by C M Muller
“What? The bandstand?”
“No, I’m sorry; it’s gone.”
With the yellow light behind him, the concierge’s expression was hard to judge.
“They said you were talking to him. You were seen.”
“I’m sorry,” said Norvin. “I’m afraid I don’t know who you’re referring to.”
“Mogson, of course.”
“I don’t know anyone of that name.”
“The man you were talking to during the meeting. Mogson.”
“Oh him, it was only a very brief and one-sided conversation. He told me that he is a resident.”
“He’s in the basement apartment. Him and his electronics.”
“Electronics? What is he?”
“That’s what we’d all like to know. Why has he got all those machines in the basement? What does he want them for?”
“I’ve no idea. To be honest, I can’t say I warmed to him.”
“He arrived the day after you. Not the type we normally have in the apartments. Information is what he wants…and has. That much we are well aware of.”
“Maybe. But I don’t think that all of his information can be entirely accurate.”
Norvin thought of the computers, the flat-screen television and the walk-in freezer he’d owned in the north. From time to time, he liked to remind himself he’d sold everything. Even the white goods. He was by himself, making a new identity in silence.
Almost mid-day. The sky had the washed out looked of denim worn for decades, so nearly white it was only memory that detected more than a hint of darker blue. With the tide out, the shingle too was paler. Colors were drying in the fabric of the world. Norvin walked towards the edge of the sea. The waves were small today, more like very thin wires. A faint grey-white blotch headed for the horizon. Most probably a ferry. At the strandline were clots of seaweed and a few sticks, some arranged enigmatically, on the verge of becoming pictograms left by a strange sea god.
He put his hand in the inside pocket of his jacket and drew out some newspaper cuttings, which he kept in a small transparent folder. The article with a black and white photograph of Korcorvian was, as always, at the top. The architect was standing by a pillar, no doubt long demolished. Experts were divided as to whether it had once been part of a hospice or a priory. Korcorvian was very thin with a wasted face and round, steel-framed spectacles. He wore a white linen suit and a shirt with the top button done up and no tie. The photograph was badly over-exposed, so the skin was paper-white, the unruly hair a blizzard of snow. In his right hand, he held a broad-brimmed straw hat. This was the only surviving picture of Korcorvian, who had never sat for a portraitist and was famously camera shy. The books written about him concentrated on his work and ideas, for very little was known about the man—not even his age or nationality. It was claimed he had not been born with the name Korcorvian. There were theories he was a Finn or from one of the Baltic States, but nothing had ever been corroborated. He lived entirely alone, seeing only those with whom he was professionally obliged to come into contact and a few acolytes. Norvin became interested in Korcorvian when he read a monograph in which the architect was quoted as saying his buildings were designed as “spaces in which it was easier to forget.” Religious life, he implied, was not about finding God but simply a way of not remembering the world. Dying was a chance to move closer to being liberated from memories, free from impurity.
Norvin put the folder back in his pocket. Although the sea was no rougher than before, he felt uneasy. The waves were thinner, somehow less watery, as though they were in the process of being transmuted into metal that could be used in a circuit board. He tried to remember whether water was a good conductor of electricity. The ferry, which he thought was going away from the shore, was now larger and therefore closer. The word “radiophonic” came into his mind. The sea and its clients were building connections and sending messages. It would be safer, Norvin decided, if he were to head back towards the shingle. He looked towards the Korcorvian apartments. Was it unreasonable to suspect the waves were being affected by the activity in the basement?
Just before Norvin reached the sea wall, he noticed the albino lying back in a deck chair outside a beach hut. As he was wearing tinted glasses, it was impossible to tell if he was asleep. He was dressed in a white jacket with a black shirt and trousers. Although it was beginning to turn cold, his relaxed posture was that of a sunbather. The other deck chairs were empty. Apart from the man and himself there was nobody on the beach. Norvin stepped a little nearer, but not close enough to establish whether the albino was breathing. For a reason he found hard to explain, Norvin could not bring himself to move further forward. There was something perfectly composed about the scene: the arrangement of man, deckchair, beach, and the backcloth of the sea wall. The muted colors and the angle at which the subject was positioned suggested the imminence of a photo-shoot. Norvin did not wish to put himself in the picture.
The next day Norvin found the furniture in his apartment covered by what he at first thought was a very fine white powder. But when he ran a finger over his bedside table, it felt like frost. His room was chilly, yet the windows were shut and the central heating was on, even though the radiators were lukewarm. Perhaps it had been unnaturally cold during the night. No doubt the frost, if that was what it was, would vanish as soon as the apartment warmed up.
He dressed quickly and went into the kitchen. That the windows were iced over implied he had been correct about the drop in the overnight temperature. He took a mug out of the cupboard and ran the palm of his hand over the kitchen table, leaving a dark arc. The cold tingle made him turn round to look for a cloth. Then without warning, the sensation in his hand intensified to something close to an electric shock. He went over to the sink and ran hot water over his palm until the pain slowly abated. Whatever it was had signed in again. He was sure it was close. The skin on his wounded hand felt thicker and heavier, as if an invisible glove had been rolled over it. The tingle turned to a faint vibration that was spreading though his body. Something had begun to search: was running a check on every bone, tissue, and blood cell. If necessary, it would destroy, restore, or reconfigure. It was essential to get out of the flat now. This second. Before the scan was complete. He grabbed his overnight case.
He was half way down the staircase before it stopped. After taking a deep breath, he flexed his fingers. Quite normal. It must have withdrawn for the moment. Logged off. One thing was certain: he would not return to the apartment, apart from one brief visit to collect essential possessions. He would find the concierge and explain he had to move out temporarily. Something amiss with the central heating. That would be an excellent excuse. Perhaps they would find him another flat in the building.
There was no one in the lecture hall or the lobby. All the chairs had been put away and the place appeared larger and emptier than before. Sunlight distributed shadows evenly over the wooden flooring. The door of the concierge’s office was ajar. As Norvin walked over, he counted his echoing footsteps. It was important to remain in charge of his thoughts. The door opened before he could knock.
“Yes,” said the concierge.
“Sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if it would be possible for me to move to another apartment in the…”
“Hold on. Let’s get the first point straight before you start rambling on. You said you were sorry to disturb me.”
“Yes.”
“Well, are you?”
The room behind the concierge appeared smaller than Norvin had expected. Although most of his view was blocked, he could make out part of the far wall, on which was a wooden keyboard.
“In a way, certainly. You might have been having a cup of tea or…”
“Fair enough. I can accept that. Now what do you want?”
“I’m hoping to move into another apartment in the building. There’s something wrong with the central heating in mine. This is hard to explain, but I’d be more comfor
table elsewhere.”
“There aren’t any vacant. The only thing you can do is swap with your mate.”
“What mate?”
“Him in the basement, of course. Mogson.”
“That wouldn’t be ideal. We’re not friends. And anyway why should he move just for me.”
“He’d have to.”
“Why?”
“Who’s paying his rent?”
“I don’t know.”
“You are. Two apartments requested. One to be in the basement. Both paid for by Mr. Norvin.”
The concierge glanced back into his office, as if he were checking that something was still in-progress. Or perhaps there was a very quiet animal in there.
“I don’t see how that could possibly be true. I’d never even heard of this Mogson when I took my apartment.”
“Paperwork,” said the concierge, turning back to him. “That’s what you need. Check it. Then check it again.”
“I’m going to book into a hotel for a night and try to sort this out. I’ll be back tomorrow to collect the rest of my possessions. In the meantime, please ask the other residents if they’d be prepared to swap with me.”
“There’s no harm in a change,” the concierge said. “I take one myself from time to time. As you’ve seen.”
“I’ll be in tomorrow. I’ll let you know how things stand then.”
“That Mogson. He’s not liked. You’d be all right here if it weren’t for him.”
Norvin had to be careful with money. As a member of the Korcorvian Association, he’d been paying a reduced rent for his apartment, and living cheaply, or so he thought. But failing to have his bank statements forwarded from the north had been a terrible mistake. Not only had he covered three months of Mogson’s rent, he’d even given the man a weekly allowance. Of course, contacting the police was out the question, but at least he’d stopped the direct debits. Unfortunately Mogson’s apartment was paid for up to the thirty-first.
Norvin looked around his new room: no accessories, not even a television: just an iron bedstead covered by an ancient eiderdown, a side table, one wooden chair and a hand basin. His overnight case was open on top of the bed. He tried to congratulate himself on having the foresight to pack the essentials: a sponge bag, pajamas, and a change of clothing. But that still left him with the problem of the diaries and the Korcorvian papers. Having them sent over would be inadvisable. The papers were valuable, but the diaries were more than that: they were evidence. There was no option but to collect them from the apartment himself.
No phone or radio on the side table; only one dirty glass mug of the type used at school dinners. The temperature was barely above that in his apartment. He would go out and walk around the town. For the first time, it occurred to him that he’d not bothered to explore the centre. He’d restricted himself to the apartment building, the beach, the promenade, and cheap restaurants nearby.
The town was full of small shops selling postcards and souvenirs. Now it was the end of the season many of the restaurants only opened in the evenings. In the narrow streets, a handful of puzzled holiday makers were starting to appreciate their cheap bookings came with a guarantee of indifferent grey skies. Resolutely dressed for summer, they gazed upwards, eager to discover unheralded delights on the higher storeys.
Norvin was about to return to the hotel when he turned down a side street and chanced upon the Korcorvian Café. Four o’clock. From the pavement the place appeared empty, but as he opened the door a bell rang and a pale thin woman emerged from the back. He ordered a coffee. The walls were covered with photographs of the architect’s lost buildings: some as they had been before demolition or dereliction had won the day; others now little more than a single desolate arch or slabs of green, graffiti-covered concrete. Three grey stumps were all that remained of a seminary; a chapel once shaped like an ark, which had graced a crematorium, was level with the gravestones. There were plans for a railway station that had never been constructed. A much larger reproduction of the only surviving picture of Korcorvian hung over the fireplace. The chiaroscuro caused by overexposure had been accentuated: the architect’s skin and hair almost as white as the photographer’s flash.
The waitress put his coffee down on a table. Norvin turned round. For the first time he noticed an alcove not visible from the street. Mogson was seated right at the back, instantly recognizable though half of his face was in shadow. He was looking straight at Norvin.
“I thought you’d turn up here if I waited long enough, that’s what I told myself. He’ll be along. Don’t you worry,” said Mogson.
Norvin sat down and spooned sugar into his coffee.
“Don’t you want to join me here in cosy corner?”
Stirring—and the rattle of a tea spoon.
“Ah well, time for Mohammed to come to the mountain.” Mogson rose stiffly and walked over to Norvin. “I wouldn’t mind another coffee. Though I have cash flow problems at the moment. But then you’d know about that.” He made himself comfortable and picked up a brown sugar lump, which he crunched in his rotten teeth. “Have you seen our friend?”
“What friend?”
“Mr. White Man, Mr. Albino?”
“Yes, since you mention it.”
“So have I. I’ve seen him all over the place. Moves about, doesn’t he?”
“I suppose so.”
“Ah yes, he moves—a lot. But have you ever seen him moving? That’s what I’d like to know.”
“What makes you think I’m anything like as interested in him as you evidently are?”
“Because…and you listen to this,” Mogson hissed, leaning forward and pressing both of his arms down hard on the table, “I’ve been reading you! Right down to the last dot. Some people—they’re cryptic, see. But not you. I know you—and you’re a piece of filth!”
Mogson was half way across the table now, anger shining in his good eye, the swirl of blind mysteries alive in the other.
“That’s rich, coming from you,” said Norvin.
After seizing the sugar bowl in both hands, Mogson leant back in his chair and looked up at the photograph of Korcorvian. “Do you reckon they’re related?” he asked, suddenly relaxed and matter of fact.
“Korcorvian and the albino?”
“Of course. Your hero and Mr. White Man, Mr. Albino, Mr. Motionless?”
“Korcorvian was celibate.”
“And so now everyone’s Mr. Pure too. Is that it?”
“None of this has the slightest thing to do with you.”
“Is that right?” said Mogson, scooping up the remaining sugar lumps out of the bowl and putting them in his pocket. “There are those who know better, that’s what I say. And it’s about time,” he added, smiling, “you heard your wife’s message, isn’t it?”
On the steps up to the Korcorvian Apartments, Norvin saw the woman with dyed orange hair coming in the opposite direction. Her eyes alighted on him for a second. He was too far away to detect her expression, but she averted her gaze well before they passed each other. Evidently she was one of the people who blamed him for Mogson’s presence in the basement.
He was in the lobby when he remembered he’d left the key to his flat in the hotel. He could visual it, with its orange tag, lying on the top of the side table next to his bed, exactly where it had been since he had booked in. Nevertheless, he checked all of his pockets, just in case he had absentmindedly picked it up: nothing, apart from the hotel keys. Their weight had deceived him into thinking he had what he needed. He was about to turn back when he realized the concierge would have a spare; the keyboard was in the office. The silence and emptiness of the lobby was so complete it was hard to imagine the woman with the orange hair must just have walked through it.
From where Norvin was standing, the office appeared to be shut. He heard himself walking, footstep by echoing footstep, and knocked on the door. No reply. He turned the handle and to his surprise the door swung open easily. Ins
ide, the quality of the light was different, as if it had been falling on stone for centuries. There was a very faint scent of flowers. Norvin was reminded of a side-chapel. In the centre of the room was an armchair upholstered in a material the shade of grey smoke. Although it was positioned to face away from Norvin, he could see the back of a man’s head, the hair albino-white and two pale hands at ease on the armrests. The keyboard was still on the far wall. To reach it, he would have to go round the chair and its occupant. But who would he find if he did so? Absurdly he thought he would see no more than what was there now: two hands and a head of hair, on the verge of disappearance.
He stepped back and closed the door. Was there no alternative to returning to the hotel? Of course he could always wait for the concierge, but how long would that be? Perhaps he should check the apartment now he was here. It would be ridiculous to trek all the way back only to discover the door was open all the time. And, come to think of it, how could he be sure he had locked it? He couldn’t recall doing so as he’d fled.
The building was quieter than he could ever remember it. Everyone must be out at work, except possibly Mogson in the basement. He ran up the stairs. As he had expected, the door to his apartment was open. Everything in the living-room was normal. He touched a radiator; it was slightly warm. Possibly someone had come in to fix the central heating. All that remained was to collect his diaries.
The second he stepped into his bedroom a fierce light and the cold enveloped him. Everything, even his bed, was shrouded in snow. He walked over to the cabinet in which he kept the diaries and tugged the frozen handle. The drawer was locked fast. A simple solution: he would go to the kitchen and boil the kettle. As he turned round, he felt the first kiss burn on the back of his neck. It was no longer possible to tell where the door had been. The wall he’d walked through was ice-rink smooth. Now he started to slide, the carpet tiles turning to cubes in a gigantic ice tray.