The Hunter and Other Stories of Men

by David Cohen

  He looked out the window again. The wind was blowing hard now, and the brassiere rippled and snapped like the flag of a distant country where he longed to live out his days. The washing machine had just commenced its spin cycle; he had nearly ten more minutes to wait. Angus looked away from the window, casting around for some sort of distraction. He grabbed his box of washing powder and read aloud the words printed on the side.

  Cold Water Surf ’s formulation dissolves faster, even in short cycles and cold water conditions. As a result, Cold Water Surf gets to work quicker and rinses away easily, leaving your clothes outstandingly fresh & clean, without powder residue.

  But it was as if Angus himself were a sock being flipped about the drum of a washing machine; he seemed to be at the mercy of a greater force. He got up and gazed through the window slats. This time he didn’t just contemplate the bra – he stared at it almost hungrily.

  The next thing he knew, he was standing directly beneath the Hills Hoist, which creaked as the wind spun it around. The bra passed his eyes once, twice, three times. He looked up at his bedroom window, directly above the laundry, half expecting to see his own face staring down in disapproval. He looked at Henry’s window next door; as usual, the shutters were closed, but he could hear Henry coughing up his morning phlegm. Angus turned his attention to the back fence, and then to the fences separating the neighbouring blocks from his own. He saw a smoke-coloured cat creeping along the top of the wooden fence posts on one side, paying Angus no attention whatsoever.

  Angus stood there until the Hills Hoist completed another revolution, and then, in one quick, fluid movement, he unpegged the bra, scrunched it up and plunged it into the pocket of his tracksuit pants.

  He went straight back into the laundry, locked the door and arranged an old towel over the window slats. He removed the bra from his pocket and held it up in front of his eyes: a sensible, functional-looking garment, now frayed and stretched from prolonged exposure to the elements, but it inflamed him more than an entire clothes line’s worth of frilly knickers. He placed the bra on top of the washing machine and pushed his tracksuit pants and boxer shorts to his ankles. He looked down at his fully erect organ; in the confined space of the laundry, it seemed huge. Then he picked up the bra and placed one cup over his face, inhaling deeply as if it were an oxygen mask. He could smell the faint echo of washing powder, but beneath that he thought he detected an even fainter echo of sweet womanly perfume. He repeated this procedure with the other cup, picturing nipples the colour of dried apricots, feeling Ramona’s warm breath (he liked to think that her name was Ramona) as she whispered ‘I love you, Angus!’ in his ear. His free hand moved back and forth until it became a blur, a machine pumping in furious counterpoint to the chug-chug-chug of the spin cycle. Angus turned from the machine to face the wall against which the gardening implements leaned. He caressed his face with the bra cups and stroked for all he was worth, breathing fast, every so often emitting a throaty grunt. Then he gasped ‘Ramona!’ and ejaculated over a shovel. The spin-dry cycle was still going.

  When he got his breath back, Angus wiped himself with another towel from the pile of unclaimed washing and pulled up his pants. He crept back outside and hurriedly repegged the bra, more or less in the place he’d found it. Back in the laundry, the machine had finally come to a stop, and Angus extracted his washing from its humid mouth. He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination, but his clothes really did look outstandingly fresh and clean. He quickly hung them on the line and headed back to the flat, only to encounter Troy, wearing thongs, shorts and a duffel coat, coming down the stairs carrying his own basket of laundry. Angus was surprised to see someone – Troy, of all people – actually doing his washing, but he mumbled a greeting. Troy made a vaguely intelligible noise in response, and they went their separate ways.

  Back inside his unit, Angus stood at the bedroom window in a state of post-coital somnolence, looking out at the Hills Hoist as if regarding a lover. The wind had died down and now the brassiere dangled limply from its single plastic peg, as if it too was spent and passive.

  As he gazed down on this little scene, Angus saw Troy emerge from the laundry, look around with exaggerated nonchalance, and then remove the bra from the washing line. He carried it back into the laundry, like a bear dragging its quarry into a cave. Angus heard moans emanating from directly beneath his feet: the sound of a twenty-year-old man in the throes of passion. Some minutes later, the moaning stopped and Troy reappeared outside. Once again he surveyed the empty yard, and then withdrew the bra from the pocket of his duffel coat and reattached it to the line. He went back into the laundry, emerging again half an hour later with his basket full of freshly laundered clothes, which he proceeded to hang on the line, whistling merrily all the while.

  Almost as soon as Troy had returned to his flat, Henry appeared with a bulging green plastic garbage bag slung over his shoulder. Sure enough, after a short time in the laundry, Henry came out, unclipped the bra from the line and disappeared back inside. Angus became aware of the sound of heavy breathing, although this time the breathing was more laboured and culminated in an explosion of coughing. Half an hour later, Henry lumbered out of the laundry and pegged the contents of his green plastic bag on the Hills Hoist.

  For the rest of the morning, Angus stood by his bedroom window, watching as the residents of the block – Mario, Chris, the two men who wore ties to work, even Colin – appeared, one by one, to do their washing. The block appeared to have awoken from a prolonged slumber: the laundry was once again a hive of communal activity, and the Hills Hoist fairly sang with joy. Angus, meanwhile, felt ever more despondent. He wanted to turn from the window, to look away, but he could not. He was caught in the grip of emotions he couldn’t quite identify. All he knew right then was that he despised those other men, he despised Ramona, and, most of all, he despised himself.

  THE ARCHIVE

  As things stand, there are four possibilities.

  (1) The courier will show up

  (2) The courier won’t show up

  (3) Someone else will show up

  (4) Someone else won’t show up.

  If the courier shows up, the Archive could be in danger. If the courier doesn’t show up, the Archive could be in danger.

  I haven’t had time to think about (3) or (4).

  The trouble began weeks ago – or was it months? I lose track of time here in the Archive, just like I did at the archive I oversaw for so many years as a younger man. That was a very big archive; this one is very small: a personal project. But I believe that, once complete, it will be of great interest to the archiving community, and to the general public.

  Things had been proceeding smoothly enough, as far as the courier was concerned: she’d show up each day, hand me a box and leave. I’d remove the contents and add them to the Archive. The following day she’d return with another box. And so it went.

  So … Where was I? Yes – that particular day, weeks ago, or possibly months ago, the courier’s van pulled up in the driveway. I couldn’t see it from the back room, which is where the Archive is located, but I always knew when she’d arrived because I could hear the creak as she opened the back of the van. It’s extraordinarily quiet around here, so the creak sounds extraordinarily loud. I emerged from the back room, carefully locked the door behind me and made my way across the front room, over to the window. I parted the curtains and watched as the courier retrieved that day’s box from the back of the van.

  As usual, I opened the door before she could knock. She stood there holding the box, but before handing it to me she paused, looked into the front room and said, ‘Christ, this place is a mess.’

  Now, I ask you: what sort of a statement is that for a courier to make? And before we go any further I want to say that, yes, I would have been more comfortable had she been a he. Women couriers are probably not uncommon now, but in my day, when I oversaw the big archive, couriers were men: men in crisp uniforms and neat caps, men who never showed t
he slightest bit of interest in the condition of a room. Nor should they have. No, couriers back then were a discreet bunch: to hell with intimate talk or small talk or any talk. Get in, deliver the goods and get out – that was the name of the game.

  ‘I think we need to have a tidy-up,’ the courier said.

  I said, ‘You’re not being paid to think – at least, not to think about cleaning.’

  The courier snorted. ‘Paid! Yeah, right!’

  This was such an odd turn of events I didn’t know what else to say. She remained on the doorstep while I conveyed the box to the special bench where I always placed incoming boxes; the moment I was alone once more, I would remove the contents and transfer them to the Archive.

  I didn’t like the way she stood there, studying my front room. What was she looking at? What was she looking for?

  ‘I must get back to work,’ I said.

  She left, finally. I watched, through the curtains, her slow retreat. She looked back at the house once before climbing into her van and driving away.

  I keep looking through the gap in the curtains, waiting for the van to appear on the crest of the big hill, vanish for a moment, then reappear on the crest of the smaller hill. I can then watch it all the way from there to my door – except for when it disappears again briefly, behind the front hedge.

  I’ve always intended relocate the Archive from the back of my home to larger, more secure premises. Now I fear it may be too late.

  The courier could come at any time – if she’s coming – regardless of what time she normally comes. I can’t for the life of me recall what time she normally comes. It occurs to me that I’ve been so deeply immersed in the Archive, the courier is my only connection with what passes for the outside world. I’ve always suspected that the outside world is overrated; the courier has confirmed this suspicion.

  The day after the trouble began – I think it was the day after – things unfolded in a similar fashion: the courier lingering on the doorstep, surveying the front room, and then saying something about a ‘tidy-up’. But this time she added, ‘Smells like something died in there.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ I said.

  ‘Jesus. You’re not even aware of it anymore, are you?’

  I said nothing; I just waited, patiently, for her to hand over the box. How I missed the uniform- and-cap-wearing, boundary-observing couriers of yesteryear! The young have no respect for us anymore. My own daughter, the moment she turned sixteen, stopped listening to a word I said; I became irrelevant overnight. She left home soon after that – couldn’t wait to be shot of us, of me. That was way back in … I wonder what happened to her.

  ‘And all this stuff.’ She surveyed the room again. ‘Chairs, tables, lamps, old books. The room’s totally chockers. Umbrellas, hats – I don’t know how you can move.’

  What was going on here? Why her interest in my front room?

  ‘I move perfectly well,’ I said.

  ‘You can’t live like this forever,’ she said. ‘No, sooner or later we’re going to have to have a –’

  ‘My box,’ I said. ‘Please.’

  To my relief, she relinquished it. I noticed, for the first time, her long – indeed, elegant – fingers. This came as a surprise: the rest of her was neither long nor elegant.

  I carefully transferred the box to the receiving bench. It seemed slightly heavier than usual. When I turned around, I noticed her looking at the pearl-handled letter opener sitting on the bench.

  ‘I remember that,’ she said. ‘From way back.’

  From way back? I couldn’t fathom it, but nor did I desire to prolong the conversation any further. I wanted to be alone again, in the Archive, behind the locked door.

  ‘I’m … I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.’

  She looked at the knife again. Then she looked at me, studying my face in the same way she’d studied the room – as if waiting for something to reveal itself.

  ‘Okay,’ she said at last. ‘Same time tomorrow.’

  I couldn’t go back to my work until her van had disappeared over the big hill.

  I remain torn by at least two conflicting anxieties. If the courier doesn’t show up, it means I won’t get today’s box. If I don’t get today’s box, I can’t carry on with the archiving. If I can’t carry on with the archiving, I have no purpose. Once I begin a project – especially a project this important – I can’t stop until I finish it, or it finishes me.

  But then, if she does show up, the Archive may be in jeopardy in another way, which directly involves the courier, because I’m convinced that she’s out to do harm. The question is: why would she be delivering the boxes that keep the project going, only to sabotage the project? This is a contradiction I cannot unravel. All I know is, I must complete my work before … before what? I can’t recall right now: I just know I need to complete it.

  The courier’s next visit saw us engaging in the same bit of back-and-forth about having a tidy-up. At that point, I’d assumed this was going to be a regular exchange: a game I couldn’t quite understand, and one which, as with all games, I had no desire to play.

  But this time, rather than delivering her remarks from the doorstep, she crossed the threshold – right into my front room, if you please! I, in turn, made my way back to the Archive door and placed myself between it and her. The door was locked, as always, but I felt an instinctive need to guard the sanctum sanctorum.

  ‘Man,’ the courier said, ‘it smells worse every day.’

  ‘Then why come in?’ I said. I confess I was stung by her comment, but that was the least of my problems just now.

  The courier studied me with the same odd searching expression I’d noticed on her face the previous day, or at some previous time.

  ‘Seems to be coming from there,’ she said. Now she was looking directly at the door to the sanctum sanctorum. For a moment I thought she was going to try to enter. Let her, I thought: I have the only key.

  ‘The box.’ I took a few steps towards her. ‘Please.’

  Instead of handing me the box, she placed it on the receiving bench herself. I recall thinking: I must find another courier as soon as possible.

  She picked up the letter opener from the bench and studied it carefully.

  ‘Yeah.’ She smiled. ‘I totally remember this handle.’

  ‘Please put that down.’ I was feeling a bit weak. Hardly surprising: I’d lost all interest in food – in eating it, at least. Funny to think that as a younger man, back in the days when I managed the big archive, there was nothing I enjoyed more than a good veal schnitzel, served up with cabbage rolls, creamed spinach infused with garlic, some crumbed mushrooms perhaps, and maybe a nice big wedge of cheesecake for dessert. I’ll never forget the time I took my daughter to my favourite Hungarian restaurant, and – she must have been no more than five years old at the time – she looked up at me as I ordered dish after steaming dish, and said … she said … Well, the precise words escape me, but it was very clever and insightful.

  But I digress. I was feeling uneasy and a bit weak, so I retreated to my smoking chair, next to my smoking table: an Art Deco piece, the surface of which once gleamed like a black mirror.

  ‘And that table,’ the courier said. ‘I remember that too.’

  ‘I expect you would,’ I said. ‘You see it every day.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I mean from ages ago – the dim and distant past.’

  I began to wonder if she was on drugs, which wouldn’t have surprised me at all.

  She continued talking but I’d stopped listening. I reached for my cigarettes only to discover that, while there were many things on the smoking table, there were no cigarettes. Nor were there matches. The ashtray, connected to the table by means of a curved, tubular metal arm, contained no ash and clearly hadn’t for a long time.

  When, I wondered, did I give up smoking?

  I continue to watch the hill.

  The day the courier entered my front room and picked up the letter op
ener marked a turning point. After that day she continued to stroll right in, as if, having crossed the threshold once, she now had some claim to my home.

  ‘You don’t need to do that,’ I said the next time she deposited the box on the receiving bench.

  ‘It’s no problem,’ she replied. ‘You should save your strength – you look like you’ve lost weight.’

  ‘You don’t,’ I said.

  She laughed. ‘Charming. Every now and then something comes out and I know it’s you.’

  I said, ‘I have no time for your nonsense today.’

  She ignored this and began circumnavigating the room. ‘What exactly are you archiving, anyway?’

  ‘The contents of the boxes are my business,’ I said.

  Now she was approaching the door to the sanctum sanctorum, sniffing the air, grimacing. Someone else I once knew used to grimace in exactly the same way. I could quite clearly recall the grimace, but not the person.

  ‘It doesn’t do your face any favours when you screw it up like that,’ I said.

  The courier laughed again. ‘It’s all in there somewhere, isn’t it?’ She wagged her finger at me. ‘It’s all in there somewhere.’

  I breathed a bit more easily when she bypassed the Archive door and continued moving about the room, picking things up, examining them, putting them down again. I wondered: Is she going to rob me? At that point I hadn’t developed any theories about the courier’s precise intentions, but I could smell the menace on her. Out of habit I pressed my fingers against my chest, where, under several layers of clothing, the key hung safely on its chain around my neck.