Away in a Manger

Chantal Schaul, 2002

Soon it would be Christmas again. At last! The worst part of the year was over. Margot had everything ready, as usual. All the decorations inside and out were up and glowing. She tottered about in the living room, between pliant pine twigs and flickering lights, and squinted through the window every so often, past the sprayed on snow and illuminated angels. The delivery van should be here soon. She tried to urge it along with a supreme mental effort. No, of course it didn’t work like that. These things never did. She closed her eyes and rubbed their lids. Her skin rotated in accordance with her rough fingertips. It felt as if it was going to come off any second now. Oh, to be young again!

Margot and her brother Théo lived together in their parents’ house, a coarse boxy old thing on top of a hill, just outside a small village in Luxembourg. Why it had been built in such a remote location and on the verge of a forest was a secret long forgotten, eroded by the passing of generations. Margot and Théo were the last of their kind and, by the looks of it, would remain so.

Margot had sadly never met a man. Perhaps it was the remoteness of her home, perhaps her lack of beauty. And although she wasn’t outright ugly, she would have struck one as rather plain, even in her younger years. Her brother had to endure the same fate of childlessness, there being hardly any females in the tyre factory where he was working. So they had stayed together, forever. And they had grown fond of each other, almost as if they were really husband and wife.

The only happiness and fulfilment that Margot had found and developed over the years was Christmas. For many years now, she had invited all the children from the village to a huge Christmas party and drowned them in presents and sweets. Since the beginning, she had prepared the event carefully, vigorously, and long before it took place.

Every year the village children had been flooded with sweet eggnog, stuffed with gingerbread, Christmas log, nuts and chocolate, and overloaded with toys. Margot had been the origin of seasonal overweight throughout whole generations of local children. And she had accounted for their surplus weight in advance by knitting all her snowflake and pine-pattern pullovers in a size larger than initially required.

Théo had never minded Margot’s splashing out once a year. On the contrary, he liked having the house filled with children and echoing with music and laughter. He had appreciated the abundance of Christmas food and yielded to Margot’s ever-growing concerns for planning the festive season.

But Margot had come a long way since then. She had developed into a connoisseur of Christmas matters and this was the only self-flattery she ever indulged in. She certainly knew how to celebrate a good Christmas! You have to be good at something, she thought, and this was her domain: Christmas. And although she had never had an excessive personality, her inclination towards Christmas, she had to admit so herself, was becoming, perhaps, a tad obsessive. Oh well, if Christmas was her only vice, what the hell, she would indulge!

Now, where was that van? Margot opened her eyes as she heard the knock on the door. It was the knock of a delivery man; she knew it from experience. It had a ring of utmost impatience to it. Margot glimpsed the red van on the drive, with “www.coninfer.com” printed on its side. It must have arrived without making any noise. Like a flash, she turned on her heels. She mastered the art of heel-turning to a degree of sublimity. How many pairs of slippers had she worn out, merely by reacting too vigorously to the arrival of a delivery man?

Her severed rubber soles slurped on the tiles as Margot ran through the corridor and opened the door to admit two muscled men in red overalls. “Come in, right in there, please!” She pointed to the spacious living room. Or rather, the once spacious room. It had had to surrender most of its expanses to a myriad of sporadically gleaming fibre optic trees. Margot’s living room was like a magic forest gone haywire. She had, however, created a clearing over by the big live Christmas tree, to which she was now guiding the red fellows.

Their movements were swift and unobtrusive. They carried in the life-sized figures without once brushing against an extended bristly branch or a glistening bauble. They were experts in their field, Margot mused with pleasure. The men disappeared as promptly as they had arrived. Not a word passed their lips. All that remained to witness their presence was the game and a very slim instruction booklet, consisting of a few pages only.

Margot could barely contain herself to play the new game. But she would have to wait for Théo to return from work. She unwrapped the nativity figures with suppressed ecstasy, and fell into a long contemplation. The figures emitted a metallic sheen which set them apart from all the wooden, plastic and ceramic ones she had seen before. At the same time they looked old-fashioned; Greek, Celtic, Romanesque, Gothic and Renaissance characteristics were all thrown together in a hotchpotch of styles. And yet each style was clearly discernible.

A delivery note was stuck to Joseph’s cheek and read: “Life-sized virtual reality game. One of a kind. Guaranteed spell-binding.” and “Slip into your favourite nativity characters. See the world through their eyes.”

“Oh, I can’t wait, I can’t wait,” Margot thought. She frantically rubbed her temples and closed her eyes. She counted from one to ten.

“Sit down. Relax. Théo will be home in a couple of hours. One hour and fifty-six minutes, to be precise. If he is on time. He will be. He knows the game was due today.”

Margot reclined and put up her feet, trying to ignore the upheaval inside her stomach.

“Just calm down and think of what you have achieved,” she told herself. “You’ve come a long way, Margot. Remember the stone-age Christmases you had as a child. Ten or twelve baubles at the most, boring and almost identical. An uncouth nativity scene, chipped and with countless coats of dull paint peeling off, like rotting onions.” The memory made her feel nauseous.

She had worked long and hard to make her Christmases what they were today. And she had succeeded. When she was young, she had trouble even finding a half-way decent bauble in the ghastly shops nearby. Or a mildly delectable sweet for the village children. But she had been persistent and creative, evolving her knitwear patterns from snowflake and pine to nativity scene and Christmas log, to candied oranges and shepherds, to eggnog froth and cinnamon powder. She had started to conceive her designs as early as spring.

Every Christmas, she had pleaded with Théo to bring back a bigger, taller, and more impenetrable tree from the forest. The treetop had to be trimmed further down every year, so that the tree would fit into the living room. Eventually, more than half of its length had to be cut off, thus providing a second tree, which Margot had gladly placed on top of the stairs. And this called for more decorations.

Théo had driven her to all the places that sold Christmas decorations in a radius of thirty kilometres. They had nearly searched the whole country. And although Margot had been severely disappointed by the limited array of baubles and wreaths on display, she had had to give in to the boundaries that the stocks of the Luxembourg store owners imposed. Her extravagant dreams had been allowed no foothold inside the world of Christmas retailers.

And then, one day, it seemed the world of commerce lay at her feet at last. She saw an advertisement in the “Luxemburger Wort” about an organized coach trip to the Christmas market in Trier. She had seen pictures of German “Christmärkte” on television, but there had never been an opportunity of getting there because Théo, the fool, would not drive beyond the frontiers of Luxembourg. Margot booked two seats on the coach the minute she saw the advertisement. In early December the journey at last took place. Théo took the day off work.

Trier was a turning point in Margot’s life. She almost died of delight. She shrieked so many times at fabulous discoveries that she was hoarse by the end of the day. She bought everything she saw. She sent Théo to the bank seven times to get more money out.

Her shopping bags, rapidly increasing in number, were filled with treasures she had never dreamed possible back then. Baubles in unexpected colours, patterns and shapes, with stars and bells and angels encrusted on their shiny, matt, frosted or glittering surfaces, and wreaths in various circumferences and exciting hues. Margot discovered bells of all sizes, styles and ringtones, angels, sheep and shepherds to adorn the tree, lights with varied twinkling functions and birds that sang a multitude of Christmas tunes. She collected fragranced candle dust in large plastic bags, with metres and metres of colourful wicks and myriads of special glass containers, big-bellied, hexagonal, cylindrical and tree-shaped. She accumulated a proud collection of Christmas cassettes with music from all the corners of the Earth and in all the languages known to man. She over-indulged in a cornucopia of sweets and picked and mixed German and Swiss chocolates, ranging from baked apple flavour to myrrh aroma and pine tang.

The coach driver fumed at the sight of Margot’s shopping mountain and almost charged her for excess luggage, but that year Christmas was more exuberant than ever before. The house was lit up in fresh Yuletide glamour. Even the barn received its twinkling light chain. The village children adored the outlandish chocolates and cakes that Margot offered them. They had the time of their lives.

But in the midst of all this elation, Margot suddenly realized the futility of all her achievements, as she caught sight of the television screen. It showed a simple family house somewhere in America. But how it had been transformed! It was drowned in lights, in the shape of icicles, shooting stars, angels, candy canes, Father Christmases, sledges and snowmen. A huge nativity scene, almost as big as the house itself, stood on the lawn, its brightly-lit figures in perpetual movement. And finally, to round off the abundance of festivity, a beam projected onto the house an animated scene of Father Christmas riding a sledge drawn by three reindeer with red noses.

Margot was hooked by these marvels, maddened by their unattainability, plunged into despair by their spatial remoteness.

“Oh, why can’t they sell decorations like that here in Luxembourg?” she sighed. “Why can’t we have a tiny piece of the American dream? Why are we maimed by the crippled imagination of our businessmen and manufacturers?

On her happiest day of the whole year, Margot started to cry bitterly. Théo tried to console her, but to no avail. He put a cup of warm eggnog to her lips to revive her. She drank, and her flowing tears made specks on the creamy surface of the milk.

Christopher, one of the children, spoke up.

“Aunt Margot, why don’t you try the internet?”

She swallowed. “Internet?”

“Yes, you can buy things on the internet. I can show you how.”

“Where is the internet?” Margot asked.

“On computers. You need to get a computer. And it has to have internet access.”

“And there are things to buy in it?” Margot was incredulous.

On the twenty-seventh of December, Margot and Théo stood outside the electrical shop in the nearest small town at nine o’clock sharp. The shopkeeper, Mr Scheer, knew them well. They came regularly for Christmas lights and replacement bulbs.

“Good morning, Mr and Miss Grisius. You’re very early today.”

“We need a computer,” Margot replied, with an urgency uncommon even in her.

Mr Scheer led them to the counter and opened a catalogue in front of their eyes.

“You don’t have any real computers to show us?” Margot interrupted.

“Well, yes, I do have one. But it’s quite a simple model.”

“I’m not fussed about what it looks like. But it has to have internet. That’s all I want. Internet.” Margot was resolute. Théo nodded at her side.

Again they followed the shopkeeper. Behind two refrigerators and a washing machine it stood. A small white television.

“This computer you can have immediately. I have a modem downstairs to go with it.”

“A what? No, I want an internet.”

Mr Scheer explained to her what a modem was and concluded the deal.

Eventually, Margot and Théo manoeuvred the heavy computer boxes into the car and drove home, where Christopher assembled and connected the various computer parts. Margot cleared a section of the larder to make room for the new apparatus, not keen on cluttering up the living room or the kitchen, let alone any of the bedrooms.

When Christopher finally announced: “Aunt Margot, I found a site!” all the bells in heaven were ringing for Margot. She and Théo kneeled in front of the computer and looked at the screen, which said “The Christmas Store.” Margot almost fainted when she saw the novel objects, whose existence she had never even fathomed. At last, the portals of the world stood open for her.

A colourful nutcracker, teeth wide open, gaped at her with mesmerising white eyes and tiny black pupils. “Into the shopping basket,” Christopher clicked. A golden cherub, leaning his chin on his fat hand gazed into eternity. Next came a holly and ivy pillar candle, complete with matching snuffer, some festive silver chimes and a nativity snow globe, which, with the click of a mouse, went up in a swirling winter storm, as if shaken by a ghostly hand. There were snowmen shelf sitters with dangling spindly legs, jumping reindeer wall hangings, glitter tea lights and Joyeux Noℑl scented candles. A Bavarian Father Christmas, stout and big-bellied, rustic like a tree trunk. A Charles Dickens Christmas house, mains powered. Frosted berry mini wreaths and red velvet micro fairies.

Margot ordered the whole lot. She was delirious.

“I need your credit card number.” Christopher shattered her reverie.

“Credit what?” Margot was confused.

“I need to type in the number so you can pay for this,” Christopher said.

Margot lost the ground under her feet. She had never owned a credit card. She had never even understood what the purpose of these cards was. How naive she had been! And now her order of a lifetime was doomed to fail for lack of this card. She could not allow it to happen. It was four o’clock. The banks were closing at five.

“Théo, quick, go warm up the car. We need to go to the bank now.”

She jumped out of her chair and run upstairs to fetch her purse and shoes. She was barely capable of tying the laces.

“Wait here till we get back,” she shouted to Christopher as she banged the front door. “Eat all you like.”

Margot and Théo arranged a last minute emergency meeting with the bank manager, Mr Diederich.

“I shall settle that for you, Mr and Mrs Grisius. Fill in this form and the card will be sent out to you some time in mid-January.”

Margot faltered. “Why? I thought we could just take it with us right now.”

“Oh no, I’m afraid it will take a while. Especially at this time of year.” Mr Diederich smiled apologetically.

Margot asked for the toilet. She stared into the white sink, propping her forehead against the ice-cold mirror. Another three weeks? She felt as if she was suspended by a horse’s hair above a dark pit of never-ending gloom. She coughed feebly. The drive home was long and tedious. It was raining. The little snow there was had dissolved into grey slosh.

Christopher lay flat on the sofa when they found him. The corners of his mouth dribbled with chocolatey saliva. He could not move. He had gobbled down twenty-three bags of gingerbread corners enrobed with chocolate.

The following weeks dripped by in drizzling darkness. Théo was glad to return to the tyre factory. Margot felt desolate, alone, deserted. When the credit card finally arrived in the post it was early February.

Margot held the envelope in her hands for a long time, feeling the hard rectangular-shaped object inside. Gingerly, she shredded a small ribbon off the top and reached inside with two fingertips. The letter was heavy; the card clung to it for life. A thick, plastic, green Visa card, brand-new, smooth and shiny. She stroked it and eased it off the paper, leaving a rubbery residue of glue. She ran to the phone.

“Hello, Yvonne. Could you send Christopher up? Yes, yes, thank you.” She cradled the card in her palms. At last. At last!

It took another torturing one and a half weeks till the delivery van arrived, laden with Christmas dreams. When Théo came home from work, the living room floor was transformed into a glowing and sparkling sea, undulating under Margot’s never-resting fingers. She was wearing an angel outfit and a Santa Claus hat. Her eyes were shining bright.

“Look at all these things!”

She went through them one by one, explaining and describing lovingly. Théo smiled with her. At last she was happy again. And so was he.

Like every year, the village children came to her annual party, only this time they played with the latest games and took home the most innovative gifts. A disco Santa danced and played all the Christmas carols in existence. The children stayed all day and all night, lost in Christmas wonders. They stumbled home in the early morning hours, groggy with pleasure, satiated with sugar and spice.

Throughout the following year, Christopher discovered some of the best Christmas sites in existence, like ChristmasCraze.com, BethlehemBuffet.com, XmasXcess.com, or YuletideYearnings.com. Margot ordered and ordered, countless snowmen-tea-for-one sets, a finger puppet Celtic nativity set, a village map of Bethlehem in the year of the Lord, mince pie-scented Christmas night-shirts, glowing Santas-at-breakfast, flashing musical Christmas underwear, voice recording wrapping paper.

Delivery vans started to turn up at regular intervals at Margot and Théo’s house. The whole village was put on alert to re-direct lost vans to the remote location. At night, the house was impossible to miss. Outdoors fibre optic trees radiated their colourful halos into the towering oak and pine trees that stood on the verge of the forest. Rich icicle lights hung from the roof of house and barn, interrupted by an occasional shooting star silhouette. The windows were surrounded by multi-functional rope lights, which twinkled in twenty-eight different patterns. The barn boasted a life-sized skating penguin and a galloping reindeer, while the house displayed a nativity scene in motion. The projectors were carefully tucked away behind an interactive singing choir of musical wobbly snow gnomes.

Margot’s American dream had finally come true. But Théo was worried. The plastic blade of the Visa card had hacked their savings to bits. His only consolation was that there could not possibly be anything Christmassy left to order on the whole world wide Yuletide web. Margot would have to be satisfied now.

But then, in late July, Christopher found a completely new website. At first sight it bore no relation to Christmas at all. The address was Coninfer.com, but the full name of the site read “Lucy Coninfer, Provider of Cyber-Christmas Miracles.” Instead of a catalogue, there was only one single link leading to one single gadget to be purchased: a life-sized nativity game.

“Margot, I’m home!” Margot jumped up, right into a thick pine branch overhead. She pricked her forehead but hardly felt the pain. “Goodness me, I must have fallen asleep. Théo, it has arrived!” Théo looked at the motionless nativity scene. Some of the shepherds were inches taller than him. He took a step back, but found himself cradled in the bouncing arms of a Mongolian fir tree. There was just not enough room.

Margot busied herself with the game control panel, tucked away underneath a flap on the manger. She gave a sudden shriek. “Théo! It won’t work! Look!” She pointed at an inscription on the on/off button: “Only works within proximity of Christmas.” And it was merely August. That meant waiting for three, or even four, months. Margot started to cry.

“Now, now,” Théo consoled her. I’m sure it can be made to work somehow. Where’s the instruction booklet?” Margot gestured towards the sofa with a dejected brush of the hand. It was a very slim booklet indeed. Almost a leaflet, you could say. And very straightforward. It told you to open the nativity figures like sarcophagi and to slip inside. You, so-to-speak, became your own avatar.[1] The haptic device² was built into the insides of the figures’ hands, the vizor into the insides of their eyes. There were no extensive game rules. The leaflet merely said:

“The figures are programmed to believe in Jesus and to worship him, the true Son of God.” and “The aim of the game is to pay homage to Jesus. The winner is who praises him most and best.”

It also declared, in bold letters:

“We strongly advise against slipping into the role of Jesus, as there are considerable risks involved.”

It was signed “Miss Coninfer” and post-scripted “Have life-long Christmassy fun!”

There was not a word about the game’s temporal limitations. Théo tried to force-press the button, but without any success.

“I’m afraid, we’ll just have to wait,” he said sadly.

The summer was a drag. Autumn made things worse with its constant cold drizzle. Why did Margot always have to become so worked up and impatient? She just couldn’t help it. Christmas was her passion, all she lived for. And its main rule was that it only took place once a year. She would finally have to accept that!

The nativity game came alive one morning, a week before Christmas. The switch shone red under its dusty shroud. Margot tore the linen covers off the figures and instantly saw the change in their appearance. It was subtle. Their eyes seemed to have acquired a new lustre. They gazed at Jesus with love and beatitude. The three kings, slightly removed from the rest of the group, looked up into the sky at what must have been the star that would lead them to Bethlehem.

“Théo, quick. Who do you want to play?”

“A shepherd,” he said carefully.

“Get in there, I’ll be Mary.”

At the push of a button, each figure opened up like a cocoon to let the players in and shut with a barely audible click. As soon as Margot and Théo were enclosed inside the game it came alive. A stable seemed to spring up inside the living room. They could see the desert outside in the dusty darkness. Stars twinkled through the cracks of the walls and the doorless entrance.

The sheep started to bleat; the ox and donkey exhaled their heavy, warm and humid breath into the air. Words of worship echoed from all sides.

“What pretty golden locks he has,” said a shepherd.

“His shiny blue eyes are spell-binding,” bleated a sheep.

“My adoptive son, I am so proud of you!” gloated Joseph.

“Oh, my baby, sweet and almighty,” Margot competed.

“He truly is the Son of God,” ventured Théo.

“I adore you, I worship you, I praise you, for all eternity,” a king shouted from the desert.

Margot and Théo did well initially. But the praises of their competitors became more intricate and harder to topple.

“Creator and Saviour of mankind, Ruler of heaven and earth, Redemptor of all evil, I beseech you, forgive us our sins!” crooned the donkey.

By the time Margot and Théo left the game, their love for Christ had been newly awakened.

“That was great,” said Margot.

“I feel like a true Christian again,” added Théo. “Quite an amazing game. We should tell our priest about it.”

On Christmas day, Margot got all the children to play the new nativity game as soon as they arrived.

“I love your frilly gown; your halo is marvellous; let me comb your golden locks,” the girls said.

“Your manger is cool; your teeth are so white; I loved last year’s presents; I want to be a priest one day and serve you,” the boys retorted.

The highest score went to Tim, a seven-year old bookish boy who knew how to please his elders. Margot gave him an extra bag of sweets. Then everyone was allowed to tuck into endless amounts of Margot’s novelty cakes and pastries, Viennese whirl mince pies, cranberry mousse stars, eggnog meringue steeples, spiced apple and cinnamon crust angels, spiced fruit and nut mangers, and a frankincense flavoured and yoghurt coated gingerbread house. The children left, once again, with heaving stomachs.

Over the next few days, to drown their loneliness, Margot and Théo kept playing the nativity game. They took on various parts. Margot was Joseph, a sheep, a shepherd and a king; Théo played Mary, the ox, a sheep and another sheep. Each session left them more enthusiastic about Christ the Saviour. Petty everyday worries seemed forgotten.

But then Théo’s return to the tyre factory was looming. When they had time for only one more game, Margot panicked. She didn’t want the game to spiral down into mediocrity, as all technological novelties tend to do after a while. She needed a climax. She wanted to play Jesus. Théo pleaded with her, but all his attempts were futile. Her mind was set.

“I am going to play Jesus.”

No sooner said than done. She opened the Jesus cocoon and folded herself into its shell. The interior was small and narrow and she had to curl up inside it like a Viennese whirl. The lid closed in on her. Théo held his breath. All seemed well. He slid into his king.

Margot soon was overwhelmed by all the compliments she received.

“You’re so wonderful, oh Child of Heaven.”

“We bring you endless riches, myrrh, frankincense, gold.”

“You are bright and beautiful like a shining star.”

“Oh Lord Jesus, I would die for you!”

Margot felt light-headed after a while; all those eulogies made her feel dizzy. Was she really that fabulous and great? Were there no limits to her powers? She began to madly approve of herself. She was the centre of the world. She became foolhardy and forgot her limits.

Out of the manger she toddled and crawled towards the Christmas tree. Exhilarated, she tore random Christmas decorations from the prickly branches and took them in armfuls to her entourage, whom she plastered in shiny baubles and glittering wreaths. The figures shook themselves to get rid of their superficial kitsch. Like an imp, Jesus hid behind their backs and threw the wreaths back on. He scurried between their legs and escaped their clawing hands. He stuck his tongue out at them and shrieked with laughter.

The figures were visibly disconcerted. What was Jesus doing? They wanted to worship and honour him, the Saviour of mankind. What was this crawling and creeping little fool trying to achieve? They would have none of this. They needed him to lie peacefully in his manger, meek and beautiful, godly and wonderful. In an emergency situation like this, they were programmed to return to their factory settings. They were determined to eject what was alien to their system.

One of the shepherds was the first to act. He grabbed Jesus by his left leg and held him up in mid-air, like a prize catch. Margot’s euphoria was suddenly superseded by a walloping panic. She sensed alienation and hostility from all sides. Where was all the love gone, the worship, the idolization, the praise? Margot felt like a child who, on the peak of exaltation, realizes that she has done something wrong. A stinging pang of guilt, for what, she did not know, slapped her in the face. Could she ever be forgiven?

In anticipation of punishment, she flinched. In defiance, she wriggled her twisted Viennese whirl spine and thrust her metal fists around her wildly. Joseph approached with heavy steps. He repeatedly banged his staff on Margot’s head until there was no more resistance. Margot hung limp. Mary drew close and pressed the release button on Jesus’s shoulder. Margot tumbled out like a puppet and hit the wooden floorboards with a dull thump.

Théo, from his remote location in the desert, eyes fixed on the comet, had no inkling about Margot’s ordeal. By the time he was released from the game, the wooden floor had absorbed most of Margot’s blood. Théo stood in numb pain for what seemed hours. Then he ran outside to fetch an axe from the barn and, with a primeval scream, hurled himself at the smug metal nativity scene. He indented a few faces and arms, bashed in a few glass eyes, but was unable to cause more than external harm. Instinctively, he turned on the smallest and, with one giant clout of the axe, decapitated Jesus. The game’s defence mechanism set itself into motion once more.

Théo took to his heels before he was fully encircled. A flock of sheep hounded after him and cut him off on the lawn, among chanting snow gnomes and wobbly Santas. Like a hunted animal, he sliced into the thick conifers behind the house and hurtled through the dark forest, gnarled twigs tearing at his face.

When he finally stopped for breath, leaning against a knotty old oak trunk, he didn’t even notice the slight buzz that was emanating from behind the tree, as a shepherd’s hand sprang forward and slit his throat with a metallic fingernail.

Up and down, right and left, the snow gnomes wobbled tirelessly, as if in harmony with the tinny jingle bells tune that the musical Santas kept chirping. The skating penguin and the galloping reindeer, too, glowed long after the festive days had gone by. But there was nothing strange about that.

———————————- [1] “The player’s virtual representation within a game,” a footnote explained. [2] “The glove which allows the player to manoeuvre within the game,” said a further footnote.

———————————- 18