He rushed back to the bathroom and quickly dressed himself. As he looked down the corridor, he could see the dull light of the street lamp making its way through the frosted glass window at its end, stretching shapes across the wall and stone floor. But the music continued. He grabbed his key, slipped it into his pocket and stepped out into the corridor, shoeless. And as he cautiously crept up to the door of the next apartment, the music seemed to take him over: he wanted to give into it, to be crushed by it, for it to drag him back into the darkness. But the music stopped. He heard footsteps; he did not noticed that he had been knocking on the door. After footsteps came a silence, the click of a lock, the opening of a door, and the vision of a woman. And all this woman said was: Edward.
6.
Edward Glass watched Catherine Lucia as she walked into the kitchen. Her place was a two-room apartment with a large living room that doubled as a bedroom, with an en-suite kitchen and a bathroom just off to the side. It was even more cramped by the boxes that lay unopened around the room. He observed the bed where she slept, not far from the sofa where he was sitting. He sat still, one hand in the other, a little unsure of what he was doing here, a little unsure of what he was going to say to her when she returned with the tea. She was thinking the same thing as she stirred the sugar into the mugs, very surprised that Edward was now sitting in her living room. If she had expected this she would have certainly made sure to unpack all the boxes beforehand. She picked up a mug in each hand and walked out to the living room.
‘I hope it’s okay,’ she said as she handed the mug to Edward. He didn’t say anything, just taking the mug in his hands. He held his palms close to the tea, indulging in the heat. Then he held it up close to his lips, allowing the steam to rise up over his face, before taking a small sip.
Catherine sat down next to him on the sofa, dark red and soft. He looked around the room and then at her. She looked him in the eye.
‘How are you?’ she asked, in a tone that suggested genuine concern, of which Edward was a little surprised. He observed her face.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
‘But how are you feeling?’ she asked again. She now observed him: hair long and greasy, face unshaven, eyes peering out at her curiously.
‘I’m okay’.
‘How long were you there for?’
‘Where?’
‘The hospital.’ Only then did he realise exactly who she was. The vision of a woman looking down over him flashed in his mind. ‘I called for the ambulance.’ She wanted to tell him everything, that she was the one who had found him, who had come to visit him every day for a month, who had watched over him. She was the one who had talked to him, who had read to him, who had told him stories. She kept him informed with the daily news, reading out stories from the newspaper, making sure she conveyed to him a variety of the tragic and the funny. She had observed him in silence, hour after hour, as he had laid there with his eyes shut, his gentle breathing causing his chest to rise and fall. She thought he looked so peaceful; observing him made her peaceful. She had imagined what it would be like to kiss him, just on the cheek or lips. She had wondered what his voice sounded like, what things he liked to do, what his life was like before, how he had got into this situation. She wanted to ask him so many questions and sometimes found herself doing so, out loud, and she would fantasise as to what the answers would be, constructing an entire life around him. She went to the hospital early every day, making sure to maintain the flowers she had bought for his bedside table, whilst at the same time bringing him small presents such as fruit or a book that she would read to him. She came to know the nurses well, especially Gloria, the nurse whose particular job it was to look after Edward. She would inquire about his progress every morning, the only news she was interested in. Unfortunately there was rarely ever any news. There was the one time, though, when she was sitting silently next to Edward, watching him breath, wondering what he was thinking about, whether he was dreaming or not, when she decided to call his name. She would do this from time to time, hoping it would rouse him into waking. But this time, when she called, ‘Edward... Edward...’ his eyes opened as though he had only been in a deep sleep. She rose to her feet and looked down upon him. She was sure he had seen her.
She had a curious look in her eyes, Edward thought, as though she had known him all his life. He observed her eyes, her lips, her cheeks, her hair. He observed her skin around her jaw line, how it was marred with silent spots. He suddenly saw himself sitting on her sofa, with his scraggly beard and ragged, damp hair. He looked down at his clothes: the holes in his top looked more like tears and his tracksuit trousers were covered with stains. He looked down at his feet. They were bare, his long toenails on show for all to see. He curled his toes and crossed his arms; he could almost feel himself turning red with shame.
Edward stared at his reflection in the mirror. His face looked a little skeletal now that he had shaved off his beard and the grey apron that the hairdresser had tied around his neck, obscuring the rest of his body, only served to emphasise this boniness. He sat in anticipation of watching himself turn into a stranger, snip by snip. Edward observed the hairdresser as he looked distractedly across the salon, hoping he knew what he was doing, hoping he had understood everything Edward had mumbled to him, or at least that he had picked up on the key word: short.
The hairdresser ran his hands through Edward’s long hair, bouncing it around in his hand. Edward had tried to wash it as best he could before arriving here in fear of silent judgement as to his personal hygiene. He was from now on to be fresh and scented, clean and sharp. He was to be a new Edward Glass and a haircut, he felt, was the first step. His head was sprayed with water and the comb was run through it, straight downwards. Edward had counted up his coins for this, having the exact amount of money in the left hand pocket of his trousers. The hairdresser seemed to be playing with his hair, combing it and lifting it, combing it and lifting it, but after a moment that was all cut short by the raising of the scissors. The first snip was exhilarating for Edward, excitement filled with nerves. He could not envision what he would look like after this operation was over and wondered if the hairdresser was ever secretly worried as to where to cut next. But this hairdresser did not give anything away, working calm and silently. Edward was thankful that he wasn’t being spoken to; he didn’t feel so comfortable with small talk. He couldn’t exactly chat about how he had collapsed after locking himself away for years, how he had spent the last couple of months in hospital, and how his new job was to alphabetise a junk heap. Above all, he certainly didn’t want to divulge why he couldn’t think straight at the moment, nor his plans for the evening, nor how he was overcome by nerves in the most pleasurable of ways. He liked the secrecy: the looking into the mirror and the revealing of nothing.
He looked at the reflection of the reflections. The salon was lined with mirrors on both walls, causing a labyrinthine effect; the room multiplied so many times that it faded into darkness. He was sure somewhere in the room he was reflecting on forever. As a child, when he came across this effect, he always pondered how it would feel to exist within this reflection, in a kind of nothingness where everything is repeated for eternity. He had believed there was a way to enter, and as a result he spent hours upon hours staring at himself behind himself behind himself, watching his moving limbs echo into the darkness, and tapping on the glass.
He looked at his hair. A lot of it had fallen onto the apron in front of him and, peering down at it, he observed the little split-ended bundles of his dead hair. It was strange to think that he had lived with it for so long and now it was just going to swept up by someone and thrown away. Perhaps he could keep it, he thought to himself, but what would he do with it? He thought how strange it would be if he were to frame it, perhaps with a photograph of himself before and after the excision. But, come to think of it, he didn’t have any photographs of what he used to look like. Perhaps he would save enough money for a camera and record himself for pos
terity. If he were to disappear, he thought, there would be almost no proof that he had ever existed at all. Before, he would have preferred that, but now he was feeling more and more like creating a space for himself in the world, for walking proudly along the pavements as though this city belonged to him just as much as it did to anyone else.
The hairdresser had severed most of the longer hair from his head and Edward was now beginning to look startlingly different. He was beginning to see himself more clearly and was able to scrutinise his face more thoroughly. And a strange thing started to happen, similar to what had happened as he had shaved his face earlier that morning: it was as though he was passing back through time, as though he was regressing, becoming the man, or even the boy, that he used to be. He could see in his eyes someone he hadn’t seen for a very long time. He began to appear more and more familiar and as he stared deep into his own eyes, as he scrutinised his face, his throat began to dry up and his thoughts seemed to freeze. He had missed himself, he thought, and wanted his old self back. He was glad that he was undergoing this transformation before any more time was lost. He could tell by the blank expression on the hairdresser’s face that he had no idea how important this haircut really was. Edward Glass was smiling inside; after this, he thought, he would walk proudly down the street, his back straight, his eyes up. He would meet his eyes with those of passers by, would smile at strangers. He felt like he was preparing for a part in his very own musical that would begin the moment he left the salon, the world singing and dancing to the tune of Edward Glass.
He couldn’t remember himself ever looking this handsome. When he had entered his new apartment he was still a teenager, and as he had spent the month after month after month writing and writing, his hair and beard had grown, hiding his face. And underneath this mask he was secretly aging, looking older and older. He now had the face of a man, worn and wise, but in the most attractive way. His hair was now short, and the hairdresser had already sent the clippers up the back of his head and over the top of his ears and was now working mysteriously away at the top with his scissors. Edward had told him to cut it so that it was about an inch long. He didn’t want it too close to his scalp, just enough so that it could be manoeuvred and manipulated. But before he thought it was over, the hairdresser was holding up the mirror at the back of his head so that he could observe what he looked like to people who followed him. How neat it was, all shaped and sculpted. He felt very pleased and nodded agreeably. After the man had brushed his neck and forehead thoroughly, Edward paid for his transformation and walked breezily out into the still grey of the day. The band started up inside his head, and as he walked he quietly clicked his fingers.
That day the work was tiring. He had already cleared a large empty space in the floor, but now the books were stacking up higher and higher. He had managed to make a small pathway from the doorway to the opposite wall where he had found some bookshelves, hidden by all the clutter. He made space on the shelves by removing everything on them, first from the top shelf, and replacing it with a neater stack of books that he had previously collected. Then he moved onto the next shelf. It was a taxing task and he often felt physically, as well as mentally, exhausted. He constantly kept in mind where certain individual titles had been placed around the room so that he could access them as soon as they were needed. And so his mind had constructed a constantly shifting mental map of the room, each point flagged by a title or an author. He threw out damaged boxes and had daily battles with Mr Phillips over throwing away books that had decayed beyond recognition. Mr Phillips, however, insisted on keeping everything, as though it was his duty to maintain the world’s literature in case the rest of the world caught on fire or fell victim to plague. He wanted to create his own underground library, like a nuclear bunker reading room or a literary time capsule for future civilizations, where lay lost titles such as Squeeze Play by Paul Benjamin or The Glass Book by Christian Hayes, which Edward foolishly failed to open.
Edward had never heard of any of these books. Now and then he would come across a dog-eared Dickens or a creased Conrad, but other than that he felt he was alphabetising a library of unknowns, a monument to the forgotten. Perhaps there were undiscovered masterworks amongst the rubble. Picking one at random, he wondered if the 67-paged Egg was one of these. To make his diagnosis, he flicked through it. He chose a page and caught a line: Henrik had never before seen one so beautifully formed: bone-white and a shape that redefined the concept of ‘egg-shaped’. He promptly shut it. What a strange book, he thought. He would have to read it all to make a fair judgement; but he didn’t have the patience. If it had been written by a chicken, he thought, then it would most certainly have been a very good effort. But, it hadn’t been. He dropped it to the floor.
He had asked Mr Phillips if he could leave work early that day. Mr Phillips had enquired as to why, but Edward did not give him any real reason, only that he ‘had things to do’. Mr Phillips, who didn’t really care either way, agreed, and at four thirty Edward walked up the stairs, said goodbye to Mr Phillips and walked out onto the street.
The chilly November air rushed past him and felt much colder against his head now that his hair was shorter. He was still getting used to the new arrangement and for the entire day he had been irritated by stray hairs around his collar. But he no longer had any reason for irritation, for even though the sky was darkening, his evening looked bright. He hurried home, walking briskly the entire way. Even though he now had money to catch the bus or take the tube, he thought he would walk to and from work every day in order to maintain some level of fitness in the most practical way possible. He would then hopefully not be breathless by the time he reached home. He hurried up the stairs, two steps at a time, observing Catherine’s door as he passed. He entered quickly into his own apartment, heading straight for the bath.
He scrubbed himself especially thoroughly this evening, spending a total of twenty-six minutes in the water. He made sure every inch of him was spotless, taking pleasure in washing and conditioning his new hair. At one point he got shampoo in his eye and felt a little stupid contorting his body to rinse it under the rush of the bath tap. But he took pleasure in such meticulous preparation, knowing that he’d be fully prepared for the evening to come. He had even bought himself a comb but feared that his hair was perhaps too short for it to be put to proper use. He attempted it anyway, and concentrating fiercely in front of the mirror, brushed his hair forward, across, and down at the back. It made little difference but he nevertheless made sure it was as neat as possible. He shaved again to make sure his face was especially clear. He trimmed his fingernails carefully. He wasn’t expecting to be taking off his shoes at any point tonight-nor his socks for that matter-but he trimmed his toenails anyway just so he would be at peace with himself, so that he would be prepared right down to his little toe.
He had saved enough money to buy himself a suit. Admittedly, it was second hand but it was clean and just his size. He chose it because it was black and made him look very smart. And when he put it on, along with a new white shirt and a burgundy tie, he looked at himself from every angle in the mirror in his living room. He looked like a different person and was very impressed. He looked down at his feet, at his newly-polished shoes. He looked utterly detached from the room around him, a polished jewel amongst the squalor. Tonight was his night, he thought to himself, and he felt as though he was gaining all the confidence in the world, but as soon as he thought that, his throat dried up. In all truth, he was feeling very anxious indeed. He just had to relax, he thought to himself, and see what happens. He looked at his watch which he had bought for under ten pounds, and it was certainly ticking away. His moment had almost come. He paced the room and looked out of the window, down onto the street. Everything looked different to him now, as though everything, even the weather and the street outside, would be governed by how his evening turned out. The roads looked slightly worried, as though they looked back at him with as much anxiety as he had running through h
is body. He checked his watch. He turned and looked towards the door, and with a final check in the mirror, and a few deep intakes of breath he opened his door and stepped out into the corridor.
The journey to Catherine’s apartment was only a few steps away and so there was no room for unpunctuality. He stood right outside her door and stared at his watch. When the second hand ticked to seven-thirty exactly, he knocked on the door. He waited, held his breath, exhaled. He heard footsteps, a latch opening. The door opened and Catherine was revealed to him. She was wearing a pair of slim grey trousers and a thin black top that curved from shoulder to shoulder. Her face had been lightly made up and the smile that greeted Edward forced him to smile back. She was so attractive he felt like hiding.
'Hi,' she said.
'Hi,' replied Edward.
'You've had a hair cut,' she said, glancing up.
'Yeah,' he said, running his hand over it. 'It's short.'
'You look very nice,' she said. 'Come in.' Edward stepped inside and said quietly under his breathe,
'Thanks.' He wanted to return the compliment, to tell her how good she looked but couldn't even bring himself to breath.
'I'll just get my jacket,' she said. Catherine fetched her winter coat from the wardrobe and put it on. She buttoned herself up and said, 'Okay, lets go.'
'Okay,' said Edward, feebly.
That night the restaurant where Catherine had eaten her lonely pizza was functioning like a well-oiled machine. Waiters and waitresses danced out of the kitchen, serving food left and right; diners chatted, laughing and arguing through a sea of conversation. The noise of the crowd, mixed with the sound of cutlery against plates, of glasses against each other, created a cacophony of sound. The lights were dimmed in order to make couples believe that they were sitting in a finer restaurant than they were. All this didn’t serve to hide the grime that lurked in the kitchen, amongst the tiles, on the floor, at the back of the ovens. The frozen food was heated speedily, assuring no delays out in the restaurant. Only the minor kitchen staff bothered to notice the filth; the more experienced had worked there too long to care anymore. Only some customers noticed the mediocrity of the food; the deadened flavours, the grey blandness hidden by the light.
The Glass Book - A London Love Story Page 6