Hummingbird

  “Shit. I forgot.”

  “You forgot? What were you doing all this time?”

  I sighed. “I’ll go back, all right?”

  “You don’t have to yell at me. I’m just wondering where you went.”

  “I’m not yelling. I said I’d go back.” Everything about her annoyed me: her sunglasses, her wild hair, her wounded look.

  She shook her head. “It’s fine. I don’t need it that badly.”

  I gave a harsh laugh and threw up my hands. “Then why did you send me out in the first place?” Zoe faced me impassively, her eyes impossible to see. I wanted to snatch the sunglasses from her face and snap them in two. “I need to go the bathroom,” I said, stumbling over Boris on my way down the hall. “Christ! This fucking place!”

  I locked the bathroom door behind me, then pulled out the envelope with shaking hands and sat on the lid of the toilet, feeling as if I were holding an innocuous-looking pouch of anthrax. After a moment of indecision, I ran my finger along the top flap to release the glue. A second smaller envelope was tucked inside the first and I pulled it out.

  A tentative knock came at the door. “You okay in there?”

  “I’m fine!”

  I waited for Zoe’s footsteps to recede before carefully taking out the photos.

  The first few were generic landscape shots. Ocean and sky, nothing remarkable on the surface, but I lingered on them, looking for an entry point to the photographer’s mind. Pictures of an empty beach gave way to snapshots of families: parents and children in a playground, evidently unaware of the camera. Then came photos of trees, lawns and houses. I had the sense of a journey, as if the photographer were going somewhere. Halfway through the pile, I suddenly stopped, staring at a picture of my old apartment building. The next photo was taken in the lobby. Then came shots of the stairwell, the hallway leading up to my unit, and the outside of my shut apartment door. Boris raked his claws down the bathroom door.

  “Jesus!” I shouted. “Can I get a minute to myself?”

  I could hear Zoe scolding the dog and leading him away. The next photo showed my apartment from the inside.

  “No,” I moaned.

  I shuffled through multiple shots of the galley kitchen, the living room and the bathroom. The photographer came to my half-open bedroom door and I braced myself for some sinister conclusion: a shot of me sprawled unconscious on the bed, a knife at my throat. But the bedroom was just as empty as all the other rooms. The final photo on the roll showed the view from my bedroom window at midday: the parking lot, the low-rise, Zoe’s building just visible in the background, her window a pinprick of darkness.

  I put the photos away and made a show of flushing the toilet, then hid the envelope in a cupboard under some towels. Zoe had retreated to the bedroom with Boris, both of them sitting in front of her computer. I went to the living room window and tried to find my old apartment in the distance. With no point of reference, the buildings all looked identical.

  “Everything okay?” Zoe asked, eyes locked to her monitor.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “No, it isn’t. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

  “Forget it … Someone phoned for you when you were out, by the way.”

  “Who?”

  “A man. He said he wanted talk about your book.”

  “Which book?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How did he get this number?”

  “I assumed you’d given it to him,” she said, typing steadily.

  I looked at the phone on the coffee table. “Was it David Cavendish?”

  “He didn’t leave a name. Who’s David Cavendish?”

  “No one.” I had no memory of giving David Zoe’s number. “Did he say anything else?”

  “No.”

  Whether or not David had been the one to call, I’d been thinking about getting in touch with him, hoping to get some feedback on my new project. I found his number in my email, scribbled it on my hand, and made sure I had change for the payphone, before grabbing my keys. “I’m going out,” I said to Zoe.

  She stopped typing and looked at me. “Again?”

  “I’m getting your milk.”

  “I told you, you don’t have to do that.”

  “Of course I do,” I said, and left the apartment.

  The restaurant was unnecessarily dark, a long and windowless space, lit only by flickering candles. I felt completely exposed at my small table in the middle of the room, unnerved by the figures shifting and murmuring around me. I finished my drink in one long swallow without knowing what it was, only that it burned on its way down. On the far side of the restaurant, a corridor with an unusual number of doors reached back into darkness. A large man with a moustache emerged from one of the doors and walked towards me. It took me a moment to recognize him.

  “Still no food?” David asked, sitting down.

  “Doesn’t look that way,” I said vaguely.

  “Trust me, it’ll be worth the wait. The head chef’s an artist. People come from all over the country for this stuff.” He crossed his legs and leaned back. “So about this book of yours, Felix. Frankly, I’m surprised that you came to me, after everything that’s happened. You really put me in a tight spot, cutting off all communication like that.”

  “I was having a hard time.”

  “I gathered.”

  “My father had just died.”

  David’s jaw went tight. “I’m sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I shrugged. “It’s not important.”

  “Well, are you all right now?”

  “Yes. I’m living with someone.”

  “Hey, that’s great! You should have brought her along.”

  “Yeah … she’s not really a people person.”

  “Match made in heaven,” David observed with a grin.

  I had a sudden impulse to punch him in the mouth.

  “So the proposal you sent me.” He tugged on his earlobe. “I have to say, I’m not quite sure what to make of it. There are some, shall we say … plausibility issues. And your protagonist isn’t exactly sympathetic.”

  I nodded, thinking I never should have called him.

  “A loser,” he said, pressing home the point. “And the way he sees women? A little tone-deaf, wouldn’t you say? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but women are having something of a moment right now.”

  I started to defend myself but David kept talking.

  “I’m not saying you can’t write about sex. But it’s going to be difficult. Women have a perspective too, you know.”

  “I understand that.”

  “Do you? The women in your books aren’t real, Felix. They’re ideas. Symbols.”

  “I—”

  “How are you doing over here?” a waitress in a short black skirt interrupted, suddenly appearing at our table.

  David gave her a wolfish grin. “Ravenous.”

  The waitress ignored him, directing her frozen smile at me. “Um …” I shifted in my chair. “I’m good.”

  “Great! Your food will be out in just a minute.”

  She walked off and David’s eyes lingered on her behind. He leaned back, looking gloomy. “Irony,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Your proposal. It’s loaded with irony. Just think about how passive your hero is. He can’t even womanize properly. He never takes charge of his situation. Things just happen to him.”

  “Isn’t that what life’s like?” I asked.

  David gave me a puzzled smile. “No,” he said. “It’s not.” His expression grew serious. “Felix, are you sure that this is the book you want to be writing right now?”

  I didn’t know how to answer that question. For me, when writing went well, it happened under almost trancelike conditions, as if I were transcribing someone else’s words. Whether or not it was the book I wanted to write was beside the point. It was the book I’d been given.


  “Have you ever considered writing something a little less … personal?” David asked. “Historical fiction? Maybe a good mystery?”

  As he continued to suggest alternate directions for my career, a couple sat down at a table in a far corner of the restaurant. The man had his back to me, but I had a clear view of his red-headed companion. The longer I stared at her, the more familiar she appeared. If it really was Jasmine, she’d grown out her hair since I last saw her and adopted a new style, dressed in a kimono-like top and dark slacks, chopsticks either holding her hair in place or imbedded in it for effect. From behind, the man looked much older than her, sitting with an elbow hooked over the back of his chair and one hand on the table, palm down, pointing in her direction. He seemed to have said something funny, as Jasmine (I was certain it was her now) nodded and laughed.

  “Something to think about anyway,” David was saying. “Obviously, I’m not inside your head. Only you can say what really excites you. But I feel like a change of direction could be helpful.”

  Jasmine touched her companion’s hand and an invisible vise tightened around my throat.

  David swept back his hair. “I’ve upset you.”

  “No,” I said, keeping my eyes on Jasmine’s table.

  “Then why are you so quiet?”

  “I’m always quiet.”

  The room was stifling. The man took Jasmine’s hand and turned it over, running his fingers over the lines of her palm, as if reading her future.

  “For Christ’s sake,” David said, loudly, “what’s so interesting back there?” He twisted around and Jasmine’s eyes flicked up, landing on me for a moment before dodging away. “Do you know that woman?”

  “No,” I muttered.

  Jasmine said something to her companion, who twisted around to look at us exactly as David had looked at them a moment before. My face went cold. It was my father’s double. The photographer with the truck. He wore a nicely tailored sport coat, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal a thatch of grey chest hair and a pendant on a thin gold chain. I couldn’t gauge his precise expression in the dim light, but he looked amused, as if Jasmine had just said something disparaging about me.

  David cleared his throat. “Uh … Felix?”

  My father’s double turned to Jasmine and made a seesawing motion with his hand. She nodded and laughed again.

  “I have to go,” I announced.

  “Hey.” David spread his hands. “I’m sorry if I offended you. You want to keep writing books about yourself? Knock yourself out.”

  I stood abruptly, jostling the table, making the cutlery clatter.

  The restaurant felt static, unnaturally quiet. I had the sense of walking through a painting, past suggestions of people, towards the only possible exit: the dark corridor beside Jasmine’s table. Neither she nor the man she was with seemed aware of my approach—Jasmine frowning at a wine list, while he looked at his watch. I veered towards them at the last second, coming up on the man from behind and hissing in his ear: “I know who you are.”

  The man jumped, nearly falling out of his chair. I’d never been that close to him before and was surprised by how little he actually resembled my father, his jaw stronger than Dad’s, his nose more prominent, his eyes more symmetrical. I could feel Jasmine staring at me, but remained focused on the man. “Who sent you?” I demanded. “Why did you take those pictures?” I grabbed his arm, then stopped, registering his baffled (and terrified) expression. The more I studied his face, the less sure of myself I became. The woman was on the verge of tears. She looked nothing like Jasmine—several inches taller and at least ten years older. All they had in common was the hair. Everyone in the room was watching. David should have been furious, but from his place at the table, he looked strangely pleased. I let go of the man’s arm and strode off down the corridor, passing door after door until I came to a flight of stairs that led to what looked like the main exit. The handle was solid and reassuring. I swung the door open and emerged onto a busy street: headlights streaming past under a purple sky, the air cool and bracing, a line of well-dressed people standing under a glowing marquee across the road. I walked away from the underground restaurant, feeling as if the world were being hastily assembled in front of me, the ground solidifying an instant before I stepped onto it. As I walked, my panic began to fade. None of it was real. Not the restaurant or Jasmine or David. Not the street under my feet. And not me. Least of all me. Yes, a voice in my ear confirmed. “Well?” I said out loud. “What do I do now?” Close your eyes, the voice said. I obeyed, walking blind for five, ten, twenty paces without stumbling. I opened my eyes, recalling David’s broad smile. He wanted action, I’d give him action. I shut my eyes for another twenty paces. Forty. Sixty. I may not have known exactly what to do next, but sensed something protecting me, guiding me, leading me exactly where I needed to go.

  “Do you mind if I ask what you’re doing?” Zoe asked.

  I looked up from the funnel of concentric circles sliding across the screen of my sleeping laptop. “Sorry?”

  “You’ve been staring at that screensaver for a long time,” she said, her eyes almost visible through her tinted lenses thanks to the strong sunlight coming through the kitchen window. “I thought you might have gone somewhere.”

  “Somewhere?”

  “In your mind.”

  “I was thinking about my work.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  I returned my eyes to the screen, then looked at her again. “How long is a long time?”

  “Well …” She poured herself a cup of coffee and dumped in three spoons of sugar. “I’ve been in and out all afternoon and you’ve hardly moved. I was starting to wonder if there was … I don’t know. Someone else.”

  I stroked the trackpad to wake my computer, then opened my word processor and scrolled through a list of document files. Zoe lingered in the kitchen with her coffee until I looked up at her again.

  “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just … if there was someone else, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

  “There’s no one else.”

  Looking less than reassured, Zoe shuffled away and left me to my work. When I heard her start typing in the next room, I minimized my word processor and opened a browser. Ever since the incident in the restaurant, I’d been haunting adult webcams, asking anyone who would listen if they remembered the website with the coloured doors, and more specifically, a redhead with a certain tattoo. Without exception, the performers either ignored me or ejected me from their chatrooms, and this afternoon was no different. I logged onto site after site, interrogating performers and users until my first lead finally came, not from the petite blonde gyrating on my screen, but from a fellow user who went by the name John Ayes.

  You trying to find Jasmine?

  I looked up from my screen, listening to the soft clacking of Zoe’s keyboard.

  Yes, I wrote back. A long pause followed.

  I know where she is.

  Online?

  Real world.

  An urgent, whirring rhythm started up in my head. Where?

  Not so fast. I want something in return.

  What?

  Email would be more secure. Your address?

  I gave him an anonymous email address I’d previously set up and he disappeared from the room. I navigated to my inbox, but found no new messages waiting. I refreshed. Nothing changed. For the rest of the night, I sat in front of the laptop, compulsively refreshing my inbox, until Zoe poked her head in around two in the morning, “Coming to bed?”

  The walls swam when I looked up at her. “Not just yet.”

  “Work’s going well?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She left the room, defeated. I hit the refresh button. Once she’d fallen asleep, I migrated out to the living room with my laptop, not wanting to take my eyes off the screen for a moment. I must have eventually fallen asleep, as I woke on the loveseat with a stiff neck, morning sun in the windows, my hibernating laptop on the coffee table. I
touched the trackpad, adrenaline jolting me fully awake as I saw a new, unopened message at the top of my screen. I opened it and found three short lines of text:

  Café Brew Ha Ha @ 9:30 AM.

  $500 for full contact information.

  Look for the red shirt and white hat.

  I checked the time on the laptop. Nine-fifteen. As far as I knew, there was only one Café Brew Ha Ha in the city, a short walk from Zoe’s apartment. Zoe was snoring softly in the bedroom, a bottle of sleeping pills on the nightstand beside her. I grabbed my wallet and keys from the coffee table and hurried down to the elevator. A small boy was standing beside the closed door, having already pushed the down button. He couldn’t have been older than five, but seemed perfectly comfortable with no adult supervision. The door opened and we climbed on together, riding down to the lobby in silence, him watching me with interest, as if expecting me to do something exciting. At the main level, I jumped off and jogged down the street to an ATM. My daily limit was five hundred dollars. I withdrew it all, then jammed the wad of twenties into my pocket and sprinted the last few blocks to the café. A chime sounded as I staggered through the door, breathing hard. The place was deserted. I ordered a coffee from the kid behind the counter and sat down at a table to wait. No red shirt appeared. No white hat. A full hour went by and not a single person walked through the door. I gave up and left the café, certain I was going to find a second, mocking email in my inbox when I got back. Down the street, I saw the little boy from the elevator on the crowded sidewalk, still alone, looking like he knew exactly where he was going.

  I headed in the opposite direction as him, back to our building, where I let myself in and stopped. A police officer stood waiting in the lobby. I nearly lifted my hands, thinking he’d come about Kim’s window or the stolen film or something far worse that I couldn’t remember doing, but he hardly glanced at me, occupied with a frantic woman who was sobbing to anyone that passed: “My son! Have you seen my son?” I excused my way through the small crowd that had gathered, saying nothing about the boy I’d seen on the street. He hadn’t been in any danger. He hadn’t looked scared. For all I knew, he had a perfectly good reason for wanting to get away from the woman. By the time I reached the elevator, I’d almost convinced myself that I was doing something noble by not telling her where he was. Three other tenants climbed on with me and the door closed. “Scary,” one of them said and I nodded vaguely, watching the broken display above the door flicker. At the sixteenth floor, I stepped off, and hurried down the hall to Zoe’s apartment (I still couldn’t think of it as our apartment), throwing the deadbolt behind me and locking the chain for good measure.