Old Benjamin.

Even on his deathbed, Benjamin was a difficult man.

There was a crowd of faces surrounding him as he laid on the cot: Marie Clover; Jessie and Tom Pincher’s grandchildren; a few Englishmen who he only knew as strong advocates for Stalin; Moses the Clergyman; the Bakers’ children that Clover used to look after in the old days, now no longer children; the three new Russian laborers that were very honest and hard-working but very brutish as well, and a few juveniles that heard the news of the old man and had come to witness his death.

“Donkeys live a long time. None of you has ever seen a dead donkey,” he said upon numerous occasions. They were about to see one now. Indeed, Benjamin had lived an extraordinary long and miserable life, a life long enough to see Stalin’s children’s children grow into adolescence. When asked the question of whether life was better or not since the Rebellion, Benjamin alone knew that life had remained quite the same, except now touched with the cynicism of a satire woven into a great and woeful tale. But that was Benjamin. Even on his deathbed, he was ever the cynic.

“Leave me!” he harrumphed. Slowly, and quite unwillingly, each person murmured to the old man his or her regards as Clover herded them out of the small room. The clergyman looked back one last time and winked as if they shared a private joke.

He didn’t want to die surrounded by their curious faces. They were all stupid creatures, every single one of them. Except Moses. Moses was particularly clever, with those beady, darting eyes of his. He disliked Clover’s eyes. There wasn’t a bit of anything wrong with the woman, but her eyes were often clouded over with ignorance. She was becoming senile, and he resented her for it. Benjamin at least, after all this time, had kept his mind.

But just as she turned to follow the last person out, Benjamin stopped her. “Stay,” he said.

She stayed.

He watched as she halted and turned around slowly, her mouth set into a grave and mournful line. Those damned forlorn eyes of hers looked upon him.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Benjamin?”

Benjamin closed his eyes, and a particularly fond memory appeared before him: he and Henry Boxer were sitting side by side on a Sunday in the paddock by the orchard. They didn’t speak. Henry Boxer was a good man, and though he was also a very stupid man, he was somehow innately wise. And now he was dead.

Maybe Benjamin was mistaken, and that innate wisdom he recognized was actually blind integrity.

“Sit with me awhile. And keep quiet.”

Clover obliged and sat very close to the dying man. She minded to keep the flies from bothering him.

Benjamin’s breathing was low and labored. He could feel death overcoming him, slowly, biding its time like a passing cloud. It was quiet, but it was there. Clover clasped one of his hands with hers. He squeezed it.

“I was thinking of Mollie the other day. You remember Mollie, don’t you?”

Of course he did. She was the foolish Cockney girl that fled the country early after the labor policy changed. Yes, he remembered her, all right. Instead, he replied, “Keep quiet.”

But she wouldn’t. “Oh, Benjamin,” she began, but stopped short. What words could explain exactly what she was feeling? It was like when Boxer toiled to learn how to read, ever so frustrated with the words and letters that he couldn’t seem to grasp. That is how she felt now. She wanted Benjamin to speak, to confirm her thoughts. But he was a man of few and sour words.

Benjamin thought of Clover back before the Rebellion, when her four sons were drafted into the army and never seen again. Clover used to have lovely red hair and a kind of square face. Now, like himself, she was past the age of retirement but had yet to retire. She’d grown stouter and softer over the years, and her lovely red hair was gray. He pictured his younger self, as he would watch with wry amusement and never speak, but only nod slowly at that which others couldn’t comprehend.

He squeezed her hand again. “When I die, Marie, you’ll be the only one among them that will remember life before the war. Remember the first constitution, Marie? Remember Old Major? Remember when we were still young and foolish, and the government promised our prosperity? Remember when the first murder trials began, and the people we knew were prosecuted and slain? Remember that, my dear, remember that.”

Her rheumy eyes were glistening with unshed tears. She understood, but she didn’t quite understand, Benjamin knew. His heart ached for the first time since Boxer’s death, and it was a grim, sorrowful pain. There was no hope.

“Leave,” he croaked.