by Bassoff, Jon
It was hard to see, and sometimes the figure would seemingly disappear and I would have to rub my eyes to make her reappear. But now that I saw the figure in the first one, I could see that she appeared in all of them. And I saw that the paintings were anything but identical. Sure, the window was the same, but the ghostly woman, dressed in white, was always in a slightly different position. Sometimes she was hidden in the back of the apartment, and sometimes you could see her right at the window, her face peering into the darkness…
For a good long time I paced back and forth across the apartment, studying each painting, looking for clues that I’d missed. My eyes darted to the bottom of one of the paintings where the artist’s name was scrawled: Max Leider.
* * *
Other than the paintings, the most striking aspect of the living room was the disarray. Boxes and whiskey cartons were scattered across the floor—as well as newspapers and pornographic magazines and books and beer cans and bean cans and milk cartons. There were dirty clothes and paintbrushes and drawing pads and scissors.
Adjacent to the living room was the kitchen. A single light bulb dangled from the ceiling. The walls here were painted a sickly gray and were streaked with mold. The hardwood floors were splintered. A teakettle and an empty metal pot rested on an ancient-looking stove. In the sink and on the counter were dishes and glasses piled high, most of them filthy. In the middle of the room was a round wooden table surrounded by four mismatched chairs and covered by a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. Three bottles of Budweiser sat on the table; two were empty and the third had just a couple swallows left. A dozen or more cigarettes lay trampled and dead in an ashtray. For a brief moment, I thought I saw a faint tendril of smoke rise to the ceiling, but it was just my imagination, my mind, perhaps, a bit diseased.
I left the kitchen and walked down a short hallway, slanted hardwood creaking beneath my boots. There were two doors. One of them was for the bathroom. Here, like everywhere else in the apartment, things were a pretty good mess. Clothes and towels on the floor. Scissors on the sink, clumps of black hair plastered in the bowl. The shower curtain was flung open and so was the medicine cabinet. Inside were a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, razors, and shaving cream as well as several vials of medication, all with the labels torn off. I grabbed one of them and opened it up. A handful of orange and white pills imprinted with 93 and 956. I studied them for a moment, then dropped them back in the vial and twisted it shut. I closed the medicine cabinet, keeping my eyes averted from the mirror.
Next to the bathroom was the bedroom, the heavy door splattered with red paint, the bronze doorknob loose. The door was jammed and I had to yank a few times to get it open. Inside, the bed was unmade, sheets and blankets twisted in knots. On the floor, clothes and dishes and booze bottles. On the dresser, a pile of art books—Matisse, Cézanne, Picasso—as well as several sketchpads.
In the corner of the room, there stood an antique mirror, badly cracked. And next to the mirror, a wooden easel with a strange painting of a man, his face shattered into shards. A self-portrait?
I bent down and picked up a bottle of Johnny Walker, still half-full. I untwisted the top and took a long swallow before hacking away the burn. With a quick jerk, I pulled back the curtains that blinded the window and stared down at the streets below where the pimps sold bodies like they were holy sacraments, then to the apartment across the street, fire escapes crawling up the building like spiders.
And I wondered where the yellow window was.
* * *
At some point I grabbed one of Leider’s sketchpads and flipped it open. The first few pages were pencil sketches, very rough, of a woman’s face. Nothing special. Generic. But as I delved further into the pad, the focus changed. Each page, a single set of eyes. And the further I went, the more meticulous the drawings became.
The last few pages were the strangest. A single eye on each with alarming detail. The domed cornea covering the pigmented iris and the darkened pupil. The sclera with tiny tendons crawling toward tear ducts…
* * *
That night I slept, but I took on the artist’s nightmares and every time I tried waking, every time I tried opening my eyes, I found myself drowning further and further into his deformed consciousness. So I guess you could say I didn’t really sleep, just floated on the precipice of sanity. It was those eyes that got to me. Pages and pages of eyes. Why do lovers gaze into each other’s eyes; why do poets write about them with such reverence? Because, if you ask me, there is no beauty in the human eye, only vileness.
Eventually I got out of bed. Skull crushed to pieces, skin peeling from my bones. I staggered across the room and pulled back the curtains and gazed outside. The sun was just rising, and the sky a watercolor painting. I gazed at the opposite apartment, searching for the woman, but I didn’t see a soul.
* * *
I spent the next couple of hours cleaning the apartment—washing dishes and clothes, tossing the mess of empty bottles and cigarette butts and rotted food into trash bags. The sketchpad with the eyes, I couldn’t bare to look at. I brought them to the bathtub and took a match to them, watched as the hideous eyes turned all jack-o’-lantern orange and chimney red before blackening into ash.
I took a long shower, upping the hotness until it was scalding and my eyes were squeezing shut from the sting. I thought of those religious fanatics who walk with broken glass in their shoes or blind themselves with lye or mutilate themselves with nails, and I thought maybe that was something I could do if only I believed in something.
Back in the bedroom, and I riffled through the drawers, looking for something clean to wear. I found some boxers with hearts on them, a pair of well-worn jeans, and a white T-shirt. They fit well—a bit loose, but not too bad.
As I tightened my belt, I thought about hermit crabs. How they cover and protect themselves with salvaged seashells or wood or stone. And as soon as they’ve outgrown the shell, they replace it with another one. I rose to my feet and walked to the hallway. From the closet, I grabbed the artist’s jacket, a yellow Baracuta. I put it on and it felt good. My new shell.
CHAPTER 5
For the next several days I never left the apartment. The artist had stocked up on canned goods, so I wasn’t lacking for food. Most of the time I spent sitting in the bedroom with the lights out, shuffling my deck of fifty-one cards (where the hell was that queen of hearts?) and staring out the window at the tenants in the apartment building across the street. Little worlds, trivial lives. They didn’t know I was there, but through vigilant observation, I came to know many of their daily rituals and habits and began jotting down notes in a yellowed journal.
In the apartment directly across from me there was the little balding man with Coke-bottle glasses. He must have worked from home, because the only time he left his apartment was to take his Chihuahua out, which he did three or four times a day. He’d always carry the little dog football-style, all the while stroking its belly with his free hand. For the rest of the day and into the night he’d sit at his desk, the room filling with the ghostly light of a computer screen. He never had any company over, and I figured he was sad and lonely, but aren’t we all?
On the fifth floor, corner apartment, lived the old whore. She disgusted me. Late at night, she’d sit in front of her vanity mirror, a red negligee falling from her bony shoulder, and smear lipstick and rouge and mascara on her puckered face. Then she’d put on an overcoat and disappear from her apartment, only to return less than an hour later. There was no question what she was doing. One time when I’d neglected to turn out my light, she caught me staring at her. She gave me a dismissive wave and then quickly shut the blinds. But they were again open the next night and I was certain she enjoyed being watched.
In the floor below lived a mother and son. The young man was a big, burly fellow, arms covered with tattoos. Every morning he’d leave at 6:15 carrying his work boots, lunch pail, and thermos. He wouldn’t come home until late, usually after midnight, and th
en he’d stagger into the apartment, probably drunk. His mother would always be waiting in her rocking chair—I could only see her feet bouncing up and down. As soon as he’d enter, she’d rise from that chair, and they’d start at each other. And this same fight would happen every night and would last for ten or twenty minutes, before the young man would disappear into his room. The mother would stand outside for a few minutes and then return to the chair, and I imagined that she must have cried herself to sleep.
There were others that I’d see from time to time (the girl brushing her hair, the family staring at the television, the young couple lying in bed), but I didn’t get to know them as well because most of the time their curtains were closed.
But the woman from the painting never appeared at all.
* * *
And then a strange development. Early one morning, as I played solitaire on my bed, I noticed something from the corner of my eye. Beneath the dresser there was what appeared to be a yellow manila envelope, coated with dust. I must have missed it when I cleaned. Curious, I rose from bed, got down on my hands and knees, and snatched it from the floor. Inside were several sheets of paper, probably torn from a sketchpad. And on each piece, a letter written by Leider. At least I assumed they were written by Leider. And so I sat on the hardwood floor, reading these strange letters, wondering more and more about the sanity of Max Leider, the artist whose clothes I was wearing…
* * *
Dear Anthony,
I know this is highly unusual, me writing a letter to somebody who is, for all intents and purposes, a complete stranger. However, due to our close proximity and similarities in routines, I have seen you around town quite often. Forgive me for saying so, but from a distance it seems to me that you are a hardworking and industrious lad. I admire somebody who gets up every morning and goes to work each day, especially doing the work that you do. A blue-collar job, correct? Certainly I recognize the toll that type of work takes on a man’s body and perhaps even his soul. I hope I don’t come across as patronizing when I say that you have my deepest respect. You see, my own job relies on merely spattering paint across a canvas, and while I take pride in my work, I am also well aware that the world would go on just fine without the saturation of writers and actors and artists who, for the most part, tend to be abnormally narcissistic in relation to the trivial contributions they provide.
In any case, I hope to be able to introduce myself one day, and perhaps we could sit down for a drink—I take you to be a beer man. But for now it’s better that I remain nameless. I do hope that receiving a letter from an anonymous source doesn’t concern you; the last thing I want to do is frighten you. But enough of my chitchatting. I suppose you want me to cut to the chase. Very well. The reason I am writing you is because I wish to discuss your relationship with Claire Browning, a woman that I have a great interest in.
Oh dear! I said I didn’t want to frighten you, yet when I look at that line, I see that it could be perceived as quite menacing indeed. Please, listen. I am an artist. I have seen Ms. Browning, from a distance, from time to time. I find her beautiful. Not in a romantic sense, mind you, but in an aesthetic sense. And I worry that—how should I say this gently—perhaps you are not the man she should be with. It sounds so pretentious, I know! Please understand that this is not a criticism of you. Far from it. Rather, it is an understanding of her innate beauty and how important it is to keep this beauty pure. I’m sure there must be dozens of pretty girls who are enamored with a burly working-class fellow like you. And so I only ask in the most humble and polite way possible that you release Claire from your grasp.
Thank you in advance.
Yours very truly,
The Artist
* * *
Dear Anthony,
I know this is highly unusual, me writing a letter to somebody who is, for all intents and purposes, a complete stranger. It is not my wish to scare you, but I feel it my duty to let you know that I have been watching you from afar. I know your day-to-day routines, as mundane as they are. If this all sounds criminal, I want to make it clear that it is not you that I have any interest in, but rather Claire Browning, who I believe you would consider your “lover.”
Some background about me: I am an artist of some note (several of my paintings have been exhibited at various galleries across the city and other renowned artists have cited my work as being quite influential). While I tend to paint landscapes and cityscapes, I have recently been quite struck by Ms. Browning’s beauty. She fills me with inspiration, and I know that I have to paint her. While da Vinci had Lisa del Giocondo, I will have Claire Browning. And as I prepare to paint her portrait (which I am confident she will be most joyful to allow happen) I am also aware of how easily beauty can be defiled. Forgive me for saying this, but I fear that you will defile her. And this I cannot have. I believe this portrait to be more crucial than your relationship.
I am not a violent man and I don’t want to make threats, but I would highly recommend that you take leave of this relationship.
Thank you for your consideration.
Yours very truly,
The Artist
* * *
Dear Anthony,
I have seen you around town, and it seems to me that you are a hardworking and industrious lad. I have nothing against you. But I do have a problem with your relationship to Claire Browning. She deserves somebody better. Believe me, I have ways of making you uncomfortable.
Thank you for your consideration.
Yours very truly,
The Artist
* * *
Anthony,
I have seen you around town, and it seems to me that you are a hardworking and industrious lad. But I will hurt you if you don’t leave Claire Browning alone. Please understand that I am not fooling around.
Goodbye (for now)
The Artist
* * *
I’ve been watching you. I know who you are. I know where you live. If you don’t end your relationship with Claire Browning, I will slit your throat with a razor blade.
The Artist
* * *
I know you. You’re a dead man.
* * *
I placed the letters back in the envelope and set the envelope on a dresser. I paced back and forth across the room, stopping in front of Leider’s strange self-portrait. And then the antique mirror next to the portrait. I stared at my reflection, and with that Baracuta jacket and my hair slicked into a ducktail, I looked just like him…
CHAPTER 6
Not a white Christmas, but a rainy one, and down below the underage crack whores were dressed like Santa’s elves, the drunks staggered down the avenue singing carols, and on the corner, a blind man, his eyes plucked out in an act of cruelty, rattled his can incessantly.
I’d just drifted to sleep when I was roused by a commotion from outside my apartment. Angry shouts and screams echoed through the corridor. At first I thought it was only my imagination as my senses tended to be jumbled from time to time, but as the din continued, I became sure that it was not an auditory hallucination, so I stumbled through the living room and to the front door. I pushed it open a crack and peeked outside. There I saw a woman shrieking and pounding on doors. She was wearing a thick sheepskin coat and a flower dress that dragged to the ground. She looked bloated, her eyes like tiny black marbles pressed into her misshapen glob of a face. “Where is he?” she shouted. “What did you do with him? Somebody knows something! Somebody…”
Several doors opened with more interested bystanders. My neighbors, most of them seen by me for the first time. See the tall and stooped old woman holding a teakettle in one hand and a fly swatter in the other. See the twin men with their Pavarotti beards and Christmas sweaters and heeled boots. And see the man with the white lab coat, a stethoscope strangling his neck (was he really a doctor?) shouting right back at the woman: “Get on out of here! We don’t know where that little gigolo went, nor do we care. You’ll get no answers from the likes of us!”
“You’re an old devil!” she shouted. “His blood will be on your hands! What did you do with him? One of you knows something, if not every one of you!”
One by one the bystanders vanished into their apartments, but not the doctor. “Go away, you crazy bitch! I’ll have them take you to the mad house! And don’t think I don’t have connections!”
Back and forth they went until the doctor finally decided he’d had enough and returned to his own apartment, slamming the door shut behind him. From the crack in my door I watched as the poor lady slid down against the wall and pulled her legs to her chest, all the while moaning and sobbing. Perhaps I should have followed the leads of the other tenants and returned to the quiet of my apartment, but my own heart was breaking watching her suffer. I pushed open the door and walked down the troubled hallway until I was standing over her.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I said. “That old man is cruel. He shouldn’t have talked to you that way. Is there anything I can do to help?”