A Woman Like Her

by Levy, Marc

  While she had waited for him, Claude had offered her a glass of champagne, then another, and then a third. Before she got really drunk, though her mind was already a bit cloudy, he had sat down across from her and ordered dinner for the two of them. The owner of Claudette’s had taken pity on her, and pity was something that Chloe could no longer stand, not from Julius or from anyone else.

  She didn’t want to hear his voice. With her cell phone in hand, she waited for the automated greeting to finish, and then she left a message.

  “I’ve been wrong so many times, it’s pathetic. I was wrong about how much I could put up with while we pretended to still be together. I was wrong about the way I should put my life back together and wrong about what I hoped to get out of our relationship. I was wrong to feel like I owed you something—I was wrong about us and especially about me. But that’s it, I don’t want to be wrong anymore, ever. Meet me in the park tomorrow. I know you don’t have class between three and four. I’ll give you back the few things you left here and, along with them, your freedom. I’m taking mine back. Goodbye, Schopenhauer.”

  The next day, Chloe entered Washington Square Park at three p.m. As she came down the path, she saw someone other than Julius seated on the bench.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “He won’t come,” Sanji said with a sigh, closing his book.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Last night when you called, I didn’t have the heart to tell you that you’d dialed the wrong number.”

  16

  “Why did you stay with this man if you were wrong about everything?” Sanji asked.

  “Because he stayed with me, and because I had gone through so much physically that I didn’t want to risk any other kind of suffering.”

  “Is his name really Schopenhauer?”

  “Unless he’s changed it since yesterday.”

  “It’s pretty brave to fall in love with a guy with a name like that. Or maybe just extremely masochistic.”

  “What does his name have to do with how I may or may not feel about him?”

  “Schopenhauer’s essay on women is even more misogynistic than the misogyny embedded in my country’s collective unconscious.”

  “I was with the copy, not the original. You’ve actually read Schopenhauer?”

  “Does that surprise you because I’m from Mumbai? I don’t blame you—I’m always pleasantly surprised whenever a Westerner’s view of India extends beyond an image of sacred cows and mango chutney.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “But you implied it.”

  “You’re a fine one to be lecturing me. Which one of us is a barefaced liar, after all?”

  “If I had told you my appointment was in the opposite direction from yours, you would have felt like you owed me something. And as I think I learned from the message you left last night, you don’t like to feel that way.”

  “You know very well I wasn’t thinking about that, and by the way, if you ever hope to speak to me again, let’s agree that that phone call never happened.”

  “Okay, and then you can tell me which of us is the bigger liar. But never mind that, what matters is that you agree to see me again, even though you know I’m just a lowly elevator operator.”

  “It would be hard not to see you again, now that you work in my building.”

  “Oh, I would hate for you to feel obliged to see me. I’ll go back to calling you ‘miss,’ and you’ll only hear from me if you need my services. Sorry about the wrong number . . . I won’t mention it again, I promise.”

  “Chloe, not ‘miss’!” she called after Sanji as he left.

  And she watched him until he turned a corner and disappeared from sight.

  Deepak looked at his watch, hoping Sanji would be on time. His wish was granted, give or take five minutes.

  “I did my best,” his nephew protested breathlessly.

  “I wasn’t going to say anything. After midnight, and only after making sure that everyone was home, of course, Rivera would usually get some rest behind the desk. But set an alarm so you can be presentable starting at six thirty. Sometimes Mr. Williams goes out to buy the newspaper around six forty-five. Don’t worry, your nights will be less tiring than my days.”

  “Except that I work during the daytime, too.”

  “Rivera spends his days visiting his wife in the nursing home, and believe me, judging by his state afterward, it’s not at all restful. He’s forty years older than you, so you should be able to manage.”

  “Would it hurt to say ‘thank you’?”

  “You should know that some silences speak louder than unnecessary words. See you tomorrow. I leave the place in your hands.”

  Deepak went down to the basement. Rivera had been mistaken in thinking that the owners’ behavior would go back to normal as soon as his replacement had started. Their unusual unfriendliness troubled him more and more. Mrs. Williams, an expert in cutting remarks, had casually tossed one off to him as she left the elevator. “It’s a miracle, as Mrs. Zeldoff would be quick to point out. Finding an elevator operator at the last minute is nothing short of astounding. And what a coincidence, he’s from India! I guess there aren’t any qualified workers in America anymore?”

  Deepak’s instincts had rarely been wrong, and he decided to get to the bottom of this. After putting away his uniform, he went to the little area across from the storeroom where a VCR recorded the surveillance camera footage between eleven p.m. and seven a.m. One camera was aimed at the sidewalk under the awning, the second displayed the service entrance, and the third was in the basement hallway. Ever since the surveillance equipment had been installed twenty years ago, nothing significant had happened. The co-op kept a set of six old VHS cassettes that Deepak rotated.

  He sat in front of the monitor, inserted the first one, and fast-forwarded it. As he watched the tape from the previous Wednesday, he was stupefied to see Mrs. Collins enter his storeroom in her dressing gown, armed with a spray bottle. He had no idea what substance it contained, but you didn’t have to be a private eye to figure out what it had been used for. This evidence was enough to clear his name, but after thinking about it for a few minutes, Deepak rewound the cassette and left it in the machine. That night’s recording would erase all traces of this unexpected visit, and he would remain the only witness.

  Deepak left shortly afterward. It was too late to go see Rivera, so he went straight home.

  Mr. Morrison had gotten home safe and sound. Following Deepak’s advice, Sanji had not said anything more than a simple hello.

  It was soon midnight, and he let out a big yawn. He put his feet up on the desk and leaned back in the chair. As it proved impossible to fall asleep, Sanji brainstormed ways to kill time. He found a notepad and a pencil that he chewed on for quite a while as he chose his words.

  At one a.m., he went up to the ninth floor, stepped over the three-inch gap between the elevator and the landing, and slid a folded piece of paper under the door. He went back down and dozed off around three a.m., lying in the middle of the lobby with his arms outstretched.

  The Day I Smelled the Roses

  Dad came back in the early afternoon with no explanation. I was at the living room window. Whenever he asks me why I spend so much time with my face pressed to the glass, I reply that looking at the street is good for me. This is a total mystery to him. The real reason is because that’s where I like to write, and I look out at the street each time I need to take a break. And every time he finds me there, I hide my notebook. Why not tell him I keep a journal? Because a journal is a secret garden, that’s why. But that day, Dad was upset with me for staying indoors. “I want you to go get some air—in fact, I don’t want to see you back here for at least two hours!”

  I stared at him in astonishment. Even when I was a teenager, he never ordered me to do anything. Why was it suddenly so important for me to clear out? I casually asked if he had a girlfriend. Then he was the one who looke
d surprised—he didn’t see the connection! I wasn’t going to spell it out for him.

  Since I’d been kicked out, I wheeled my way through the park. First I went around the fountain, and then I went over to the bench where I used to sit and listen to a trumpet player who played almost every afternoon. Sometimes, to win over his listeners, he even played two trumpets at once. A real virtuoso!

  It was late spring, and the roses were in bloom. Floribunda, Gentle Hermione, The Pilgrim, James Galway, Queen of Sweden: I could smell every variety. I was alive.

  When I got back home, I thanked my father and asked him again if he had a girlfriend. Before he could answer, I left and went to sit by the window in my room.

  17

  “Seriously? This is too much,” Sam griped.

  “What? I’m right on time!” said Sanji, dropping his bag onto Sam’s desk.

  “To start with, you could’ve changed. You’re wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and you haven’t shaved.”

  “Sorry, didn’t have time,” Sanji replied with a big yawn.

  “That’s not all!”

  “What now?”

  “Did you join the Queen’s Guard? What’s with the ridiculous hat?”

  Sanji looked up and realized he had forgotten to take off the cap that went with his uniform.

  “Okay, I get it. You had a wild night and didn’t get home till dawn. I hope it was worth it.”

  “Let’s just say I didn’t sleep well, or very much.”

  “Who with?” taunted Sam, leaning over his desk.

  “It’s too complicated to explain, and it’s not what you think.”

  “That’s what the wife’s lover says when the husband finds him hiding in the closet.”

  “Why do you Americans always think everyone is lying?”

  “So I’m right. What’s her name?”

  “Otis.”

  “Is that a woman’s name?”

  “An elevator’s.”

  “Are you all this crazy in Mumbai? You spent the night in an elevator?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “You know, if it gets stuck, there’s an emergency button.”

  “Who said it was stuck?”

  Sam took an electric razor out of his drawer and handed it to Sanji.

  “Go clean yourself up in the bathroom. Our meeting is in fifteen minutes—try to look presentable and take off that hat!”

  During the meeting, Sam did his best to highlight the qualities of their project, the amazing profits that could be expected, and the fabulous access to the Indian market. Meanwhile, Sanji yawned continually. And when Sanji slipped him a note under the table, Sam almost choked in the middle of his sentence and wondered seriously if his friend was on something. He put the paper in his pocket and tried to finish his presentation as best he could.

  After escorting his clients out, Sam found Sanji lying on his desk with his eyes closed.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Please, just let me rest a few minutes.”

  “Was this Otis woman really so amazing? What’s the meaning of this message you gave me during the meeting?”

  “What did you think of it?”

  “It’s ridiculous.”

  “Really?” Sanji asked worriedly, jumping up from the desk.

  “‘The only unforgivable thing is not to forgive.’ Did you come up with that on your own?”

  “I think I read it somewhere. It sounds good, and it makes a lot of sense, don’t you think?”

  “No, but I forgive you anyway. Try to be in better shape tomorrow.”

  “The message wasn’t for you, idiot. You have more experience with women than I do. I wasn’t sure, so I wanted your opinion.”

  “Wasn’t sure about what?” Sam asked.

  “She hasn’t decided yet if she’ll agree to speak to me again, so I wrote to her.”

  “You didn’t spend the night outside her apartment, I hope? That would be pathetic. And what did you do to make her so mad?”

  “I don’t know if it’s the lie or my job that bothers her.”

  “Maybe she just didn’t like your hat. What did you lie about?”

  “I could’ve explained it to her, but I didn’t want to anymore after seeing her reaction.”

  “Explain what?” Sam asked, annoyed.

  “Haven’t you ever dreamed of making a woman like you without projecting or pretending or justifying anything—just by being yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Can I sleep here for a little while? I won’t bother you, I promise.”

  Sam looked at Sanji seriously.

  “Look around and tell me if anything in this room makes you think it’s a hotel room. No? Well, that’s because my office isn’t a fun house, and I still have a boss, in case you’ve forgotten. The day is over—you can just go back home.”

  “Too bad, I’ll find some other way.” Sanji sighed.

  He left, stumbling from fatigue, as Sam watched in dismay.

  He had an hour before his shift started, just enough time to get to Spanish Harlem and freshen up and change, but he would have to see Lali, and having a conversation was more than he could handle. He walked two blocks, entered Washington Square Park, and collapsed onto the first bench he saw.

  Sanji heard a quiet whirring noise. He sat up, half opened his eyes, and saw Chloe’s wheelchair disappear down a nearby path. He rubbed his face and, putting his hand on his stomach, found a piece of paper that read:

  Humor is essential.

  I like your idea a lot.

  Sanji put the note in his pocket and ran to 5th Avenue. Seeing his reflection in a window, he started to fret about his appearance. Sprawled out on a bench, in his rumpled clothing, he couldn’t have been any less attractive. He avoided the lobby, slipped into the service entrance, and, after putting on his uniform, joined Deepak.

  “What about your cap?” his uncle asked.

  “Sorry, I forgot it.”

  “Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. In the meantime, take mine. It seems that you also forgot to take a shower.”

  The night had been calm. Sanji was waiting for the last of his charges to return. Mr. Morrison staggered into the lobby, then went back out under the awning and started wandering off in the other direction. Sanji came to his rescue as he was about to cross the street.

  “Do you like Haydn?” Mr. Morrison asked with a hiccup.

  “Don’t know him.”

  “It was horrific. A shitty performance, if you ask me. And the face that bass player made every time he moved his bow was ridiculous. Let’s go out. I know a great little bar.”

  “How about we get you to bed, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Well, young man, I think we have a misunderstanding here. I don’t even know you. Who are you anyway?” he questioned as Sanji pulled him along firmly toward the elevator.

  “Your nighttime elevator operator.”

  “I don’t know what’s going on in this damn building—they told me they were putting in buttons. But no one told me which one I should press.”

  Sanji closed the gate and turned the handle. As the elevator went up, Mr. Morrison slowly slid down the wall.

  “Three sentences—I only said three sentences, not a lullaby,” Sanji groaned as he lifted him up.

  He put him down on the landing and tried several keys on the key ring that Deepak had given him before finding the right one. Inside the apartment, he wondered which door led to the bedroom. There was no way Mr. Morrison could tell him. The third one was the right one, and he laid him out on the bed. When Mr. Morrison gave a little moan, Sanji took pity on him and removed his shoes. The worn heels of his socks and his big toes poking out of them said much about the stout little man’s lonely life. Sanji managed to work off his jacket, adjusted the pillows, covered him with a blanket, and left.

  Passing by the bathroom, he hesitated for a moment and decided he should risk it. The shower was revitalizing. He grabbed a clean towe
l from a shelf and dried himself off.

  It was hard to resist the call of the living room couch since his back was aching after a night sleeping on the marble floor of the lobby.

  Sanji set the alarm on his cell phone and placed it right next to his ear. Before closing his eyes, he wondered if Chloe would decide to leave the apartment one evening soon. What good was it playing elevator operator if she stayed shut in at home? And what was this idea she liked? He hoped he could ask her soon.

  At four a.m., Mr. Morrison’s bladder led him to the bathroom. He heard snoring in the living room and he had a vision of an Indian man sleeping on the couch in his underwear. Mr. Morrison blinked twice and told himself that he should probably ease up on the drinking a little.

  18

  Deepak was intrigued to find his nephew looking fresh and well rested.

  “Did you abandon your position last night?”

  “Not for a second,” Sanji assured him solemnly.

  “Then your hair must be like that self-cleaning oven Lali dreams of, and which I hope to give her one day. Never mind. I brought you some clean clothes—it was your aunt’s idea,” he explained, handing him a bag. “I’ll stay later tonight. She asked me to, so you can have a little break. You can come take over for me around eight.”

  Leaving the building, Sanji looked up toward the top-floor windows. He thought he saw Chloe and waved to her.

  She backed away from the window, holding in her hand the little note she had just found under her door.

  I don’t know what idea you were talking about, but I’ve had a better one. Meet me at 5:30 in the park, and please don’t hesitate to wake me up this time.

  Sanji

  “You have a nice name. I’ve never heard it before,” Chloe said, joining Sanji, who was waiting for her on the bench.