by David Cohen
‘Now look here, madam – I’m a busy man.’
‘I really don’t think it’s healthy,’ she said, ‘for you to be holed up here all the time with your hoarding. Never going out … The air in here, it’s rotten – can’t you smell it?’
‘Excuse me, madam. I am an archivist – what I do is called archiving. Are you aware that I managed the archive at … at … Well, you wouldn’t have heard of it, but it was very big, very important.’
She sniffed the air again. ‘Okay, you’re an archivist. Still.’
‘You see: not so difficult to be courteous, is it – even for you.’
She smiled again, as if my insults were a source of comfort and joy to her. I, on the other hand, felt neither comfort nor joy.
She continued to explore the front room, looking at things, touching things. And then, once again, she approached the sanctum sanctorum. I placed my hand on my chest and felt the reassuring keyness of the key.
‘I don’t know what gave you the impression,’ I said, ‘that I allow strangers to wander about my front room at will.’
‘If this is the front room,’ the courier replied, ‘I can’t imagine what the back room looks like.’
‘Madam,’ I said, ‘it’s not your place to imagine the back room, and it is certainly not your place to enter the back room. That is a private archive.’
She stopped, turning to me. ‘Do you really have to call me that? I keep telling you it’s Lucy. Lucy. Remember?’
She was giving me another one of those looks. I wasn’t up to this. I wasn’t up to this at all. I sat down in my smoking chair and closed my eyes for a moment. When I reopened them, I instinctively felt for the key – there it was, safe and sound – but how much time had passed? I looked at my watch, only to realise that I wasn’t wearing one. The courier was nowhere to be seen. I quickly rose from my chair, but I felt so dizzy I had to sit down again. I got up again, slowly this time, and checked the Archive door: it was locked. I checked the kitchen, the bathroom and my bedroom: all empty. I looked out through the front-room window. The van was gone.
I went looking for the phone: it was high time I lodged a formal complaint. But, try as I might, I couldn’t recall the courier company’s name. I unlocked the Archive room, relocked the door behind me, and searched through my desk drawers for a contract, a business card – something.
I could find no record of having hired the courier.
Still no sign of her. Of anyone. Could it be possible that I did lodge a complaint but forgot, and she’s been dismissed? Could they be organising her replacement at this very moment, hence the delay? Or might it be the case that I didn’t lodge a complaint, but some other unfortunate client did?
But then there’s another possibility: the courier is not a courier at all. Look at the evidence.
(1) The courier’s lack of an identity badge. She calls herself Lucy but I have no solid proof that Lucy is her real name.
(2) The courier’s lack of a uniform or cap. I believe I’ve already discussed this.
(3) The courier’s ‘van’. I’ve been referring to her vehicle as a van, but really it’s just a glorified station wagon. But there’s something else: the ‘van’ has no company name on the outside. I could accept the absent uniform and cap, even the missing badge, but what sort of courier service doesn’t advertise itself on its own vehicles?
But if she is an imposter, how did she get access to the boxes? Leaving that aside for the moment, I ask once again: why, if she is an imposter, has she delivered the boxes every day for so long? Possible answer: to establish trust, to wait patiently for the right moment to rob me blind, or rob the Archive, or – even worse – destroy the Archive. But she hasn’t established trust; I distrust her more than ever.
If she really is a courier, though, she’s most definitely a rogue courier. And even if she has been dismissed, there’s still every chance she’s coming back to do whatever it is she set out to do: rob me blind, rob the Archive, etc.
So many possibilities, none of them good.
The day after the day I fell asleep – no, it must have been a few days later – the courier stood on my doorstep, holding out the box as if it were some sort of peace offering.
‘Sorry, Pops,’ she said. ‘Guess I should have respected your space a bit more.’
Pops?
‘If that was apology,’ I said, ‘it might have been more effective had you addressed me as Mr … Please call me Mr …’
‘Mr Kovacs,’ she said.
‘Exactly. Call me Mr Kovacs. Please.’
The courier nodded. ‘But remember how I used to call you Pops?’
I saw what was going on here: mind games, pure and simple. At this stage, if I recall correctly, I was leaning towards the theory that the courier wasn’t really a courier; it was all an act. Whoever she was, she was laying it on with the proverbial trowel. She’d realised that charging into the front room had been a tactical error; she was working hard to regain lost ground.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure,’ I said.
Her entire face seemed to sag. A convincing show: Academy Award material.
I took the box from her, as I was accustomed to doing, except that this time I nearly dropped it. I suppose I was weak from not eating, and the stress of the situation had taken its toll.
‘You right?’ the courier said, but she remained, obediently, where she was.
‘Fine, thank you. You may go now.’
She hesitated.
‘Look, Pops – Mr Kovacs – can I just ask you a question?’
‘If you must,’ I said.
She pointed to the box I’d just placed on the bench. ‘What exactly are you doing with those?’
I said, ‘I’ve told you: the contents are my business!’
‘I know the contents,’ she replied.
I sat down in my smoking chair, reaching for my cigarettes and matches, which were nowhere to be seen. It appeared that I’d given up smoking at some point. The courier stood there watching me through the open door.
‘You’ve lost a lot of weight,’ she said. ‘I’m worried about you.’
Still I said nothing, but I could feel my hands shaking. I gripped the arms of my chair.
‘If you won’t tell me, would you be willing to tell someone else, someone you feel more comfortable talking to? Mark, maybe?’
I finally lost my composure.
‘Who the blazing Christ is Mark?’ I said.
‘Mark. My husband. You know Mark.’
‘No, I do not know Mark. How the hell would I know Mark? Honestly, this is …’
Lost for words, I slammed my fist onto the smoking table, but I had so little strength in my arm nothing much happened: the ashtray rattled a bit on its metal stalk, and all was quiet again.
‘Sorry.’ The courier continued to watch me from the doorway. If I didn’t know better I’d have sworn she was on the verge of tears. Ah, but I did know better.
‘I just think,’ she went on, ‘that it would be good for you to get outside. Get some fresh air. Get away from that room.’ There it was again: her obsession with the Archive. I was now convinced beyond all doubt that she longed to get in there and wreak havoc – destroy my careful, patient work. It wasn’t enough that they drove me out of the big archive; now they wanted to stop me archiving altogether.
‘I want to know who you work for,’ I said. ‘Tell me!’
‘What?’
‘I know your game,’ I said. ‘I know your plans.’
‘I don’t work for anyone!’ The courier’s long fingers were folded into fists – not angry fists, anxious fists. The gesture was intensely familiar somehow. I looked at my own hands and noticed that they too had become fists, anxious and long-fingered.
‘Will you give the name or not?’
‘I think I’d better go now,’ she said.
I looked away. The courier retreated to her van.
I remain by the window, watching
the vanless hill, despite a growing need to use the toilet. Finally, I stand up – it’s not easy – and walk into the bathroom.
Having relieved myself, I mount the scales for the first time in … The needle doesn’t move much; either the scales are broken or I’ve lost half my body weight. The courier – damn her – was right. But how could it be otherwise when I don’t eat? Funny to think that as a younger man I enjoyed nothing more than … but surely I’ve already talked about that. That was back in the days when I managed the big archive, the one at … strange how the name of it escapes me now, but it was, as I think I’ve mentioned, an important archive, housed in a grand stone building. And the thing is, I’d still be there if I hadn’t started to make – I hesitate to say errors. They were silly little oversights: a misplaced file here and there – minor lapses, small details. But then, the small details are what count. Don’t misunderstand me: the big details are important too, but one must always pay meticulous attention to … Anyway, here I am today with my own archive, so who’s laughing now?
After weighing myself, I look in the mirror – something I’ve also avoided doing for … clearly a long time: the thicklimbed, glossy-haired young archivist, the archivist I once knew well, seems to have been replaced by a collection of twigs in the shape of a man, twigs carelessly wrapped in papery skin. I move right up close to the glass, study the crosshatching in the flesh around my eyes. My eyes are still green after all these years. For an odd moment, I think I’m staring into the courier’s eyes.
Still, if everything else has fallen by the wayside, at least I can still practise my profession in a modest way. No, not modest: I can redeem myself, is what I meant to say. That’s why I must keep going, every day, until the final moment. But what is the final moment? When will it come?
I was dozing off in the smoking chair when the courier knocked. It must have been the day after she asked me what I did with the contents of the boxes. I could barely rise from the chair, but I dragged myself upright and across the room to open the front door. This time she walked right in again. I was no longer in any condition to stop her.
She placed the box on the receiving bench and said, ‘This has gone on long enough. I don’t care if you don’t remember me – I want to see that room.’
‘And I’ve told you,’ I said, ‘nobody goes in there but me.’ ‘If you don’t let me, I’ll get someone else.’
‘Someone else from the company? The company without a name?’
‘What are you on about, Pops – Mr Kovacs? What company?’
‘Don’t be obtuse, woman: the courier company.’ With some effort, I lifted my hand and extended a finger in her direction. ‘But you and I both know, don’t we, that there is no courier company.’
She laughed despite herself. ‘Agreed – there is no courier company.’
Coming clean at last, then – or was it more mind games?
‘So,’ I said, ‘if you’re not a courier, what exactly are you? Who sent you here? What is it that’s brought you to the Archive day after day, week in, week out, for the past six months?’
‘Six months? More like two weeks.’
‘Two weeks!’ I said. ‘What are you talking about? I’ve been working on this project for … I don’t recall precisely how long, but a long time.’
The courier came over to me, to my smoking chair.
‘Pops,’ she said, ‘I’ve been bringing you your lunch.’
She bent down and looked right into my eyes. I couldn’t help but look into hers. Again, just for a moment, I recognised that particular shade of green.
She said: ‘Can’t you see it’s me?’
‘I know it’s you,’ I said. ‘Who else would you be but you?’
She looked surprised, almost relieved. ‘You … know me?’
‘Yes. You’re the courier – but not the courier. You’re … Whoever you are, you’ve come for the Archive.’
I now noticed a peculiar look in her eyes. I glanced over at the knife sitting on the receiving bench; a fat lot of good that was to me right now. I bowed my head and waited for the blows to rain down.
When the blows didn’t come, I looked up. The courier still stood before me, but she was weeping. It’s a terrible thing to behold: a woman you’d swear has never cried, crying. And yet maybe I had seen her cry before, somewhere, sometime. But the moment passed, and I saw with intense clarity that this was all part of the act. Dizzy and weak as I felt, I had to stay focused.
‘What is the matter?’ I said.
She closed her eyes tightly and shook her head. Then she was her no-nonsense self again. Before I could say or do anything, she’d pushed open the door to the Archive.
I’d neglected to lock it. I’d never done that before.
I was helpless. She may have been a woman but she had the upper-body strength of a man, whereas I couldn’t even lift my own body out of the chair.
‘Proceed no further!’ I said, but she’d already entered. From my chair I couldn’t see in through the doorway. I could only sit there while she had her way with the sanctum sanctorum.
I heard her say, ‘What the fuck?’
‘Language!’
A minute later she emerged, her hand covering her mouth and nose.
‘Jesus!’ she said. ‘The food! How long have you been hoarding the food?’
‘I’ve told you before: I am an archivist! I do not hoard!’
‘Ah, Pops.’ She took one of my hands. Her long fingers felt surprisingly warm against my skin. ‘You were an archivist. You were.’
‘What are you on about now?’ I said.
‘Pops,’ she said.
‘Why do you keep calling me that?’ I withdrew my hand. I tried again to rise from my chair; I failed. ‘Get out! I’ll call the police!’
The courier’s green eyes looked into mine until I could bear it no longer.
‘Please go,’ I said.
She walked, quickly and clumsily, across the front room, towards the front door. I kept my eyes on her as she opened and closed the door, then I kept my ears on her as she started up the van and drove away.
I forced myself to get up, to lock the Archive door before … I took a step, then another. I think it must have been while taking the third step that I stumbled and fell, hitting my head on something hard and furniture-shaped.
That was yesterday – or was it today? All I know is I woke up on the floor of the front room with a burning pain above my left ear. I touched the pain region: it felt moist. My vision was a bit blurred. I recalled that there was something I should be concerned about, something other than my bleeding head.
The Archive.
I couldn’t get to my feet, so I crawled towards the back room and peered through the doorway. Despite my impaired vision, I could see that all was as it should be. But now I was vulnerable. She might return at any time to finish the job – or send someone else to do it for her.
I dragged myself through the front room, weaving my way through the chairs and tables and other things I’d collected over the years. If the back room was an archive of meals no longer eaten, the front room was, in its way, a museum of a life no longer lived. As I crawled by the receiving bench, I reached up and felt around until my hand was on the letter opener, retrieving that weapon before continuing on towards the window. Once settled there, I parted the curtains and began my vigil.
It’s been hours – I think – since I parted the curtains, and I’m still here, on my knees, looking through the window, watching the hill. I don’t know what I’ll do when she – or someone else – comes. The letter opener provides some small comfort, but I wish I had something more effective, even if it was just a slightly bigger letter opener.
Wait! A vehicle has, at last, as expected, just appeared at the top of the hill. I hold the letter opener tightly and take a breath. I can still see well enough to know that it’s a different vehicle from the one the courier drives: it’s a proper van, this one, and there’s something written on the side. I can’t make
out the words from here, but that van is definitely coming this way, and I’m almost certain it’s coming for me.
SHRINKING
In the drawer next to her bed, my mother kept a slim velvet-lined case containing six different bottles of perfume. What fascinated me about these bottles when I was a boy was that none was larger than a thimble; they were like normal bottles that had somehow shrunk to a ridiculous size. I was constantly taking them out of their case and holding them in the palm of my hand, like a selection of jelly beans. Week by week the amount of perfume diminished, until finally all the bottles were empty and my mother let me have them. The novelty soon wore off but I kept them anyway, not out of sentimentality but for the same reason I keep all kinds of bits and pieces: you never know when something might come in handy.
I live on the top floor of a block of flats, overlooking the car park. I usually get up late, but a few weeks ago I was woken by a noise at around 8 a.m. I looked outside to see Eric, who’d recently moved in to number 7, going through the mobile plastic garbage bins lined up along the fence. Most of these bins were for your standard non-recyclable matter, but two were specifically for the disposal of milk cartons and glass, steel and aluminium containers. Eric was opening the non-recyclable-rubbish bins in turn, removing the bags, sorting through their contents, taking out any cans, tins, bottles, jars or cartons and tossing them into a small plastic tub he’d placed on the ground. Once he’d finished with a bag, he resealed it, placed it into a second bag, one of those extra-wide green drawstring bags – he had a roll of these – until it was stuffed with the smaller bags, then he returned it to the bin, closed the lid, and moved on to the next one.
I came outside, descended the stairs and walked across the car park until I stood about ten feet away from him. He didn’t notice me. I watched as he opened the last bin in the row and withdrew and examined more bags, the last of which was mine. I knew it was mine because I was the only tenant who used that particular variety of semi-transparent plastic bag, the kind you get from Liquorland. I threw everything in: bottles, cans, paper. A bit slack, environmentally speaking, I suppose, but it was my rubbish, and at least I re-used the bags.
