When Edward tired, he put the book back in his bag and began to walk. When he next passed a clock, he saw that it was now eight thirty and realised that he had been reading for two and a half hours yet had only advanced a few pages; time seemed to move slower inside The Cityscape Chronicles. One day there wasn’t a man. Edward kept walking. The week before he had found himself in a homeless shelter, having painfully admitted to himself that he was no better than the other tramps and beggars that littered the streets. He was grateful to receive food, whatever it was, but he could not stand the stench, the squalor and the spittle from the babblings of those around him: the filthy and the foul, those whose faces had been distorted over time, had been distorted by the rough pavements of the streets. He ran away from there, ran as far as he could. He vowed never to return, except now the prospect of food was becoming more and more desirable to him. He had seen others fishing around in bins, but he swore to himself that he would never do that. He would never be reduced to such a state. Neither would he beg. He did not want to be seen as any worse than the people who walked the streets. He was almost pleased when a beggar asked him for money, as though he were the kind of person who would have change in his pocket. He had never bargained on London being such an expensive city, and it had only taken a few days for his pockets to be emptied by the price of fast food. One day there was a man.
His attempts at finding a job had been fruitless. Job centres promised him work, but without a fixed address or telephone number they didn’t want to consider him. He nevertheless returned every day, but they made promises they never kept. As the weeks passed and Edward began to look more and more dishevelled, more and more unclean, the job centres wanted even less to do with him. He could tell in the quiver of their voices, in the nervous look of their eyes, that more than anything they wanted him out of their offices. Soon, he stopped making his daily visits. He was left to wander the streets, drift from pavement to pavement, from bookshop to gallery, until he no longer had any energy to walk at all.
During those past few weeks, Edward had found something very strange starting to happen. As he wandered the streets, stumbled from place to place, he began to find words appearing inside his head, words that would jump out of nowhere. Whatever he did, whatever else he attempted to think about, he could not shake them off. And these words began to crowd his mind, word after word after word, overlapping and interrupting all the words that came before them. And from these words came sentences, some coherent, some nonsense. The only way he felt he could get rid of them was by writing them down. So he started to write on the inside cover of The Cityscape Chronicles. This did help to relieve the strain that the words were placing on his mind, but not for long, for only a few hours after he had expelled the first series of words, more would appear. He had to start collecting leaflets or newspapers just so that he would have enough paper to write on. He would write along the margins and in between the articles. He would write anywhere he could: leaning against walls, against his hand-he once felt compelled to write directly onto his hand, and then his arm. The words and sentences began to trickle out of him, and soon this trickle had become a steady stream. Finding himself back on the steps of the National Gallery that evening, cold and hungry, words were already crowding his head. He was itching to write them down.
One day there wasn’t a man, and one day there was. He was dressed smartly, in a dark suit and shining shoes. He wore a warm overcoat to keep out the cold of the waning summer nights. His hair was neatly combed, parted, and his smile revealed a row of clean, straight teeth. Taking the cigarette from his mouth, he removed his scarf and sat down next to Edward on the steps of the gallery.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked, looking straight at Edward. Even though there was genuine concern in his voice, Edward did not reply. He merely shivered, pulling in the collar of his jacket. ‘Here,’ said the man, putting his brown cashmere scarf around Edward’s neck. Edward was about to protest, but the moment he felt the warmth and smoothness of the scarf, he was powerless to do anything about it. All Edward could do was clutch it tightly and press it against his neck. ‘You must be hungry,’ said the man. ‘Come with me.’ He stood up and put his hand out to help Edward off the step. Edward hesitated, looking up at the man’s face in the dim light of the gallery entrance. The tears in his stomach were too painful to bear any longer, and the prospect of food was too enticing to resist. Edward slowly stood up and followed the man down the steps of the gallery and across Trafalger Square.
They only spoke again once they were sitting down in the restaurant. This was no fast-food eatery or cheap diner, this was a proper restaurant. The walls, the tables and the refined décor were all a blur to Edward; only the food was in focus. Edward could barely remember what he was told until he took his first bite of food. Bread, a whole basket of, was placed down on the table, and Edward began straight away. He smothered the rolls in butter and swallowed them down, fighting for air. As his stomach began to fill, his head started to clear, and only then could he focus upon the man in front of him.
‘Is that better?’ asked the man.
‘Yeah, a little.’
‘I thought you’d be hungry.’ The man’s smile returned, and Edward felt completely disarmed by it, completely enamoured. This man had come out of nowhere, had taken Edward off the streets, and now he was completely at his mercy. Edward wanted to ask this mysterious man his name, but all he came out with was.
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m just a guy. . . just a guy who wants to help you, Edward.’
‘How’d you know my name?’ Edward asked, a little worried.
‘You told me it.’
‘When?’
‘Just now. When we sat down.’ Edward could not remember doing so, but his arrival here was still very hazy. The man’s clear sincerity could not be read as anything but honest. The man continued to smile. ‘I want to help you. I want to help you get back onto your feet, to put some clean clothes on your back and a few coins in your pocket.’
‘You do this often?’
‘No. Yes, sometimes. But you’re special. You’re not just anyone.’
‘I’m not special.’
‘Whether or not you think you are special is not the point. The point is you are who I have decided to help.’
Edward wasn’t able to help the vulgar question escaping from his mouth: ‘Are you rich?’
‘I have money, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Then why me?’
‘Why not you? You’re young, you’re healthy-you haven’t committed any crimes, are not at the mercy of any substances. All you need is a shower and a roof over your head.’
‘How do you know I haven’t committed any crimes. I could have killed someone for all you know.’
‘No, that’s not possible. You have been carefully selected. One of many.’
‘I never applied for this. It’s not like you have any information on me.’
‘We have people all over the city, working in every sector. They are the ones who do the research, who find who is most qualified for such treatment.’
‘You have spies?’
‘You could call them that. But it’s more like head-hunters.’
‘What if I don’t want it? What if I don’t want to be helped?’ At first it looked like the man was about to speak sharply for the first time, but instead, he sat back in his chair, his body relaxing.
‘That’s your choice. I’m not forcing you. But this is a very special opportunity. You are now in a unique position. Just think about how many people out there would give their left arm for an opportunity to be taken off the street, to be propped up financially, without having to do a single thing themselves?’
Edward didn’t reply to this. He ate the last piece of bread, and the food arrived. The food consisted of five courses, starting with soup and ending with an elaborate choice of deserts. It was all for Edward, though. The man himself ate very little. He only smoked his cigarettes. As Edward busied hims
elf with eating, the man talked, and as he explained his elaborate plan in more and more detail, Edward could feel himself being drawn into it, could feel himself succumbing to the seductive prospect of once again having a normal life. By the end of the meal, Edward wanted nothing more than to be inducted back into society. All he wanted was to be a person amongst other people.
After the meal, the man led Edward back across Trafalgar Square, through Leicester Square, Piccadilly Circus, and eventually came to Green Park. As the man walked, he smoked another cigarette, but had extinguished it by the time he had reached their destination. He led Edward into an elaborate, bright building with plush furnishing and staff with traditional uniforms. The doorman held the door open for Edward. Just before he entered, he looked up and saw the bright, dazzling sign. It read: ‘The Ritz’.
In the bright light of the foyer, amongst the luxurious, overbearing décor, Edward suddenly felt incredibly self-conscious. He with his filthy clothes, his greasy hair and his tired eyes appeared like a cist on the surface of the dream world he had just stepped into. Edward was constantly amazed by how turning a corner in London could transport you into different worlds altogether, some ugly and brutal, others abstract and heavenly. He barely noticed the stranger busy at the reception desk, filling in forms and talking business; Edward was blinded by the sight of the sofas that sat unoccupied. He stared at them, fantasising about how it would feel to sink into them, to give in to their power. He could feel himself stepping towards them, being drawn as though he was under their spell. But before he reached them, the man took Edward’s arm and led him to the lift where a bellboy was waiting. In his hand was a key.
‘Come on, Edward,’ said the man. ‘We’re going to show you your room.’
It was only when Edward was in the lift with the man on one side and the bellboy on the other, holding Edward’s single bag, that he realised the implications of this journey. Was the room that he was about to be led to a single or a double? Was his acceptance of this invitation and of the meal beforehand also an acceptance of an unspoken deal that he was now obliged to go through with? His worried eyes searched the lift. The keypad told him that they were heading for the seventh floor. He supposed that he could make a run for it when the two men weren’t looking, dash along the corridor and out of sight before doing anything he could to get out of the building. As he walked along the scented, carpeted corridors, his mind willed an escape, but his aching body wouldn’t let him. It was too enchanted by the comfort this hotel offered, shackled by the selfish desire for hot showers and luxurious beds. And when he found himself faced with his room, he had not yet escaped. And as the bellboy opened the door and took his bag inside, he had not yet escaped. Edward stepped inside after him, followed by the stranger, who shut the door.
‘Your television is here,’ said the bellboy, opening a cabinet opposite the bed. Unfortunately, Edward’s fears were realised. As lavish as the bed was, it was indeed a very large bed-large enough for two. His eyes darted to the window, large enough to jump out of. The bellboy opened another door and flicked on the light. ‘Here is your bathroom.’ Edward peered inside: pristine marble, silver taps. He could see himself in that bath. The man soon removed some money from his pocket and handed it to the bellboy as he left. Edward could feel himself turn cold, could feel him wanting to jump for the door handle as the man shut it. All the man said was,
‘Sit down, Edward, I want to talk to you.’ Edward sat on the chair in the corner. He would rather sit there than on the bed where the man was. ‘Now listen carefully, Edward,’ said the man, ‘You are going to stay here. If you get hungry use the phone to call for room service. Use the shower to get cleaned up. You can ask someone to take your clothes and get them washed. And here,’ he said, removing a note from his pocket, ‘Use this to buy anything you need-razorblades, newspapers, whatever.’ Edward leaned forward and took the money. It was a fifty-pound note. ‘Now I am going to go, Edward. I have some business to attend to, but I will be back in two days. Not tomorrow but the day after. Wait for me here. I will deal with whatever outstanding bills there are then.’ He held out his hand. Edward shook it. He turned to leave.
‘Wait,’ said Edward. ‘I don’t even know your name.’ The man seemed to hesitate.
‘Frederick Wolf.’
‘Frederick Wolf,’ repeated Edward. ‘Okay.’ He would later find out that this was not his real name.
The man left, and when Edward stuck his head into the corridor, he was nowhere to be seen.
Edward spent that evening having a bath. When the water cooled, he topped it up and lay longer. As he submerged his body into the water and looked up through the shivering surface, he felt himself disappear: he forgot he was underwater, that he even existed at all. Only when he heard music rising up from outside did he open his eyes and remember to breathe. He sat up fast and gulped the air. The music had stopped. In fact, he had forgotten all about the music by the time he emerged from the water. As he dried himself, his mind shifted from the thought of drowning to the thought of the words that had invaded him earlier that evening. Putting on a hotel dressing gown, he hurried over to his bag. Rummaging around inside, he pulled out crumpled newspapers, leaflets, napkins and The Cityscape Chronicles. He let the paraphernalia scatter onto the floor and picked up one leaflet. Sitting at the desk, he grabbed the hotel writing-paper, with its elaborate letterhead, and the complementary hotel pen, and spread out the creases of the leaflet so that it lay flat on the desk. He frantically began to transcribe all that he had written around its margins and across its text. It was meant to be a task of deciphering, a making clearer of what he had obscured by his impenetrable scribbles. But he found himself anxious-a furious energy built inside of him, forcing him to write as fast as he could. This did not serve to unlock the mysteries of his scribbles-instead it merely reproduced them. But this soon no longer mattered, for instead of transcribing the words he had originally written, he found new words emerging-new, fresh words spilling from his pen and onto the page. And like the forgetting that he was underwater, he almost did not realise what he was doing: the words just came and they did not stop. They had begun as a trickle but now they were a steady stream that grew more and more ferocious as the night moved on. And whereas Edward believed he had only been sitting at the desk for a little while-an hour at most-it was in fact early next morning when he snapped out of his trance and realised he was still at the desk, still wearing the hotel dressing gown. And only then did he realise how exhausted he was. His arms and back ached, his head pulsating. He had been drained of all his mental and physical energy, and when he reached the bed and turned the television on, he barely saw a minute of the film before falling into a deadening sleep.
Edward slept into the afternoon and ordered room service when he became hungry. He took a bath and watched television. He sent his clothes to be washed. Time moved slowly. He tried to read The Cityscape Chronicles: No one noticed Heronymous Glass sink into the walls of the city, but he couldn’t concentrate. He sat down at the desk and looked over the pages he had written the night before. He was quite discouraged when he discovered that instead of the words he thought he had been writing, he was presented with page upon page of scribbles-meaningless shapes across the pages. But as certain words in amongst the mess made themselves out to him, he could not help but find new words forming in his head. This led to him writing these words down and that led to yet more words. He did not realise he was doing it, but he was scribbling over more pages, filling them with the same incomprehensible markings. When he finished it was early evening; it was only the knocking on his door and the returning of his freshly-washed clothes that made him aware of the room around him. That evening he tried to read over what he had written; words that had come out of nowhere, that had weaved their own stories almost without any help on his part. He knew that these words were about Mia Rose-specifically what about her he wasn’t yet sure-but stories that overlapped each other and ran chaotically all over the page. He couldn
’t write fast enough to take down the stream of words that flowed through him. In all honesty, the pages worried him. They had not existed before but now a pile of paper lay on his desk. He could barely remember writing half the words, had almost failed to notice them streaming from his pen. Perhaps it was this room: the luxury that surrounded him did not fit with the person sitting inside. One more day, he reminded himself, and he would be out of there.
But the next day, Frederick Wolf did not arrive. Edward had packed up his things early, had prepared himself for venturing out onto the streets again. He sat and he waited, glancing out of the window every now and then. He read some of The Cityscape Chronicles: The water engulfed him, and only after he had gained his bearings did he realise that the earth was above him, the sky below. When he tired of that, he turned on the television. Around lunchtime, the phone rang. Thinking it would be Wolf, he answered it hastily.
‘Hello?’ asked Edward.
‘Hello, Mr Rose? We are just calling to ask-’
‘Rose? My name is Edward Glass?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. . . is this room number 729?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Yes, we were wondering whether you would be staying with us longer than planned?’ asked the concierge.
‘I should be leaving today. . .’
‘It’s just that check out is at eleven thirty and it is now twelve.’
‘Well the plan is to leave today, but I may have to stay on a little longer. Is that a problem?’
The Glass Book - A London Love Story Page 9