegård, Eva was Samuelsson’s caseworker at the unemployment insurance office. He read the basic information (1297 unemployed for seven months), listened to the voice sample, and flicked the mute switch again.

“Gothenburg unemployment insurance office, Eva Idegård,” Arvid said in a slightly hoarse alto voice.

“Hi, this is Per Samuelsson,” said Per. “I wanted to check what’s happening with my fee.” He rattled off his personal registration number.

“Of course,” said Arvid in Eva Idegård’s voice.

He glanced at the information in the registry: last conversation at 1.43 PM, February 26: Subject’s unemployment benefits were lowered and insurance fee raised because of reported illness but no doctor’s certificate. (Subject did send a doctor’s certificate—processed according to randomized destruction routine §2.4.a.)

“You’ll have to pay the maximum insurance fee since we haven’t received a doctor’s certificate,” said Arvid.

“I sent two of them in the original,” said Per. “This isn’t right.”

“I suppose one could think that,” said Arvid, “ but the fact remains that we haven’t received them.”

“What the hell do you people do all day?” Per’s voice was noticeably raised.

“You have a responsibility to keep informed and send the right information to the unemployment benefit fund, Per,” Arvid said, in a soft voice.

“Bitch. Hag,” said Per and hung up.

Arvid removed his headset, massaged the sore spot it left above his right ear. He wrote in the log: 2.07 PM, March 15: Have explained the raised fee.

“Coffee break?” said Cornelia from the terminal to his right.

The light by subject 3426 was blinking when Arvid sat down again.

“Operator,” said Arvid, calling the details up on his screen. There was no information except for a surname: Sycorax, miss. He hadn’t seen this subject before.

“Hello?” said a voice. It was thin and flat.

“Yes, hello.”

“I would like to be put through to my dead mother,” said Miss Sycorax.

“Just a moment.” Arvid muted the call. “Dead mother? How am I supposed to imitate her dead mother?” he said to his terminal. He peeked for the guidelines that should be popping up next to Miss Sycorax’s name. There was nothing. Then he saw his hand rise up and flick the mute switch, and a sonorous voice burst out of his mouth. “Hello?”

“Mother, is that you?” said Miss Sycorax.

“Darling! Hello there. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Finding a good connection to Hell isn’t easy, Mother.”

Arvid fought to press his lips together. Instead they parted, and his mouth said: “It’s lonely down here.”

“Not much I can do about that, Mother,” Miss Sycorax replied.

“Can’t you come visit, just for once?” said Arvid, his voice dolorous. He desperately wanted to rip his headset off, but his hands lay like limp flippers in his lap.

“Well, if you’re only going to be whiny about it I think we can end this conversation,” Miss Sycorax said, tartly.

Arvid called her just that—tart— in her dead mother’s voice. His ear clicked. Miss Sycorax had hung up. Arvid’s hands were his own again. He took his headset off with shaky hands and looked around. At the next terminal, Cornelia was talking to subject 2536 (Persson, Mr, talking to an old friend from school in Vilhelmina), twirling a lock of dark hair around her pencil as she spoke to the subject in an old man’s voice. When she ended her call, Arvid stood up from his chair.

“I’ll be leaving early,” he said.

“Oh. Are you all right?” Cornelia asked, reverting to her melodic Finno-Swedish.

Arvid looked for any sign that she had overheard him talking in a dead person’s voice, but thought he saw nothing but concern in her liquid brown eyes.

“Migraine, I think.” Arvid took his coat from the back of the chair. “Migraine, I have a migraine.”

“Go home and rest,” said Cornelia. “It happened to me a lot when I was new. It’ll get better, I promise.” She turned back to her terminal to take a new call.

Arvid punched out and left the office. Outside, yellow afternoon light slanted through the street. As Arvid unlocked his bicycle, a woman in a phone booth next to the bicycle stand was arguing with someone. Arvid caught the words “unemployment” and “fee.” He wondered briefly if that was Cornelia’s call; she was unyielding in her caseworker personas.

Arvid did feel better the next day. By nine-o’-clock coffee, he felt more or less normal. As he entered the break room, he saw that Konrad, the senior operator, was carefully laying out pale cakes on a plate. Cornelia was stirring an enormous mug of coffee.

“Kubbar!” said Konrad. “I made them last night.”

Arvid picked a cake from the plate and bit into it. It was dry and tasted of ammonia and bitter almonds. Cornelia was sniffing at hers.

“How are they?” Konrad asked. He was watching Arvid eagerly. “I haven’t made these for years. I was wondering if I got the proportions right.”

“It’s different,” Arvid managed. He washed the cake down with some coffee.

“It tastes like cyanide shortbread,” stated Cornelia. “Very Agatha Christie.”

“Heh,” said Konrad. He took a cake for himself and tasted it. “Your generation isn’t used to ammonia cakes, I suppose.”

Arvid had another one. The ammonia taste was strangely addictive.

“I have a question for you,” Arvid said after a moment. “You’ve been here the longest. How are the subjects picked, really?”

Konrad shrugged and bit into his third kubbe. “No idea,” he said. “I signed an NQ-NDA, just like you.”

Arvid looked at Cornelia, who was chewing. She jerked a thumb at Konrad and nodded.

“So nobody knows?” said Arvid.

“The manager does, I expect,” Konrad replied.

“But don’t you ever wonder?”

“No Questions, No Disclosure, son. I’m not about to bite the hand that feeds me. Besides, all you need to know is in the work description. We take calls to governmental agencies…”

“…and calls to persons the subjects don’t know very well,” Arvid filled in. “But—”

“And follow instructions. That’s all there is to it. That’s all you need to know. The manager relies on our discretion, Arvid. NQ-NDA.”

Arvid sighed. “All right. What did you do before you got this job, anyway?”

“Stage actor,” said Konrad. He picked a fourth kubbe from the plate. “Mhm?” he said, pointing at Arvid with the cake.

“Ventriloquist.” Arvid nodded at Cornelia. “You?”

“Book audiotapes,” said Cornelia.

Konrad swallowed. “See there, three crap jobs you can’t make a living off of. Isn’t it nice to be able to pay rent and eat good food?”

“I guess,” said Arvid.

“You’re new here. When you get over that starving artist thing, when you’re my age, you’ll agree that it’s nice to be able to eat roast beef.” Konrad pushed the plate toward Arvid. “Here, have another kubbe.”

It was one week later, just after lunch, that Miss Sycorax’s lamp started blinking again. Arvid hesitantly took the call.

“Hello,” said the flat voice of Miss Sycorax.

“Where would you like to be connected?” said Arvid.

“I want to be connected to the Beetle King.”

“I see,” said Arvid and muted Miss Sycorax. He cast a frantic glance at Cornelia, who was deeply involved in yet another call with subject 9970, Anderberg. Mrs. Cornelia frowned and waved him off. He returned to Miss Sycorax.

“Miss, I’m afraid I really can’t connect you to anyone by the name of hello, my little pupa.” A rustling voice forced its way out of his mouth mid-sentence.

“There you are,” Miss Sycorax said. “I have a request.”

“Anything for my little sugar lump,” hummed Arvid.

“Aww, shucks,” said Miss Sycorax.

“Your wish?”

“There are bugs crawling all over me.”

“I know! Isn’t it wonderful?” crowed Arvid.

“Hm. Yes, perhaps. In any case,” she went on, “I’d like them to take some time off. I’m developing a rash.”

“A rash, yes? An eczema.”

“Yes. It’s flaking a bit.”

“And that isn’t very pleasant.”

“No. It itches.”

“Well,” said Arvid, “where should I send them off to, then?”

“Anywhere you like,” said Miss Sycorax. “For example, I don’t like the old woman in the corner store. Or the man who sells sticky window-pane-climbing dolls in Old Town.”

“Ahah.”

“I don’t like the switchboard operator either.”

“Let’s say then,” said Arvid, “that we dismiss the little critters until you feel better.”

“Good.”

“And you let me know when you start feeling lonely again.”

“Okay.”

“Goodbye, honeycomb.”

“Goodbye, your Majesty.”

When the Beetle King’s voice had left him, Arvid sagged back in his chair.

“I might have gone mad,” he told the terminal. He put his coat on and left the office.

When he came into the office the next day, Arvid found a stag beetle sitting on his terminal. It hissed angrily when he shooed it off, and crawled in under the desk where it refused to move. Shortly after morning coffee, a cockroach settled on his rules-and-regulations binder. Arvid left it alone.

Cornelia was more drastic about it. She had sat down in her chair to find the stuffing colonized by flour beetles. She was currently in the backyard, setting fire to the seat. The whole office smelled like insulin. Konrad sat at his terminal at the other end of the office, observing with great interest a dung beetle struggling with some cookie crumbs. No one was taking the incoming calls.

“Shouldn’t we call pest control?” said Arvid.

“Can’t get through,” said Konrad, eyes on the beetle. “I heard something on the radio about a bug invasion in Old Town.”

“Maybe it’s the season for it,” said Arvid.

“This dung beetle,” said Konrad, “this beetle shouldn’t be here at all. It’s African. A very pretty specimen, actually.” He gave it a piece of cookie to wrestle with.

Cornelia entered the office with a new chair. At the same time, the light by Miss Sycorax’s number started blinking. Arvid considered not picking up. But Cornelia sat down and put her headset on, and Konrad tore himself away from the dung beetle, and there was no longer an excuse not to work. He pushed the button.

“Operator.”

“Hello,” said the flat voice.

“Yes, hello.”

“I want to be put through to Arvid Pekon,” said Miss Sycorax.

“Arvid Pekon,” Arvid repeated. His finger flicked the mute switch up and down.

“Arvid,” said his voice.

A slap woke him up. Cornelia’s round eyes were staring worriedly into his. She turned her head to look over at Konrad’s looming silhouette. They grabbed Arvid’s arms and dragged him up into his chair.

“You had us worried there,” said Cornelia.

“You fainted,” Konrad explained.

“What happened?” asked Arvid. The buzzing in his head made it difficult to hear the other two. His face tingled.

“Oops. Head between your knees,” said Konrad.

“What happened?” asked Arvid of the linoleum.

“You talked to 3426 for almost an hour and then you fell off your chair,” said Cornelia.

“But I took the call just now.”

“No, you’ve been going on for an hour.”

“What did I talk about?”

Cornelia was silent for a moment. She was probably glaring at him. “You know we don’t listen to each others’ calls.”

“Yes,” mumbled Arvid to the floor.

A hand landed on his shoulder. “You should probably go home,” said Konrad.

“I think I have to talk to the manager,” said Arvid.

The door to the manager’s office had an unmarked window of opaque glass. Arvid knocked on the glass. When there was no reply, he carefully pressed down the door handle and stepped inside. The room was smaller than he remembered it, but then again it was only his second time in here. There were no shelves or cabinets, just the enormous mahogany desk that covered most of the room. The desk was bare save for a telephone and a crossword puzzle magazine. Behind the desk, doing a crossword puzzle with a fountain pen, sat the manager in her powder blue suit and immaculate gray curls. She looked up as Arvid opened the door and smiled, her cheeks drawing back in deep folds.

“Egyptian dung beetle, six letters?” said the manager.

Arvid opened his mouth.

“S-C-A-R-A-B,” said the manager. “Thank you.” She closed and folded the magazine, put it aside and leaned back into her chair. She smiled again, with both rows of teeth.

Arvid waited.

“You have neglected to log three calls this month, Arvid,” the manager said. “Subject 3426 at 2.35 PM on March 15; subject 3426 at 1.10 PM on March 21; subject 3426 at 4.56 PM on March 30. Why is this, Arvid?”

“I’m having a bit of trouble,” said Arvid and shifted his weight from side to side.

“Trouble.” The manager was still smiling, cheeks folded back like accordions.

“I think I may be having a nervous breakdown.”

“And that’s why you haven’t logged your calls.”

“This is going to sound insane,” said Arvid.

“Go on,” said the Manager.

Arvid took a deep breath. “Subject number 3426… ”

“Miss Sycorax,” supplied the Manager.

“Miss Sycorax,” Arvid continued, “has been making some very strange calls.”

“Many of our subjects do.”

“Yes, but not like her. Something’s off.”

“I see.”

“Eh, I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe I need some time off.”

“If you think you’re having a nervous breakdown Arvid” said the Manager, “I’ll book an appointment with the company doctor and let him decide. We need to know if it’s a workplace injury, you know. Oh, and do talk to Cornelia. She’s the union representative.”

“I will.”

“All right, Arvid. Go on home. I’ll have the doctor’s office call you this afternoon.” The Manager smiled at him with both rows of teeth.

At the switchboard, Konrad and Cornelia were back at work. Cornelia was doing her best to ignore a little army of ants who were marching in a circle around her desk. Konrad and the dung beetle, on the other hand, seemed to have become fast friends. The dung beetle was rolling a sticky ball of masticated cookie crumbs.

Arvid sat down in his chair and stared at the terminal. After some hesitation, he put his headset on. Then he put a call through to Miss Sycorax.

“Hello,” said Miss Sycorax after the third ring.

“Hello,” echoed Arvid.

“Hello.”

“This is the operator,” Arvid managed.

“Oh.”

Arvid took a deep breath. “Who is this Arvid Pekon you wanted to be put through to?”

At the other end of the line, Miss Sycorax burst into laughter. The sound made Arvid cower in his chair.

“It’s a funny name,” she said. “Pekon, it sounds like a fruit. Like plums or pears. Or like someone from China. Or like a dog breed.”

“Who is Arvid Pekon?” Arvid repeated.

“There is no Arvid Pekon,” Miss Sycorax replied.

“Yes there is!”

“No there isn’t. I thought there was, but then I realized I was mistaken.”

Arvid disconnected and tore his headset off.

“I’m right here!” he yelled at the cockroach on the in-box. “Look!” He banged his fist on the desk so hard that it tingled. “Would I be able to do that if I wasn’t here?”

Something crackled. He looked down at his hand, which was lying in shards on the desk. The tingling sensation spread up his arm, which shuddered and then exploded in a cloud of dust.

“Where did Arvid go?” Cornelia asked Konrad a little while later.

“Who?” Konrad was looking at a ball of cookie crumbs on his desk, having no clear idea of how it got there. He popped it in his mouth.

Cornelia shook her head. “I don’t know what I’m on about. Never mind.”

“Coffee break?” said Konrad. “I’ve brought Finnish shortbread.”