The Absolutist

by John Boyne

SEATED OPPOSITE ME in the railway carriage, the elderly lady in the fox-fur shawl was recalling some of the murders that she had committed over the years.

It reminded me of the story of the two Englishmen, left alone on a deserted island together for five years after a shipwreck, who never exchanged a single word of conversation as they had never been properly introduced.

Alone, always alone. Not drinking too much, but drinking all the same. A cigarette in my right hand, a scorch mark or two on my left cuff.

“Why would I be jealous of her, Will? It makes no sense.” I want to say more. I’m desperate to say more.

He shrugs and looks away. “We’re both tired,” he says. “I don’t even know why we’re arguing.” “We’re not arguing,” I insist, staring at him, feeling tears springing up behind my eyes because I would be damned rather than argue with him. “We’re not arguing, Will.”

But that doesn’t mean we survived it. I don’t think I did survive it. I may not be buried in a French field but I linger there. My spirit does, anyway. I think I’m just breathing, that’s all. And there’s a difference between breathing and being alive.

And I believe that if I keep doing it, then time will pass and I will wake up at home, with my father throwing his arms around me and telling me that I am forgiven.

“Peter?” I say, looking up in surprise. “I know Peter.” “Battle of Jutland,” he says, shrugging his shoulders as if this is just another casualty, nothing significant, nothing to write home about.

So we are never to be reconciled. I am never to be forgiven. “Yes,” I say quietly. “Yes, he was.”

There are dead bodies all around us but I’ve lost any revulsion for corpses.

“Curious, isn’t it, Tristan,” asked Marian, “how we consider the death of a soldier to be a source of pride rather than a source of national shame?

“And what are you fighting against, Mr. Sadler?” asked her husband, removing his spectacles and wiping the lenses with his handkerchief. I looked away with a sigh. “The truth, sir, is that I am tired of fighting and would prefer never to have to do so again.”

A name on a stone, it means nothing really, but still it means something. Does that make any sense?”

The boy in front of me cries out and takes a step back, almost pushing into me, and I shove him forward. I can’t be expected to deal with him, too, when my own life is about to end. It’s not fair. “Please,” he says, appealing to me as if I have some control over what is happening.

He shakes his head and I notice that he is trembling slightly. So he is afraid, after all. He does want to live. He says nothing for a long time and neither do I; I don’t want to rush him. I want to wait for him to decide on his own.

“But it doesn’t change anything. It’s the principle that matters.” “It’s not, actually,” I insist. “It’s life and death that matters.”

“Then don’t die,” I say, approaching him. “Don’t die, Will.”

“You’re just being cruel now,” I say quietly. “Am I? I thought I was being honest.” “Why must you always be so cruel?” I ask. “It’s something I’ve learned here,” he tells me. “You’ve learned it, too. You just don’t realize it.”

I don’t love you, Tristan. I don’t even like you very much any more. You were there, that’s all it was. You were there. I feel nothing for you, except contempt.

“Fucking hell!” he snaps, leaning over me. “I’m about to die! Can’t you just leave me alone for five fucking minutes to get my thoughts together?” “Please, Will,” I say, tears of anger spilling down my cheeks as I reach for him. “I’m sorry, all right? We’re friends—”

I want him to fucking die. I love him but I want him to fucking die. I can’t live in a world where he exists.

His expression is one of fear but strength, too, resilience. And then he notices me standing in line and his expression changes. He is shocked. He stares. His face collapses. “Tristan,” he says, his last word.

“With what?” “Can I say his name?” “No,” she hissed, leaning forward. “No, you can’t.”