The Unspoken

by Don Zelma

Chapter Nineteen

  Joe checked his hair in the reflection of the window, knocked on Lola’s door and slowly turned the handle.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ she said, smiling from her desk. ‘Have you come with my chart?’

  ‘I have,’ he said. He slowly walked in and closed the door.

  ‘Thanks, darling,’ she said. ‘Come and take a seat.’

  He approached her large desk, noting her black hair seemed very stark against the white wall. He sat in the over-sized leather armchair opposite her, resting the wiring chart on his lap. He could hear tradesmen down on the floor and already felt slightly superior; the lofty room had that sort of feel. The air conditioning cooled his sweaty back and he looked around. He could smell fresh paint.

  ‘You guys have it good,’ he said, looking over his shoulder.

  ‘Us aristocrats up here?’ she said.

  He looked at her and smiled. He picked up the chart and began tapping it on the arm of the chair.

  She placed a sandwich on a wrapper and slid it towards him. ‘Do you want a slice of sandwich?’ she asked.

  Joe pouted. ‘Sure,’ He leaned forward and brought the sandwich into his lap.

  ‘Listen, I need to keep working,’ she said, ‘but talk away. I want to hear all the gossip.’ She swivelled in her chair, faced the computer and began typing. Her fingers moved speedily on the keys like those of an accomplished pianist. He couldn’t help it, but already he was scanning the details of her face.

  ‘How long have you worked here, Joe?’ she said, typing. Her eyes seemed to skim over the text, her pupils darting left and right like a cat’s eyes at a fish tank. He raised the sandwich to his mouth and listened to the soft patter of her fingers on the keys. He looked down and studied her finely manicured dancing fingers.

  ‘Joe!’ she shouted. He looked up, startled. ‘You’re not talking.’ She was joking and in a heck of a mood. He saw a thinning of her lips and a gentle folding in her cheeks. She smiled and resumed typing. ‘The workshop tittle-tattle please or I’ll send you away.’

  Joe looked down at his boots. He reached out and started picking at a gash in the leather of his boot. Lola began humming, tapping her pen on the desk. It was pretty hard to look away for long and he stole another glance. He became fixated by her expression. He studied her lips, vibrating as she hummed. She read something she didn’t like and made a face then extended her index finger and ran a lock of hair over her ear. She wasn’t stunning; she was just… beautiful… endearing… in her every manner.

  He looked away at the window and could see a locomotive through the blinds. He turned and looked around the office and saw a framed photograph of an African boy up on the filing cabinet. He moved and lost the reflection of the florescent light and noticed that the child, about eight or nine, was holding a lizard towards the camera.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he asked.

  Lola looked up, then across at the cabinet. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘that’s Abasi.’

  He glanced at her.

  ‘Say “Jumbo”,’ she said. ‘It’s “hello” in Swahili.’

  ‘Really?’ He looked at the photograph.

  ‘Yes. He’s my little friend in Tanzania. I receive drawings and he writes me. He’s a nice little boy.’

  He glanced at her. ‘He writes in Swahili?’

  She giggled.

  ‘Cute kid.’

  ‘And he’s not a substitute baby,’ she said.

  He smiled. ‘I didn’t say that.’

  She looked towards the screen and began typing. ‘My mother is always on my back about that,’ she said. ‘She says I’m thirty-two and need to get a move on, and bla, bla, bla. So much pressure. A substitute baby? I have a dog for that.’

  Joe chuckled. He tapped the wiring chart against his foot and looked again at the photo. ‘You’re kind,’ he said. It was silly and he had no idea why he had said it.

  She looked blankly at him.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, a little embarrassed. ‘I was being too familiar, wasn’t I?’

  She waited. ‘That’s OK,’ she said. ‘That’s very nice of you, Joe.’

  He shrugged and glanced at the photograph. ‘You know what? I reckon there’s not many people like that,’ he said.

  ‘Like what?’

  He kept looking at the photo. ‘Like that. Giving. I’m not like that.’ He glanced at her and she seemed to hesitate.

  ‘Oh, don’t make me into something I’m not, Joe.’ She turned and started typing again. ‘Oh…maybe there’s some truth in what you say,’ she said, ‘Maybe a bit.’ She paused. ‘Thank you, Joe – that’s very kind.’

  He remained quiet.

  ‘Almost done,’ she said and glanced over at him. ‘How’s your crew?’ she said.

  Joe didn’t answer – he was thinking; she was becoming a good friend and he liked it.

  She wrote something in a folder and turned a page. She looked up.

  He gestured with the sandwich. ‘Nice lunch,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  He started playing with the chart on his lap. ‘Did you move into a good house when you got here?’ he said.

  She turned a page. ‘Yeah, I think so,’ she said, writing in the folder. ‘I took a house on the river near the bridge. I love it. The trawlers come by at dusk with their lights on and I can often see the captain at the wheel. I watch them go up until the boats are very small and disappear around the bend.’

  Joe turned and looked at the window. ‘That’s interesting,’ he said, ‘I often watch them too – in the distance, from one of my windows, I mean.’

  She reached out and put the folder on a tray. ‘I watch from my back balcony,’ she said, ‘as I sit there drinking G and Ts.’

  Joe imagined her doing it and it painted a lonely and yet content picture in his head. He had almost finished his sandwich and resorted to nibbling – he needed more time.

  ‘Word is,’ he said, ‘you worked on the Channel Tunnel.’

  Her fingers slowed and she glanced up and seemed a little surprised. ‘Who told you that?’ she said.

  He hesitated. ‘Them,’ he said.

  She smiled and continued typing. ‘And what else did them say?’

  Joe reached up and scratched his neck. ‘Oh, that you’re good at your job... They say you speak Spanish and French and Pigmy or something.’

  ‘Swahili? I don’t speak Swahili.’ She stopped typing and picked up a can of cola next to the screen. She leaned forward towards him and rested her elbows on the desk. ‘Spanish naturally.’ She sipped her cola. ‘A little French… And I studied electrical engineering in London.’

  He felt momentarily uncomfortable. She had done a lot and sometimes made him feel small with her talk of things she has done.

  She put the can down and turned to the screen and Joe listened to the keys. He picked at a bit of metal caught in the tread of his shoe; it popped out and he began rolling it between his fingers. ‘If I’m right about you,’ he said, ‘Why do you care?’ It was another risk, but he felt he now had the latitude.

  He heard her fingers slow then finally stop. It seemed she was absorbing the question, staring at the screen. ‘It would be sad to be alone,’ she said. There was a long pause. ‘When my father was five my grandfather used to walk him to school down a street in Prague. Every morning, for several months, a German soldier would walk across the street and begin beating my grandfather, for no reason. At some point, something happened – my father has never since talked about – all I know is three years later my father turned up alone in Switzerland. No one knows how he got there. He never saw his father again.’

  Joe’s mouth fell open a little and then he consciously closed it. The stuff had come from nowhere.

  She guided a lock of hair over her ear. ‘My father died a few years ago, so I guess it doesn’t matter now...’ She looked at Joe and he remained still. ‘But whatever happened to love, Joe?’ she said. ‘I don’t mean romantic love, I mean love for people.’ She looked at
the screen and stared. ‘Sometimes I act tough, but deep inside I know I am often soft and sad about many things.’

  The air seemed to hum and Joe blinked. Lola reached down and opened a drawer, looking for something. ‘I’ve got so much work to do and have to stay late,’ she muttered. She removed a stapler and closed the drawer. ‘I’ve got the house to unpack.’ She turned the handle over and started picking at a trapped staple. ‘I’ve got all these boxes in the garage with fiddly things in them…’

  Joe didn’t hesitate; he took the shot. ‘I live five minutes away,’ he said. ‘I’ll come over and shift them if you like? What about this weekend?’

  She slumped to the desk and sighed gratefully. ‘Would you? Oh, Joe, that would be wonderful.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. She rested her chin on her hands and looked at him. He had reached a level that satisfied him and felt it was now time to go. He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, my break’s over,’ he said. He placed the crust into his mouth and slowly stood. Lola straightened in her chair. ‘Thanks for the sandwich,’ he said, placing the wiring chart on her desk.

  ‘Thank you, Joe.’

  Joe turned beside the cabinet and took a good look at the photograph as he passed. He opened the door, glanced back at Lola, smiled and slowly walked out of the room.

  That weekend Joe started moving cardboard boxes around Lola’s home. He wheeled her bike into the hall and saw her unpacking things on the kitchen bench. She was wearing a tracksuit and looked more human than in the shop. He put his hands in his pockets, wandered back into the lounge, looked out the window and saw the river far below. It was an expensive house with a wonderful view, but a lesser property wouldn’t have suited her. He turned and saw the eight or nine boxes he had lined up in a row from the door. One had an old, hand-written address in Madrid on it.

  He sauntered towards her wooden coffee table and slowly sat on the floor. He could see her down the hall.

  ‘Hey,’ he called. ‘Where’s your dog?’

  She glanced at him down the hall. ‘Playing out back,’ she said. ‘You can go see him if you like. Hey, do you want a coffee?’

  Joe shrugged. ‘Sure,’ he said.

  He saw her remove two mugs from the box and start washing them. ‘How do you have it?’

  He told her. Joe glanced at a magazine on the coffee table. It was a Spanish edition, the cover depicting a place far away.

  Lola came down the hall carrying two steaming mugs then entered the room and looked at the boxes. ‘Oh, groovy,’ she said. ‘That helps me a lot.’ She reached out with the mug. ‘Here you go,’ she said.

  ‘It’s January and damned hot,’ he said. He wiped his forehead. ‘I could have done with a cold beer.’

  ‘I don’t have beer, honey,’ she said. ‘Lots of people have hot drinks in the summer, especially in the Middle East.’ She picked up a razor knife, reached for the box closest her and ran the blade across the packing tape.

  ‘You’ve been to the Middle East?’ he said.

  She sat down on the floor and placed her mug on the carpet. ‘A long time ago,’ she said. She started unpacking. ‘But I’ve done enough travelling, I think.’ She removed a few CDs and put them on the floor. ‘I want to settle,’ she said, almost absent-mindedly. ‘I hope this job works out.’ She removed a photo frame and placed it on the carpet. It showed, he guessed, Lola with her mother and brother standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. He was reminded of her father’s absence and felt a little sad.

  She reached down and slowly picked up the photograph and looked at it briefly. He raised his mug and watched her carefully through the steam and, after a moment, she put the frame back onto the floor. She pulled herself into a ball and dropped her head to her knees.

  ‘Oh, I’m so tired.’ she said.

  He sipped his coffee. ‘I’m not surprised,’ he said, putting the mug on the floor. ‘Moving’s a lot of work.’

  Lola was silent with her head down, her hair hanging over her face. ‘No…’ she finally whispered. ‘Running’s a lot of work.’

  It was an odd thing to say and there was silence. He looked down and picked at the rim of his mug. ‘Um, are you OK?’ he said.

  She waited. ‘I guess so,’ she said.

  He glanced at the photo. ‘Lola?’ he said. ‘Why did you leave Europe?’

  She slowly raised her head and he saw her eyes were wet. He glanced away; he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear what was coming. In his periphery, he saw her wipe her cheek with the back of her hand. Suddenly, she laid back between the boxes and disappeared, leaving only her legs visible. Her foot rose to the wall and her big toe began doodling, drawing imaginary pictures on the plasterboard. He sipped, watching her toe drawing through the steam. He saw a flash of her elbow as she brushed hair from her face.

  ‘You want to know why I left?’ she asked.

  He licked his lips. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘If you want to tell me.’

  She was silent for some time behind the boxes, with her foot up on the wall. ‘Everybody has their stories,’ she said. ‘But mostly, Joe, I guess I just needed to get out. A while ago I was into stupid things – the party scene, stuff like that. The nightclubs, the DJs, the dealers – everyone knows each other. I took. All my friends took. Things go on in the toilets... There’s after parties and staying awake all weekend. One day I realised I was done. I had to get out. The drugs had to go; the after parties had to go; the bullsh—t friends had to go. But it’s impossible to disengage from the lifestyle because of your friends. So, one day, I just vanished. I left town and got on a plane.’

  Joe scratched his face. The girl had guts. It was a brave move just telling him.

  ‘Now, I’ve started a new life,’ she said. ‘I choose my friends consciously and fill my life with positive things.’

  He swallowed and kept quiet. Lola waited about twenty seconds, her foot drawing on the wall. Finally, she cleared her throat.

  ‘Since I was a child,’ she said, ‘my father always criticised me. He told me I was too short and too fat and that I was stupid. He never said I was beautiful, that he was proud of me. Later, I discovered people wanted me and it’s now those I’ve left behind.’ Her drawing foot began to slow. ‘I made mistakes, Joe. I often bragged about my conquests, even to my boyfriends, parading my old lovers around like trophies.’ Her foot stopped. ‘That man, Joe, my f—king father, humiliated me. He made me feel ugly – like a whore – and I grew up feeling inadequate.’

  Joe’s eyes widened.

  ‘See, Joe, our parent’s words go straight to our hearts and shape who we are. Never forget that.’

  He raised his mug, sipped and swallowed his coffee. ‘Don’t worry, Lola,’ he said. ‘Everyone loves you here.’

  There was more silence. It was clear she yearned for someone to talk to, like she could only now speak openly because she was away from the people she knew.

  ‘I needed my father to say that, Joe,’ she said, ‘before he died.’ Her voice was almost breaking. ‘See, humiliation is contagious – I guess you can catch it like a cold and pass it on. My father saw his father beaten every day then never saw him again. He was just a little boy. So, who do I blame, Joe? Whose fault is it?’

  Joe looked down and blinked at his cup. He felt like he’d been hit by a train. The mug possessed a suddenly clarity, just like things did the night he had watched the river from the balcony of the Victorian hotel.

  ‘Joe,’ she said. ‘If in future I say anything silly, it may be because of a few of these things. Do you understand?’

  He was yearning for her so much it started hurt. He was beginning to care for her – there was no doubt.

  ‘But, I’m better now,’ she said behind the box. ‘My father passed away and I picked myself up and here I am, in your beautiful country. Already, I feel fresh and new like I have a real chance.’

  Joe rested his hands on his knees, holding the mug. He felt like he wanted to stay all day, slowly peeling away her layers. It wasn’t fair she was doi
ng all the talking and he knew he would soon have to cough up his own. Not easy; he wasn’t ready.

  ‘I like your past,’ he said and stared at his drink. ‘It’s made you independent and brave.’ It felt OK to say it, and soon the uncomfortable moment had passed. ‘I am sorry that happened to you,’ he said. ‘Remember – what happened wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ she said quickly.

  Joe shrugged. ‘Of course not,’ he said.

  She hesitated. ‘Joe, do you know how to dispose of a lover you don’t want?’

  He knew it well – you just told them it was time.

  ‘If they fall in love with you,’ she said. ‘How you push them away?’

  He pondered and was pretty sure he had never been in love. ‘I’ve never thought about it,’ he said.

  ‘You shatter the romance,’ she said. ‘You talk about other lovers. You drop in an anecdote here and there and laugh and remind them of other partners. After all, you’re only telling the truth. And the kinkier, the better. There was one boyfriend… I didn’t stop. He was a paramedic and had seen many bad things, but my teasing had a bigger effect than I had expected.’ She paused and rested her leg on the carpet. She was being pretty hard on herself. ‘He was ready for something,’ she said, ‘but I bragged – especially about multiple partners at once.’

  Joe looked left and right. He replayed the sentence.

  ‘If you keep that up,’ she said, ‘all seems fine then one day they just break up with you.’

  Joe looked down at a box and stared. He pondered his history. He had had his share but this was outside of his experience.

  Chr—t, he thought, life’s full of surprises.

  ‘Make a partner feel sexually inadequate,’ she said, ‘and the relationship’s going to end – make no mistake. Believe me – love won’t make a bit of difference.’

  Joe blinked. He looked down and quietly kicked his boots together.

  ‘Years later he wrote me,’ she said. ‘He said he’d seen a psychiatrist and told me he was better. He apologised for not being open-minded enough and said he had experimented and now understood.’

  The room seemed to hum. Joe wasn’t sure if she should be telling him. ‘Good for him,’ he said, his heart beating a little. ‘I know it’s bugging you, but don’t worry about it.’

  She sniffed behind the box. There was silence then she sniffed again. He placed his cup down on the coffee table and moved forward to comfort her.

  ‘Stay back!’ she snapped. He stopped dead. ‘Just leave me alone for a second,’ she said, her voice quavering.

  Joe slowly sat back on the carpet and picked up his coffee.

  ‘Lola,’ he said. ‘It depends on what type of man he was.’ He tried to picture a soft man he once knew. ‘Was he the intimate romantic type?’

  She answered instantly. ‘Yes,’ she said. There was more silence. ‘The truth is he only wanted to show me he cared,’ she said. ‘But I shattered his romantic heart.’ The silence was loud and lasted a long time. ‘But I have a second chance, now,’ she said. ‘That’s what you see when I laugh – it’s humility. It’s relief. It’s a person that has forgiven herself.’

  He looked down and picked at the carpet. He heard her giggle and it was nice to hear.

  ‘I even had a small tattoo put on my shoulder blade to remind me of the journey,’ she said. She paused then giggled a little more.

  ‘A tattoo?’ he said. ‘A symbol or something?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘A word – so I won’t forget the tough times.’

  He paused, thinking if he should ask.

  Lola cleared her throat. ‘I have told no one of these things, Joe,’ she said. ‘You are my friend and part of my new start.’

  Joe knew, if he ever got the chance, he would defend her and protect her to the end.

  Lola sat up and appeared from behind the box. Her eyes were wet but drying and some hair was stuck to her cheek. ‘But time heals,’ she said positively, brushed the hair away. ‘Do you know that? There’s hope. You can learn and get things right.’ She picked up her mug, sipped and her smile started to return. ‘One day I will need a man with a history who will understand me,’ she said. ‘I wish, in time, to create my own sanctuary at home. I want children and will teach them how to live.’ She smiled and Joe sucked in his bottom lip. ‘See,’ she said. She looked down and peered into her drink. ‘Everything will be all right, if you only show courage and are a good person, don’t you think?’

  He stared at her. He had never met anyone like Lola.

  ‘I’m sorry I barked at you before,’ she said.

  He slowly shook his head. ‘No… don’t apologise.’

  She reached down and played with her big toe. It was a good time to change subjects, and she did. ‘And you?’ she said. ‘What about your life and your family?’

  He blinked. He sat up straight and cleared his throat. ‘I think my parents were fairly decent. My father was strong-willed and my mother pretty kind.’ He started playing with his boot, realising now he was copying her fidgeting. ‘I’m very lucky, I guess.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, solely nodding. ‘You are.’ She looked up at the wall painting. ‘Do you have brothers or sisters?’

  He glanced up. ‘No brothers. Three sisters.’

  ‘Ha!’ she said.

  Joe giggled. ‘What?’

  ‘I think I know your type,’ she said. ‘You’re the protective brother – but you’re not a saint.’

  He smiled. ‘You got that right.’

  Lola giggled. ‘And Joe?’ she said quietly. ‘Why aren’t you married?’

  He hesitated. ‘Excuse me?’ The sentence seemed to echo in the room. ‘Well, I guess… I don’t know…’ But then, quite suddenly, he felt his heart opening. ‘In truth I don’t really know why. I just never felt that way.’

  She looked down at her feet and nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I understand. It’s a rare thing.’

  The conversation fell silent. Lola waited a few seconds then laid back on the carpet and disappeared again. ‘I’d like to have a little girl one day,’ she said, behind the box. Her toe rose up to the wall again and began drawing...

  The couple continued talking all afternoon. The light gradually dimmed but the tone remained honest and understanding. Eventually, the discussion reached a natural end and Joe put his cup, long since empty, up on the coffee table. He stood to leave and felt a little light-headed – like walking out of a theatre after a good movie. She stood, brushed her hair back and they gently hugged like new friends.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said. ‘See you on Monday.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘See you then.’

  Joe slowly walked out the door and down the stairs. He crossed the lawn, rubbing his eyes, and pulled up at his utility. He looked back at the house and saw Lola move up to the window. She rested her elbows onto the sill and waited, staring, then smiled her glorious heart-melting smile. Lola, he thought – a woman with a history and a maturity that can only come from making mistakes. What an amazing pull.