Wide Open

The man showed Ronny his hand. Ronny looked. The wasp was still. It was dead.

‘It’s dead.’

The man grunted, unimpressed. ‘I know it’s dead. But did you see the sting?’

‘The sting?’

The man pointed. ‘When it died it curled up, incredibly tightly, and then the sting came shooting out from the back there, the whole sting was revealed in that final moment.’

Ronny felt absurd but he bent forward anyway. Sure enough, he saw the sting.

‘I see it.’

‘There’s a wonderful logic to it sliding out like that,’ the man said, almost smiling. Ronny tilted his head. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s at rest. He’s surrendered. He’s finally given up his weapon.’

Ronny considered this for a while and then said, ‘No. I don’t see it that way at all.’

The man looked up. ‘You don’t? So how do you see it?’

‘Well …’ Ronny scratched his neck. ‘He’s a warrior. His weapon is drawn even in death. Especially in death. That’s the whole point of a wasp. He’s the kamikaze pilot of the insect world.’

The man smiled at this, he stared at Ronny intently, at his neat edges, his apparent cleanliness, his bright, pale face. Eventually he said, ‘That’s very funny.’

Ronny rubbed his nose, modestly.

‘But all the same …’ the man continued, ‘it’s not actually true. Only bees die when they sting. Wasps work differently. They’re tougher. He’s given up his weapon. That’s plainly how it is.’

Ronny didn’t agree but he merely shrugged. He found it hard to commit himself to disagreements.

The man was silent for a while. Ronny studied him. He seemed very young but his face was not a very young face. It was lined, vertically, and not in the places normal faces creased and wrinkled. It was as though he’d only just woken up from a hard sleep but his face hadn’t shaken it, hadn’t hurled off its sheets and its blankets yet to get on with the business of living.

He seemed ludicrously pliant and tractable, but singular. He seemed … Ronny shuddered at the thought … he seemed wide, wide open. But you couldn’t survive that way. Not in this world. Not for long. Ronny knew it.

In fact he prided himself on being shut right up. Like an oyster. Like a tomb. Like a beach-hut in winter; all bolted, all boarded. Like the bright lips of an old wound. Resolutely sealed.

‘Well, I think I’ll be going,’ he said finally, swallowing down his unease and then feeling it bob back up in his throat like a ballcock.

The man glanced at Ronny, but only quickly, as though he could barely stand to drag his eyes away from the dead wasp. ‘Today’s been worthwhile after all,’ he muttered. ‘You know? Just to get to see the wasp and the sting and everything.’

Ronny thought the man must be deranged but he nodded anyway.

‘Do you need another look before I bury him?’

‘Need?’ Ronny smiled. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

The man sighed. ‘He feels so hollow and light now that the life has gone. Before he had a kind of weight. Some gravity. But not any more.’

Ronny turned to go.

The man spoke again, a parting shot, it seemed, because as he spoke he also turned. ‘I’m Ronny.’

Ronny froze.

‘Ronny?’

The other Ronny stopped turning.

‘What?’

Ronny pointed to himself.

‘I’m Ronny too.’

They both paused.

‘Uh … actually,’ Ronny said, ‘I’m Ronald. How about you?’

The other Ronny shrugged, ‘I don’t know.’

‘We’re The Two Ronnies.’

The other Ronny didn’t get it. ‘What?’

‘Like in the comedy show.’

‘What comedy show?’

‘You don’t remember The Two Ronnies? The little one with glasses and the bigger, fatter one?’

The other Ronny shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Oh. I thought everybody knew about them.’

The other Ronny pointed at the wasp and said, ‘I think I’d better bury him.’ He started walking towards the edge of the bridge. He walked strangely. Ronny thought that this was because there was something wrong with his legs but then he realized that his shoes were several sizes too large. They were white shoes.

‘Excuse me …’

The other Ronny stopped walking. ‘What?’

‘We’re wearing the same shoes.’

The other Ronny peered down at his shoes. ‘These aren’t my shoes.’

‘Not yours? Then whose are they?’

‘I don’t know. I must’ve picked them up somewhere.’