“This is over-priced,” I say to the real estate agent. “And it doesn’t have a laundry room on the main floor.”
“Well,” she answers, smiling her fake smile, “it does have four bedrooms, two baths, and an extra apartment in the basement. The cedar deck is beautiful, and the grounds are spectacular.” She points out the kitchen window, then sweeps her arm to include the room around us. “Do you like this state-of-the-art kitchen?”
“I don’t like islands in the middle. I prefer open space.”
“Could I show you something else? There’s a house just a few blocks from here that does have a laundry room on the main floor.”
“Oh, that’d be great. Right now I have to get back to work, but, if you give me your card, I’ll phone you later.”
“Certainly.” She hands me her card but is already looking toward the door. A family of four is entering. She rushes to them, with obnoxious enthusiasm.
I love this house. If only I could afford it — or any house. I’ve been unemployed for six months and have had to move into a small rented room in a noisy part of the city. My room is over a Chinese restaurant, with food smells (delicious but all-pervasive) wafting up all day. Next door is a hip-hop dance club, with throbbing music all night. I am exhausted from lack of sleep. But I am so bored that I have decided to indulge in my fantasies of being rich, of living in a mansion. I never stick with the same agent twice, in case they realize that I’m not going to buy anything.
I can’t afford dry-cleaning so I brush the suit off when I get home and sponge it lightly with a damp cloth. I hang it up on the hook beside the hotplate and put on my old jeans and plain black T-shirt. I get out the real estate paper again and start circling the most expensive houses listed. There is an open house tomorrow in the exclusive Riverview area. I put a large red X beside the listing.
I walk up a long driveway that circles the pillared porch and enormous front doors, splitting off and running in both directions around the house. The porch continues along both sides of the house. I walk to the right, then to the left, to check — yes, this appears to be a real wrap-around porch, something I’ve always wanted. This is my dream house — it has a tower, a wonderful one, tall and round, with lattice windows on each level. I have always imagined myself writing poetry and reading mysteries while sitting in a circular room that is at the top level of a tower, with a view of forests and perhaps the sea. I feel a familiar ache of longing. I can’t wait to get inside.
I’m the first one here. Good. I can explore without interference. This agent is as smiley and white-toothed as the last. She reminds me of a fox stalking its prey. “Hello,” she gushes. “May I show you around?”
“Of course. What a gorgeous place!” I am standing in a large, high-ceilinged, marble-floored foyer with a glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Rising from the foyer is a beautiful cherry wood staircase that winds around to the second and third floors, with graceful banisters circling the room.
“There are six bedrooms,” she says, “and four baths. But let’s start with the main floor. You won’t be disappointed.”
I’m not. The stately dining room with its banquetsized table. The large, sparklingly clean kitchen. The comfortable family room with its plush beige sofa and chairs and pale green carpet. The sun room, with large windows looking out onto gardens and trees. The library with its elegant fireplace, built-in bookcases, and beautiful oak panelling. Upstairs each bedroom is spacious, with wood floors, windows to the ceiling, and, another of my favourites, window seats. The master bedroom is enormous and the en suite bathroom larger than the room I live in.
Then the tower. If I could live just here, that is all I would ask of life. The ground level could be my living room, the middle level my bedroom, and the top level, with its view of the grounds, my office or study, where I would sit to read and write. I must take something from this tower. I look out the window and point. “What is that hill I see over there?” I say. While she is looking, I take a small skull from the mahogany desk and slip it into my purse. I remember that this is called a memento mori.
“Let’s look at the gardens now,” she says, smiling. This third level of the tower connects to the third floor of the house — a large room with leather sofas, an entertainment centre (with the largest television screen I’ve ever seen), and soft, bright-patterned cushions spread around the floor. There is another stairway that goes straight down to the kitchen. I would love to have a “back stairs” again. I grew up in a Victorian-era house that had a back stairway leading from the basement to the attic. I remember sliding down those stairs on old mattresses and cushions that we stole from the living room sofa. If only I could go back to those happy days.
The garden is filled with flowers and plants I’ve never seen before. The path winds around and around. “This is a maze,” the agent tells me. “You have to follow it to the centre, then find your way back. But there are confusing pathways along the way.” She leads me through dirt trails surrounded by foliage. I feel that we are going in circles. Finally, we reach a cleared area with a graceful wooden gazebo. We go inside, and I sit down on the swinging sofa, while she sits on one of the benches. I swing back and forth.
“What do you think?” she asks me.
I pause. “I’m quite overwhelmed. I love it. But it might be a bit too large for my needs. I do have a family — husband, teen-aged sons (I lie) — but this is probably too much. Of course, we’d love it. But the price . . .”
“. . . is fair,” she adds. “You can’t find a house like this at such a good price. What is your profession and your husband’s?”
“I’m in banking,” I say. “And he is a corporate vicepresident. Let me speak to my husband. In the meantime, is there something smaller on your list?”
“Yes, indeed. Let’s go back inside, and I’ll show you some pictures.” She leads me back through the maze. I stop to examine a mysterious plant with large green leaves. When I look up, the agent is gone. For a moment, I panic. Will I ever find my way out? I move slowly along the path, but there are other branching paths that I hadn’t noticed before. I can’t remember which way we came.
The agent re-appears. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to lose you. It takes some getting used to. I got lost a few times myself.”
“Why did the owner create this maze?” I ask her.
“Mazes and labyrinths date from ancient times. In Greek mythology, King Minos of Crete built a labyrinth to enclose the minotaur, a horrible monster who was half-man and half-bull. Theseus went into the labyrinth to kill the minotaur. Ariadne, the king’s daughter, loved Theseus and gave him a ball of thread to carry so he could find his way back out — or he would have been lost forever. He killed the monster and followed the thread. Ariadne saved him but he eventually left her. The god Dionysus found her and married her. That’s only part of the story — sorry for the lecture, but I find this maze fascinating.”
“You know a lot about mythology.”
“I did some research — though I did take a course in mythology when I was at university. The owner of this house is a retired classics professor and scholar. So, to answer your question, he probably created the maze because of an interest in ancient myth and history. He is also a very spiritual man. Mazes and labyrinths were also considered paths to spiritual renewal and rebirth.”
“That’s interesting,” I say.
“Here, let me show you something — if I can find it.”
She looks around for a few minutes, walks back the way we came, then takes the path to the right. We wind around once again. I’m beginning to feel frightened and claustrophobic — the tall plants here have shut out the sun. Then, suddenly, we come out into a clearing. “See,” she says, pointing.
She is beautiful — a delicate statue carved in marble. She is holding a marble ball of red thread — the thread flows down but then ends at the bottom of her feet. There are a few marble tears on her cheeks. I go over and touch her — cool — but she almost looks aliv
e.
“Now, I’ll show you something else.”
I do not want to leave Ariadne, but I follow the agent down another path. I’ll have to come back here.
I stay as close as I can to the agent, so I will not get lost. We come to another clearing. A monster, man’s body, bull’s head. For a moment, I feel that I can’t breathe. His horns curl upward and his sneer reveals sharp teeth. He is leaping toward me. I step back.
“Yes, he is scary, isn’t he?” the agent says. “Now, look to your right.” She points. “See those bushes?” I walk over. Behind the bush is another statue, a beautiful man, poised to attack the minotaur. “Is it Theseus?”
“You got it.”
“Wow. Is Dionysus here somewhere?”
“Yes, somewhere. I haven’t been able to find him yet. Oh, my. I’ve forgotten my duties here. There could be other people coming to the house. We should go back.”
“Of course. You lead the way — and don’t go too fast!”
She laughed. “I won’t lose you.”
We head back again but my thoughts are with the broken-hearted Ariadne.
The agent gives me some listings of smaller houses and her card. I hadn’t caught her name at first. It is Clio Antonakis. I want to speak to her again, but she is busy with another client. I look at the listings for the other houses but cannot pay attention. I long to go back to that maze. Perhaps there is another way in.
I call out to her. “Ms. Antonakis. I’m leaving. But is it okay if I walk around the house just to see the building?”
“Of course.” She waves goodbye.
I go out the front door and walk to the right. I follow the driveway around, looking up at the tower and its top floor. The driveway makes a full circle. Behind it are thick cedar trees that are probably hiding the maze. I peer through them but they are tightly packed together and I can’t get through. The only way in is through the back door of the house. I’ll have to come back another day. Ms. Antonakis will be delirious, thinking I might buy this mansion.
I didn’t lie — not completely. I was working in a bank, until I was fired for fraudulent withdrawals from the accounts of a rich elderly man and deposits of his money into another man’s account. I claimed it was a mistake, a computer error, and they could never prove otherwise. But it was no mistake. I was talked into it by Thomas, my married lover, who had lost money in the stock market. Stupidly, I did it for him. Once I no longer had access to other people’s bank accounts, he dumped me.
I have no children. I did lie about that. My one marriage ended in divorce after six months. Now I am struggling to get by, and my unemployment insurance is about to run out. I lie in bed looking at the memento mori that I have placed on the table beside the rose. I reach out and rub the small skull. “Remember your end,” I whisper.
The next morning, I phone Ms. Antonakis again. “Please call me Clio.” She would be delighted to show me the house again. The same house twice! I’ll have to find something else to wear. I head for a consignment store down the street from my room; I sold most of my nice clothes here after I was fired. I find a smart-looking beige pantsuit and a silky sky-blue blouse. Expensive-looking but cheap, though I’ll have to eat toast for dinner tonight.
My mother always wore pantsuits with flowered blouses. She wore long dangly necklaces and matching earrings. She liked bracelets, too, delicate ones with silver beads and trinkets. She kept her fingernails long and pointed and painted a bright red. Her skin was flawlessly white and smooth. In the mirror, in my chic pantsuit, I look like her. For a minute, I think that is she, staring back at me. That is good, I think. I’ll definitely pass as a rich lady. My mother was classy — not exactly rich but well enough off. She died just last year, after years in a nursing home that took all the money she had left. I’m glad she didn’t know what a failure I am.
Clio greets me at the door. “Did you walk?” she asks. I cannot tell her that I do not own a car, that I’d had to come by bus. “I left my car a few blocks down so I could check out the neighbourhood,” I say. I am pleased at my cleverness.
“How old are your sons? There are excellent schools in this area.”
“I know. That’s one reason I’d like to live here. Do you mind if I wander through slowly?”
“Take your time. I’ll be in the kitchen. The maid left some coffee for us.”
“Does the owner still live here?”
“Yes, but he’s travelling right now. He wanted me to take care of the sale.”
I want to ask his name but don’t. I start to wander, covering all the floors, then enter the tower, climb to the third floor, go through the entertainment room, down the back stairs, and out the back door. But what will she say if I am gone too long? I’ll have to fake it. I retrace my steps and come back to the front hallway. I call out. “Clio, I’m sorry, I just had a phone call. One of my clients needs me right away. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”
“Okay, I’ll wait to hear from you,” she calls out.
I open and shut the front door, then climb up the tower again, go through the third-floor room, back down the stairs, and out the door to the gardens. I slip into the maze unnoticed.
Now that I am here, I am nervous. What if I get hopelessly lost? But I must find Ariadne again. I walk along the path and right away find the gazebo. I sit for a few minutes, trying to remember where we turned yesterday. I can see a glimpse of the sky — dark clouds are starting to block the sunlight. Rain and possibly thunderstorms are predicted for today — but the thick bushes should protect me.
I loved running through the rain with Thomas. He took me with him to Florida once. When the weather turned stormy, we were caught on a beach with rising winds and high waves. We ran, panting and laughing, back to our hotel, threw off our wet clothes, and jumped into the large king-size bed. Then his phone rang — his wife. He took the phone into the bathroom. I could hear his voice cajoling, arguing, soothing. When he came out, he said he’d have to go back home right away. Some kind of family emergency. We had to take separate airplanes, in case someone he knew saw us together. I thought that he feared his wife. I imagined her to be an ugly monster — a female minotaur. I saw her once, with him, at a party. She was beautiful — thin and blonde and stylish. I wondered why he would spend time with me. Now I know.
I leave the gazebo and walk back the way I came, then turn left — or should I be going right? I continue to the left, walk and walk, right into a dead-end. This is frustrating! I’m beginning to perspire. So I turn back, back to the main path, I think. Success! Ariadne is waiting for me, patient but weeping, holding the broken thread. I touch the thread. It is marble, too. Red, like blood. How could Theseus have deserted her after she saved his life? I think about him fighting the minotaur, can almost see the monster running at him, its bull-head butting him in the stomach, but Theseus fighting valiantly and conquering him, killing him with his sword. Without the thread, he would never have found his way out of the labyrinth.
I rub the cold, hard thread, following it down to the ground. “I’m sorry for you,” I say to Ariadne. “I hope you were happy with Dionysus. But wasn’t he the wild god of wine and revelry? Did he leave you at home while he was out drinking and dancing? I hope he loved you.” I am crying as I stroke her hand.
I run my hand down the marble thread. It is not broken after all. There is a real thread, made of thick twine, at the end. I put my finger on it and follow it. It runs along the ground, under leaves, then through the dirt. My hand is dirty now, but I don’t mind. This will lead me out of the labyrinth, maybe to Dionysus. It goes under a prickly brush, and I can’t get through. Disappointed, I sit down. Darker. It is darker now. I should have brought a flashlight. The thin silver one I used to take camping with my family. I shiver in fear. Perhaps the minotaur is near. I crawl around the bush. My beige pants get caught in the prickles. When I pull out the prickles, I hear a rip. It doesn’t matter. I probably won’t wear these again. I feel around in the dark and finally find the thread agai
n and follow it on my knees.
Darker. Darker and darker. My head hits something hard and I fall backwards into the bushes. I reach out my hand. Something cold. I push the brush away and some daylight creeps through. It is Theseus. I have found him. He is crouching. I look out and see the minotaur, not knowing that Theseus is near, but sniffing, possibly smelling him, knowing, does he know, will he pounce?
I whisper to Theseus. Shhhh. Be quiet. Don’t make a sound. Just go get him! I touch the thread again. The other end is on his finger. I am pleased. We are still attached. Shhhh. Now kill him. Kill the monster.
The minotaur is moving, coming slowly toward us. Silently in the dark. I touch Theseus, try to warn him. He will win, though. He always wins. He will kill the monster, get the money, win the woman, leave her when she is sleeping. I was sleeping that last time, woke up to find him gone, gone with all the money. My job, my good name.
I must flee these monsters. I run blindly, up and down path after path, not thinking or choosing, I wish I could fly over these bushes and see the pattern. What is the pattern? A tree branch hits my face, I taste blood running down my cheek, into my mouth, I stumble and fall. I listen. Do I hear the soft footprints of the monster? Of Theseus? Where is the thread?
Crawling now again on hands and knees. I cannot see any pathways. There is no longer sky. My knees and palms are bleeding. I will never get out of here. Mother, where are you? I want to come home.
I look up. Red. Setting sun. Open sky. Stars. I crawl a little further and come out into a circle, a sacred place, with a statue in the centre. The god is here. So beautiful. More beautiful than Theseus. Gloriously naked. Broad smile. Eyes full of love. Radiating pleasure. Holding out to me a cup of wine. I lie at his feet, giggling. I reach for the cup.
The Birthday Gift
APURSE, a woman’s pocketbook, is locked in my aunt’s coffin, buried underground, racing with her corpse towards dissolution. Which will decompose first, turn to ashes, dust? Like an ancient Egyptian, she has something with her, something that may perhaps be useful in her journey to the ‘other side.’
Eye Page 8