by Simon Kinch
I need to sit, but do not pull up a chair at one of the cafes where people amble by. I am almost at the point of breaking into a run when I finally find an alley to duck into, completely shaded by overhanging buildings, free of people. I sit down on a doorstep and steady my breathing. Whatever Alyson is doing now, I convince myself, will be so much more meaningful than this. I am made to wince, as even though I have no idea what she has ended up doing, I know that the drive she has and her urge to better herself will have taken her somewhere. She will have been hired by some top firm, submerged in meetings and deadlines, thriving in such a situation. And most probably it was that same drive that told her to end things with me, the same drive that could see I was destined for such a state of limbo, the same drive that won through and took her away from me. My breathing steadies and I release the grip I had on my knees. I am washed by a defeated calm. Because whatever drove her away from me was right to do so. Neither the odd morning’s work with Señora Rosales, nor the infrequent, chance encounters I have with Clara, are any way to measure a life. I pick myself up, walking home more slowly and heavily than before. I realise I have tricked myself into thinking that all this around me is a life, that these encounters mean something. As I walk, I look into the eyes of passersby, hoping that now, out of my earlier hysterical state, I will see something. Yet with each stare, there is nothing I can appreciate. The faces run out and the streets wind and twist towards my apartment – until, utterly exhausted, I stumble into my room, which receives me with a cold air.
TWENTY-NINE
Almost without realising, I have started going out with Laura. I stop going to the burrito place at lunch. Instead, we spend our breaks together in the coffee shop. Even when I am in moods where I don’t have anything to say, she manages to get something out of me and I end up laughing with her, or at least smiling.
I like having something to do on a Friday night after work, hanging out with someone and not really having to worry about stuff. A couple of Fridays running, we go to a cocktail lounge on West Main Street that Laura has introduced me to. Each time, I tell Mom I’ll be back home late from the office, without saying why. She doesn’t ask either, just like she didn’t ask about Alyson. Inside the bar, Laura tries a few cocktails from the menu: a daiquiri, a cosmopolitan. I stick to beer. At the end of the night, we walk to the taxi rank, make out for a while waiting for a cab and then head home in separate directions. Sometimes we hang out again on the Saturday, but I haven’t got round to getting a cellphone yet, so it’s difficult to meet up. Other than that, I don’t think about her too much until we see each other Monday morning.
On one Sunday afternoon, I find myself alone in the house. I think about calling Laura on the house phone, but instead, I enter the kitchen and open the fridge. I am not really hungry, but I set about making myself a ham and turkey sandwich. I cut the sandwich diagonally, then fold up and seal the packets of cold meats and return them to the fridge. I think about having a Coke, but instead choose to run myself a glass of water.
Flicking through cable channels, I find the Brewers game on Fox. I lay my plate on the arm of the sofa and stare into the television, reaching for my sandwich, taking a bite and then setting it back down. The sandwich is a little dry, as I haven’t put enough mayonnaise on the bread, and I gulp down my glass of water rather more quickly than I would normally. I cannot be bothered to pour myself another glass, so leave the last piece of sandwich untouched.
With the Brewers one up, the house phone begins to ring. I wonder if it is Laura. I can’t remember if she said she’d call. I stare at the phone as it rings. I should get up to answer it, but without knowing why, I stay where I am.
I continue staring at the phone from the sofa. The longer I stare, the less the sound seems to be coming from the phone. As it continues to ring and ring, I begin to observe the phone as nothing more than an inanimate object: a case of plastic; the curve of the receiver; the tangled cord. After a few more rings, the caller gives up. I return to the game and my sandwich.
THIRTY
Señora Rosales had not arrived and the office shutters were closed. The corner of an envelope poked out from under the door, showing the postman had been. I slid the letter out. It was a statement from the bank. I folded it, pushed it into my back pocket and headed two doors down, to the cafe we sometimes worked in.
Even on the days we did work in the cafe, Señora Rosales would at least open up the office beforehand. The cafe was nearly empty, save an older gentleman, reading the newspaper, and two ladies sat near the back, talking rapidly in hushed tones. The young waitress busied herself turning bread under the grill.
I stood in the doorway for a moment, deciding whether to stay or head back to the office. Señora Rosales would at least check here when she arrived. I decided to enter and pulled up a stool next to the bar. The waitress had left the grill and was plating a tostada. She smiled at me and asked me what I wanted.
Maybe I had got the day wrong. I took a newspaper to check the date. It was a Wednesday, the day I worked. My tostada came out. The waitress passed me the oil and salt, and returned to the coffee machine. The gentleman next to me folded his newspaper and began counting out some change. He placed this on his saucer. ‘Carmen . . .’ he called to the waitress, before pointing to the coins, then leaving.
The owner of the cafe emerged from a door behind the bar. I had seen him here a few times before, sometimes serving customers himself, sometimes adding up till receipts with a stubby pencil that he kept in his shirt pocket. The waitress asked him about something. As she was speaking, he shot me a glance and then whispered something under his breath. She turned, glanced at me and nodded. The cafe owner then disappeared through the door he’d entered.
I raised my coffee to my mouth, without drinking it. My fingers smelt of old cigarettes. I took a sip, then placed the cup back on its saucer, keeping my eyes on the door behind the bar, where the cafe owner had disappeared.
Moments later, he reemerged. He squeezed past the waitress, who was back at the grill, and came to my end of the bar. Leaning forwards, he placed his clenched hands on the bar and let his weight fall on them.
‘Granville?’ he pronounced. I gave the smallest nod. He explained something quickly in Spanish, without me following a word. He then opened one of his hands and pushed a set of keys into mine. I said nothing. He gestured towards the door. I nodded, to feign understanding, but remained lost in the exchange. The cafe owner then shrugged his shoulders and walked away.
The two ladies came up to the bar to pay. I looked at the keys the cafe owner had forced onto me. One long and slightly rusty, the other a short door key. I took a handful of coins from my pocket, counted out enough to cover my breakfast and left.
The keys were, as was my only guess, the keys to Señora Rosales’ office. The shorter key unlocked the front door with one turn and unlatched it with a second.
I’d never entered the office alone before. Señora Rosales would always have arrived beforehand, busying herself with paperwork, or sitting at her computer.
The office was almost pitch black with the shutters closed. I fumbled around at the windows for the latch. Releasing it suddenly drenched the room in sunlight, stirring the air, flecks of dust floating upwards in flows and currents.
I sat at Señora Rosales’ desk. There were two neat piles of documents – one squared to the left, one to the right – and three pens lined up in the middle: two biros and a fountain pen. I tried the long key in the desk drawer, but it didn’t fit. I took the folded envelope containing the bank statement from my back pocket and placed it on the desk.
It was then I noticed the top sheet on the right pile of documents had my name on it. I took it from the pile and placed it in front of me. The message was hastily written, on the same thick cream paper that Señora Rosales’ original advert had been.
Granville,
As you will see, I can’t be here.
Mother is ill. I have gone to Extremadura.
The diary on the desk has all the bookings.
Don’t worry about making any more at this time.
Vicenta
I turned the note over. The back was blank. That was it. No further details, no timescale.
I brought the diary towards me. Señora Rosales hadn’t mentioned her mother before. Nothing about ill health, nothing even about her as a person. The pages of the diary were a stark white, marked only with the names, numbers and apartments that her clients had booked by the day they were to arrive, all in her immaculate handwriting. There were six arrivals due this week. I tucked Señora Rosales’ note into the diary, took the diary under my arm and headed out, locking up the office behind me.
THIRTY-ONE
Getting home from work, after a day in which nothing really happened, I go to the bathroom, run the tap and drench my face in cold water. Turning off the tap, I look into the mirror, press my cheekbones curiously, then pat my face dry. Both Mom and Dad are out, Dad still at work, Mom god knows where.
I go and sit on my bed. Looking out of my window, I trace the lines of the tree branches. A number of birds land, look around, then fly off again. The last of them fly away and I bring my attention back to where I am sat.
In the corner of the room, there are two cardboard boxes, sealed with packing tape, containing old possessions. I go over. From the weight of one, I know it is nothing more than books. With a key, I slice open the packing tape on top of the other. Inside, there is an envelope of photos that I decide not to sift through and two T-shirts – a Brewers tee from when I was 12 or so and an old summer camp tee. From beneath these, I pull out a pair of high-top trainers, a pair of Nikes Air Force Ones. They are a little scuffed, but look my size. I lace them up and walk around the room. With nothing to do, I take my packet of cigarettes and head out of the house.
I wander aimlessly across Madison. The traffic is thick at this hour. A long queue forms at the supermarket parking lot. For seven o’clock, it’s still warm. Main Street and Washington Avenue still buzz with people, leaving work late, meeting friends, the men in T-shirts or with rolled-up shirt sleeves, the women in blouses or sleeveless tops. There are too many people here for me to sit and have a beer alone, I decide. Tenney Park isn’t too far off, I tell myself, and, besides, the walk will stretch my legs.
Away from the hubbub of cars and people, I feel somewhat calmed. My breathing slows, as does my pace. I take the path by Lake Mendota, crossing the tiny beach, letting one foot drag after the other. Middle-aged men are out with their dogs. An occasional couple pass, some talking and smiling, others pressing forward in silence. The air is fresher here, amongst the trees and beside the water. It’s not the sea air of Portbou, where the salt tickles your nostrils, but breathing deeply, I feel alive, or at the very least, conscious.
There is an iron bridge which crosses an estuary of sorts, a stream coming from Lake Mendota and cutting into the park. Stopping halfway, I lean over the edge and stand my left foot on the railings. I light a cigarette and, inhaling the first puff of smoke, push my foot out, and stare at the upper of the Nike dangling over the water. When I look up, I realise the sun has started setting and the sky is tinged pink. For a moment, I forget that I have to go to the office tomorrow; I forget that maybe I should have called Laura this evening; I forget that Alyson has yet to call me and never explained what I had done wrong. The sunlight dims a little more and I take my foot from the railings, start walking home and return to worrying about all that I momentarily forgot.
THIRTY-TWO
The phone rang again. I hadn’t answered it for days. Answering phones calls would only mean more clients, something I couldn’t stomach. I gave it five rings for the caller to give up, but it continued. I stared at it as it rang, staring at it as an object: a case of plastic; the flat, rectangular receiver; the tangled cord. As it rang and rang, it occurred to me it could be Señora Rosales. Why else would this caller be so persistent? What if it had been her trying to get through for the last few days? I placed my hand on the receiver. Things would only get better were she here. I could barely look after myself, let alone this business.
I took a deep breath, then took my hand off the receiver. One phone call wouldn’t change anything. If she came, she came, if she didn’t, she didn’t. It would only be some loved-up French couple on the other end of the line, calling for an apartment near the centre, a romantic getaway. If not, some middle-aged German couple with stroppy kids, demanding things of me their whole vacation. I stared at the phone until it stopped ringing, and left the office.
THIRTY-THREE
I have been waiting at the door of one the apartments for an hour and a half, clutching only Señora Rosales’ diary and one of her biros. Finally, a taxi pulls up. The driver opens both doors and helps an old couple out of the cab, before heaving two large suitcases from the trunk.
On the way up the stairs, the husband, an old Austrian gentleman, explains there had been a delay at the airport, although he does so without apologising.
I open up the apartment. It is clean and tidy, but smells a little musty. The husband puts down the suitcases. There is a moment’s silence between the three of us which makes me feel I have already overstayed my welcome. I push the set of keys into his hand. He says nothing.
I say I will be on my way, to let them settle in, but as I say this they look at me as if I have forgotten to mention something. I have no idea what they expect me to say. I ask when they would like me to pick up the keys.
‘Tuesday,’ says the husband.
I nod and leave.
THIRTY-FOUR
I spent an hour in the bar where Miguel had accosted me, playing his cigarette Hendrix. It was a quiet early afternoon for the bar: a couple of pensioners; a student working on her laptop; a different clientele to those here before. I took a final swig of my beer, paid up and left for my studio.
As I climbed my building’s stairs, I heard flamenco playing from the first-floor apartment, either a CD or the radio. Over the past few weeks I’d often seen a woman in her thirties, supposedly single, pass me at the building’s entrance. I had guessed it was her who lived on the first floor, but couldn’t be sure.
Arriving at the studio, I pocketed my corkscrew and promptly left. I headed to the supermarket, took a two-euro bottle of red, paid and headed for Señora Rosales’ office.
There were two small coffee cups in the office. I opened the wine, poured myself a cup and sat at her desk. Taking her diary, I leafed through it, searching for an address, a phone number, a clue – anything to tell me where she was, when she’d be back. There was nothing. I poured another cup, gulped it down and poured another. I was starting to feel how stuffy the office was, but didn’t want to open the shutters. The air felt thick, yet the sliver of light that broke through the persianas was all I could bear.
On my sixth coffee cup of wine, the phone rang. I slowly finished the wine, but it continued to ring. I looked at the touch-tone pad, slowly counting all ten numbers, the hash and the asterisk. The phone rang incessantly. It has to be her, I told myself. I pushed my coffee cup away and reached for the phone.
‘Hello?’ I answered.
‘Ahhh, hallou . . .’ The voice was male and sounded Dutch, or German maybe. ‘Apartmentos Rosales?’ he asked.
It wasn’t her. It was just another client, calling to book an apartment. Señora Rosales’ diary was open in front of me. I wanted to know when she was coming back, not when another guest would arrive. I slammed the diary shut.
‘Hallou, we’d like to reserve . . .’
‘Stay where you are – stay in your country!’ Without realising it, I was shouting – ‘Stay in your country and don’t leave!’ – shouting so much the line must have distorted.
‘Pardon? Is this Apartmentos Rosal
es?’ he almost begged.
I composed myself. ‘You have the wrong number,’ I gulped. Shaking, I slowly pulled the phone away from my ear and placed the handset on the desk in front of me. The distant sound of his voice continued to call faintly through the speaker. ‘Hallou? Hallou?’ I could just about hear a click. He’d hung up. I left the phone on the table, so it wouldn’t ring again.
Walking beside the river, I took the path down to one of the small jetties and perched on its edge. I looked down at my canvas shoes and swung my feet over the glistening water. I ran my hands over my jeans pockets: only the impression of a bank card, about a euro in change and the keys to the studio. I thought back to the steel bench in Portbou and my cellphone on the seabed. A fish must have swum beneath me, as a few bubbles burst on the water’s surface.
In all this time, I’d barely thought of my parents. I’d never thought of how worried they’d be, of why I’d never called. I’d become transfixed by nearly everything else, spacing my days with those chance meetings with Clara, displaced and disorientated by the sudden disappearance of Señora Rosales, crushed by my obsession with how Alyson would have moved on so effortlessly without me. And in that instant – with my feet still swinging above the glistening water – in that instant, all the charm, beauty and sunshine of this city seeped away and I felt an emptiness as if it were as deep as the ocean between me and home. I hunched my legs up, pulled myself up from the jetty and trudged home.