Nemo and Kafka in Limbo

by Gary Inbinder

’Tis a strange place, this Limbo!
Not a place, yet name it so.
— Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Limbo

Mr. Nemo and his friend, Kafka the Cat, squatted on a low bluff overlooking a muddy riverbank. Scrubby brown grass-stalks waved in the sultry wind. Dead trees appeared like chunks of driftwood planted upright in the sulphureous sands of a chthonian shore; the burning breeze rattled bare branches jutting from gray stalagmitic trunks.

A leaden sky seemed to promise rain, but not a drop of moisture came to this dry, dusty place. The only thing that rained here was black ash filled with the acrid odor of sizzling fat and burning bones. Blood-gorged bluebottles swarmed; their incessant buzzing interfused with a distant echo of groans.

Nemo sighed, inhaling a vapor that an ancient Roman might have described as the stench emitting from the mouth of the Cloaca Maxima where it emptied into the Tiber: the odor of raw human and animal waste, dead bodies and offal mixed with the sharp stink of burning pitch and sulfur.

“Will it ever rain?” Nemo cried hoarsely, in the false hope that a shower might quench his thirst, cool his body and drive away the flies, even if only for a moment.

“By my calculation we have been here four-hundred and ninety-nine years, thirty-days, three-hours and twenty-nine minutes, and not one drop of moisture has fallen from the sky.” Kafka meowed, while batting at a fly with his right forepaw. “When it comes to arid climes, I have lived in Phoenix, Arizona and, on the whole, I would have to say that this is worse.”

Mr. Nemo had never been to Phoenix, so rather than question his friend’s comparison of the two places, he remarked upon Kafka’s timekeeping. “You’re very precise in your time measurement, but why don’t you calculate the seconds?”

“That would be overdoing it, even for the most horological of felines. Suffice it to say that we’ve been here one hell of a long time.”

Nemo nodded his head in agreement. No doubt, they were in a pickle, but crossing the river had seemed worse. Therefore, they had tried venturing in different directions, but always returned to the same place. After centuries of fruitless searching for a way out, they had settled on this spot.

“Mr. Nemo, perhaps it’s time to accept our fate and cross over to the other side.” Kafka mewed gently but firmly, for he had grown weary of batting flies.

Suddenly, Nemo began flailing at the vicious bluebottles while crying, “Why are we here, Kafka?”

“Mr. Nemo, must I remind you how many times you’ve asked that same question? There is no answer, at least not here. If we cross the river, perhaps we’ll gain some understanding.” Kafka meowed sadly, but patiently.

“My dear Kafka, do you recall Dante? ‘Leave all hope, ye that enter!’ That is the answer that awaits us.”

“But Mr. Nemo, you want another answer?”

“Yes, Nemo wants another answer, and he’s willing to wait here until it comes. Of course, you are free to go, if that is what you want.”

Kafka stopped swatting flies, walked to Nemo and sat on his lap. He looked up and gazed with wide, emerald eyes. “I’m not a theologian, but I do believe that only humans sin and are thus held accountable in the afterlife.”

Nemo gazed back at his friend in amazement, for in five centuries of shared suffering this simple fact had not occurred to him. “Kafka, Nemo believes you are right; you needn’t be here. Why don’t you go to wherever good cats end up and leave Nemo to his own miserable destiny?”

“Mr. Nemo, what sort of cat would I be if I abandoned my best friend in his time of need?”

Kafka’s reply touched Nemo deeply, and he wept. Then he lifted Kafka from his lap and set him down gently. “That’s very fine of you, Kafka. Nemo is ready to cross the river. However, he does have one final request. Please spare yourself and go to cat heaven, or Nirvana or wherever it is that you belong.”

“Thank you, Mr. Nemo. But if it’s all right with you, I’ll stay by your side, because that’s where your best friend belongs.”

Nemo smiled. “Nemo and Kafka will stick together to the very end, whatever that may be. Who knows but they may be eaten by the Devil, make a passage through his guts and come out his ass, only to be gobbled up, digested and shat again and again?”

“Well, at least that would be different,” Kafka meowed philosophically.

Nemo got up and brushed off some of the filth from his naked, scabrous flesh. Then, he began trudging down the slope to the muddy riverbank with Kafka padding alongside. As they neared the river, the stench of putrefaction strengthened, and the groans grew louder. Soon, they saw a vast crowd of naked humanity milling about the mud bank, shoving and pressing to board the dilapidated ferry boat. A reptilian ferryman screamed curses, and beat the crowd with his oar.

“Oh, this is worse than Nemo imagined. It reminds Nemo of the time he worked as a retail clerk the day after Thanksgiving.”

“Yes, it’s pretty awful. By the way, do you happen to have two oboloi?”

“Nemo does not think so, but will you please tell him what oboloi are?”

“An obolos is an ancient Greek coin, and I believe that is the fee the ferryman charges to convey dead souls across the river.”

“No, Nemo does not have a single obolos, not to mention two of them. Do you mean to say that only ancient Greeks can afford to go to hell?”

“Hmmm, you have a point there. Perhaps the fare is no longer required. On the other hand, he may now accept Euros, with allowance made for inflation and fluctuations in the rate of exchange. I wonder if there’s a bank hereabouts?”

“Nemo presumes that there must be bankers in hell. He could ask the ferryman; however, it may be a moot point since Nemo has no money of any kind.” They stood for a moment, contemplating the swarming riverbank with trepidation. Finally, Nemo said, “Nemo will carry Kafka to prevent him from being trampled.”

“That’s very considerate of you, Mr. Nemo.”

Nemo lifted his friend onto his shoulders and together they forayed into the pullulating mob. Nemo and Kafka suffered one hundred years of pushing, shoving, clawing, scratching, biting, gouging, hair-pulling and pummeling before they climbed up the gangplank and boarded the ferry.

At the boat’s stern loomed the ferryman, seven feet tall, his body covered in green scales, his bulging eyes blood red, and his hot breath reeking of death. He wielded his massive oar menacingly above his head. “Where’s your blasted obolos or its equivalent in Euros?” he howled.

“Mr. Charon, Nemo has no money; however, he was wondering if you could direct him to a bank where he might establish a credit line?”

Charon’s laughter rocked the boat and echoed over the dismal shore. “Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Nemo. When you get to the other side, they’ll tack on one thousand years of excruciating torture in lieu of my fee.”

“That seems fair, and Nemo supposes that an additional thousand years of excruciating torture matters little when one is eternally damned.”

Nemo’s blasé reply surprised the grim ferryman. “Well, I guess that’s a proper attitude,” Charon admitted, “however I advise you to stop referring to yourself in the third person. I find it an annoying affectation. Who do you think you are: Julius Caesar?”

“No, Nemo does not think that he is Julius Caesar. Nemo thinks he is Nemo.”

Charon frothed at the mouth and his bloody eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “Hell is full of wise-guys. They’ll soon tear that out of your miserable hide. Now chuck the kitty overboard. I’m ready to shove off.”

“Oh no, Mr. Charon. Kafka is Nemo’s best friend. Where he goes, Nemo goes, and vice versa.”

“That’s right, Mr. Ferryman,” Kafka mewed. “Nemo and I are inseparable pals, even to the deepest pit of hell.”

Charon stared at the two, and presently an almost imperceptible smile softened his reptilian face. The steadfast comradeship of this nondescript little man and his talking cat impressed him, and he made a decision that may have exceeded his authority. “You two don’t belong here,” he bellowed. “Get off my boat, and I strongly advise you to keep walking in that direction.” Charon pointed northwest with his oar.

“Nemo does not understand. Where... where are we going?”

Charon lifted the oar high above his head and roared, “Don’t ask questions for which there are no answers. Now, get off my boat before I knock you off!”

Kafka mewed softly, “I think we’d better do as he says.” Nemo and Kafka left the ferry and, for another century or so, they fought their way back through the crowd. Eventually, they returned to their spot on the bluff overlooking the river. “Well,” Kafka meowed, “that was quite an experience.”

“Yes,” Nemo replied, “at least it was a change of pace.” He turned his eyes in the direction Charon had pointed, and he thought he detected the tiniest glimmer of light on the horizon. Nemo put Kafka down and stroked his fur. “Well, Kafka, Nemo thinks you can walk from here.”

The cat looked up at his friend. “Where are we going, Mr. Nemo?”

Nemo smiled. “Now, Kafka, you know you shouldn’t ask a question for which there is no answer.”

Kafka mewed, “To the northwest, then, where Charon pointed?”

“Yes. To the northwest.”

Thus, the two friends left Limbo and trekked in the direction of a faint yet steady and discernible light.