by Bassoff, Jon
I let go of Ethel’s leg—by this time she was pounding on the cement and yanking out her own hair—and tried defending myself by using the knife. I got the burned man across the chest, but then Carl pinned my arms behind my back and the weapon fell from my hand and harmlessly into the tunnel below.
“Gonna kill you!” he shouted. “Gonna kill you!”
A cornered animal, I got in a good kick to the groin, and he fell to his knees. I didn’t want to leave Ethel behind, but I had no choice, and so I started running, and I could hear them behind me, their voices echoing wildly against the cement and metal.
“Get him, get him!” the burned man shouted.
Teardrops: “A gutless traitor is he!”
And finally the voice of the mayor: “Don’t forget your name! I know your soul, Charles Pierce! Hear my words! The past awaits you!”
Two levels I climbed, one by ladder, the other by pipes. Behind me was darkness, darkness, madness. Ahead of me was lightness, lightness, madness.
PART TWO: YELLOW WINDOWS
CHAPTER 2
Blinded from the loss of darkness, I staggered through the city streets, face battered, arms covered with blood. Mobs of people marched in unison, heads down, hands buried in pockets, nobody paying me, the wounded gimp, any mind. I dodged through the crowd, afraid that at any moment I would lose consciousness and be trampled to a miserable death. My name was Charles Pierce and my physical and mental health was a real question mark. I began grabbing men by the arms, tapping women on the shoulders, pleading with them to help me, please help me, but they only stared empty-eyed into my pulverized face before hurrying their pace or diving into taxis or vanishing into subway stations. The few that did notice me screamed in my ear, shoved me to the ground, and stomped me to submission. All the while I pleaded, “Lost, lost, only lost.”
No thunder, no lightning, but soon the sky opened and the rain fell in sheets, turning the asphalt into a blurry mirror reflecting taillights, street lamps, and city sin. My own blood washed to the ground, disappearing amongst the broken glass and used prophylactics and scraps of newspaper turned to papier-mâché. Steam billowed from the grates, and the buildings suffered from vertigo, wobbling back and forth, chunks of brick and mortar crashing to the ground. Taxicabs, windshields covered with spider cracks and city mud, honked their horns and skidded out of control, and it wasn’t my brain that was soaked in kerosene, not mine.
The more I roamed, the more I realized that there were no crumbs of compassion for this poor boy, as people kept ignoring me, just another worthless stranger. At some point I saw a rat scurry down the gutter, and suddenly I felt hunger pangs, and I longed to return to the blackened tunnels, but I knew the mayor would be waiting for me, knew he would bloody me with his axe.
Remembering the wad of cash in my trousers, I ducked into a dangerous-looking bodega while a new generation of pimps and dealers asked if I needed some shit, needed a bitch. I shook my head and said, “Just food today.” Inside the store mariachi music was playing but nobody was dancing. I looked away from the convex mirror and grabbed an armful of processed food. Donuts, beef jerky, a bag of peanuts. And a big Gatorade. Behind the counter stood a singularly obese man with a Rollie Fingers mustache, and I handed him my first hundred-dollar bill, Franklin’s face smeared with blood or red paint, and stuffed the remaining change back in my pocket.
I scarfed down the food and drink inside the store, despite the looks of consternation, despite the cashier’s sudden barrage of Spanish obscenities.
Satiated, I shoved open the door and returned to the city streets. The rain continued to fall, people shielding themselves with umbrellas or newspapers or briefcases, and I kept moving, tiptoeing through the raindrops. I was tired and filthy, more than a little wounded, and I needed a hotel room, somewhere to shower and rest, but there weren’t many to be found in this neighborhood, and the ones I did try were all filled up, at least that’s what they claimed. I tried waving down taxis, moving to another part of the city, but they all zoomed past me, spraying me with city flood.
Hours and hours I walked, jogged, and ran, but I couldn’t move forever. My lungs were burning and my body was broken. I had nothing left to give. As the sky began to darken, I found a park bench to lay my weary bones, but the devil/god wouldn’t let me rest; he had it in for me. Every time I closed my eyes, I was haunted by terrifying images: a black man hanging from a noose, eyes bulging from his skull; a ballerina performing a plié, both of her arms missing; a rotted corpse being gnawed on by raccoons. I was used to these nightmarish images, however, and I plowed through, trying desperately for some much-needed sleep. But at the very moment that my consciousness floated to the void, I felt a tapping on my kneecap. My eyes flew open wide and I looked into the bleary face of a cop. He was gripping a billy club, and his thin lips were curled in a scowl. In my hazy state, the thought that came to me was that he knew about the mayor and Ethel, knew about the things I’d done. I quickly tried explaining, my words crashing into each other, but he only shook his head and told me to move along, nobody allowed in the park after midnight. I didn’t know where he expected me to go, not the Ritz-Carlton I was sure, but I rose to my feet anyway, wished him adieu, and returned to the city wasteland, buildings slathered with graffiti, windows broken or boarded up, asphalt glinting with shattered glass.
There was nobody around but a few drunks and sad-sack whores. I found another bench, this one behind a bus stop and encased in glass. No blanket, no pillow, so I curled up into a ball, sighed deeply, and, once again, closed my eyes.
But I didn’t even have time to face my demons when a crazy drunk with a Panama hat and an impossibly black face pounded on the glass and hissed, “Ain’t your bench! Ain’t your bench! I’ll cut your throat!” I tried ignoring him, tried shutting my eyes tighter, but it was no use. “I’ve been here forever!” he shouted. “Since the war before last! Ain’t your bench! I’ll do you harm! I’ll do you harm!”
I opened my eyes and sighed deeply. Then I raised both of my hands in frustration. “Okay, okay,” I said. “Your bench. Take it easy. Your bench.” I stood up, spat on the ground, and walked away.
And so it went. I travelled from park to park, from bench to bench, but it was no good, so I gave up on sleeping and started roaming the city streets once more.
* * *
Morning and the sun shone bloodred, reflecting off the grimy tenement windows. The wind was whipping cold and mean, and strangers passed by with faces covered with scarves, corpse eyes looking right through me. Too much loneliness and I thought about Ethel the Mute and wondered if she was still okay and if she was thinking about me.
I made my way down the avenue, hands buried in my pockets, until I came to a neighborhood devoid of righteousness. More rain it needed, one of biblical proportions, enough to drown all the filth and sin and hatred and sadness. Whores and pimps and crazies, mumbling to themselves, laughing for no reason, punching the air. And then I saw my own reflection in the window of a liquor store, and somebody just as crazy stared right back at me. Face gaunt and pallid, shielded by a scraggly beard. Greasy hair below my shoulders. Eyes of the insane…
Down here there were no Broadway musicals or fine dining or art galleries. Just liquor and fried chicken, bail bond and pawn, barber and used appliances. I staggered along, hopeless, until I came upon a storefront that caught my eye. The windows were painted black, and a pair of splintered wooden signs hung from the door. The first one read: Wigs for sale. The other one: Apartment for rent.
CHAPTER 3
The store was small, but there must have been five hundred wigs and toupees at least. Each wall was lined from top to bottom with white mannequin heads, and if a fellow didn’t use common sense, he might think they were staring right at him. Some of the heads had fallen from the shelves and were scattered across the floor, a few of them cracked. I took a few steps inside, the door slamming shut behind me. Nobody was in the store, although I could hear some strange kabuki music comin
g from the back of the room. I kneeled down and picked up one of the heads and stared into those empty eyes. Then I grabbed the wig—a Marylyn Monroe-blonde—and placed it on my head. At that moment I heard a shrill laughter. Standing across the store was a very small and very old Asian woman. I hadn’t seen her because she blended in with all the mannequins. She wore her own wig—fire-red locks that extended past her shoulder blades.
Embarrassed, I removed the wig and placed it back on the fallen mannequin head. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know anybody was in here.”
“You want wig?” she said, lips spread in a crooked grin. “Make you blond?”
“No. No wig. I’m actually here about the apartment.”
“Apartment? What you mean?”
“The sign on the window said there was an apartment for rent.”
And now she laughed again, suddenly and shrilly, but the laughter only lasted for a moment. “You want second apartment?”
“No. You don’t understand. I’m here about the apartment for rent.”
“Yes. The apartment for rent. You want two apartments?”
My frustration level was rising. “One apartment,” I said. “One fucking apartment. Who do I talk to?”
“You know, you funny boy.”
“No. I don’t know.”
“Catherine.”
“Catherine?”
“You know Catherine. Mole on cheek. But she sick now.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“I don’t know. She just sick. Almost dead. Maybe it from the mole.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Truly I am. But please. Where can I find her?”
The old Asian shook her head and pouted her lips. “She where she always is.”
“Right. And where would that be?”
“Go to apartment entrance outside. Then upstairs. Apartment 2d. Where she always is. You sure you don’t want a wig? You don’t look so good, funny boy. Maybe you dying, too?”
* * *
The apartment stairwell was dark and musty and covered with hateful graffiti. “Lynch the niggers!” “Tear that pussy!” “Hitler was right!” I walked slowly, my feet echoing on the grated metal stairs. And, once more, terrible whispers in my ear, telling me things I didn’t want to hear, forcing me to confront thoughts I’d already executed. I had the strange sensation that I’d been up this staircase before, in another place, in another life. I stepped onto the second floor and closed the metal door behind me. Stretching in front of me was a narrow corridor with maybe three or four doors on each side. The wooden floor was badly cracked and the paint on the walls was bubbling and peeling. It smelled like rot and decay and stale perfume. From one of the rooms I could hear the heartbreaking vocals of an opera:
In pianto o in riso, è menzognero.
È sempre misero
Chi a lei s’affida,
Chi le confida mal cauto il cuore!
Pur mai non sentesi
Felice appieno
From another room a violent argument between a man and a woman. “Will you just leave me be, you crazy bitch? For once in your life? What have I done to deserve this misery?” Then, across the hall, a door opened and a woman’s face appeared, frightening me. She looked to be ninety years old at least, her face shriveled like a rotted peach, red lipstick smeared over her mouth. She wore a ratty white gown and a long blonde wig (was it from the shop downstairs?). For a long moment, she just stood there, half-hidden in the shadows. I nodded a hello and she gasped, clutching her gown in her fist, and disappeared inside, the door slamming shut behind her.
Cockroaches crawled into cracks, and the lights flickered off and on and off again. My legs felt weak and my mind was surely disintegrating. Finally, I came to the end of the hallway where I found apartment 2d. I stood at the door for a few moments, and then, hands barely under my command, rapped on it three times. A muffled yell, and then I could hear loud footsteps on the hardwood floor. A few more moments and then the door opened, but only as far as the chain would allow. A young man, his hair bleach white, his skin pale to the point of appearing translucent, glared at me, his left eye twitching badly. His thin lips curled into a frown and he shook his head quickly. “Go away,” he said. “Don’t bother me now.”
The door began to close. “Wait,” I said, pushing back the door. He looked surprised.
“I’m busy,” he said. “Mama’s sick.”
“Yes. I understand that. I’m only here about the apartment. You see there was a sign and—”
From inside the apartment I could hear somebody moaning—his mother? The albino glanced over his shoulder, said, “It’s okay, Mama. I’ll get you some sherry, Mama.”
And then a raspy voice, vocal cords torn by barbed wire. “Who’s there, Timmy? Who’s at the door?”
“Somebody about the apartment. Should I tell him to go away?”
“Tomorrow,” she said. “The place needs to be cleaned. Come back tomorrow.”
The albino turned back toward me. “Tomorrow,” he said. “Come back then. The last tenant left it in bad shape. I’ll clean it tonight. Come back tomorrow.”
But the thought of sleeping on the streets again was more than I could handle. “Listen,” I said. “A mess doesn’t bother me. I’ll clean it myself. I just need a roof over my head. I’ve got money. I’ve got…”
He looked at me for several moments, his scary blue eyes narrowing into slits, his slender nostrils flaring. “My mother is very sick,” he said.
“I understand. I’m sorry.”
“She doesn’t have long to live. Rheumatic fever is what she has.”
“Terrible.”
“You can rent out the apartment. If you clean up the mess, we’ll even give you a discount. Ten dollars.”
“That’s very kind.”
He stood there glaring at me to the point where I moved a step backward.
“The previous tenant just left. Still owed a month rent. My mother says that he was very strange. She says that he was an artist. She says he wasn’t any good. I wouldn’t know. I never met him because he kept to himself. And besides, I’m just here to take care of Mama.” When the albino spoke, I could see his teeth, little baby teeth, like yellow Tic Tacs. “He left all of his paintings in the apartment. Among other stuff. Junk. You can keep what you want. Throw away what you don’t.”
“I’m very appreciative. Now if I could—”
“Four hundred dollars,” he said. “Oh, yeah, minus the ten-dollar discount. Three hundred ninety dollars.”
I cleared my throat and frowned. “You want the money now? Shouldn’t I fill out some paperwork?”
“You deal drugs?” he asked.
“Of course not.”
“You pimp out girls?”
“Jesus. What are you saying?”
“No paperwork. Just give me the money. Three hundred ninety dollars.”
I shrugged my shoulders and then reached into my pocket. From the shadows behind him I could hear his mother moaning again, saying, “Life ain’t worth fighting for, not anymore. Oh, please! Oh, please! Make it stop!”
The albino glanced over his shoulder. “Easy, Ma. I’ll be right there. Just take it easy, woman.”
I counted out the money and handed it to him. He counted it again…twice. “Fine,” he said. “Let me get you the key.”
The door closed for a moment, and then I saw his ghost arm snake outside and drop the key on the floor. “Apartment 6c,” he said. “Payment every thirty days. No drugs or whores.” Then he slammed the door shut.
I bent down and picked up the key, stuffed it in my pocket. Opera, opera echoing down the corridor. And out of nowhere a man appeared wearing a suit and covering his face with a magazine. He walked quickly down the hallway before disappearing into the staircase. I followed after him but he was gone, maybe only a figment of my imagination.
* * *
I stood in front of apartment 6c, the key trembling in my hand, but as was often the case these days, my head
began to spin and throb, causing me to fall to my knees and rock and moan. I felt sick and full of despair, my stomach lurching and my tear ducts burning. There was something wrong with me, something that no medic or psychiatrist or priest could solve, a fundamental flaw in my wiring…
Long minutes passed, a pocket watch ticking loudly in my shirt pocket, and I finally managed to rise and then stood there swaying slowly until I found support against the misshapen wall, which was vibrating softly as if it were ready to explode. I took a few deep breaths, lungs infested by parasites, before moving forward one step, two steps, three. I steadied my right arm with my left and placed the rusted key into the lock. After a few moments of jiggling, I managed to unlock it, but I couldn’t get the door all the way open, because something was blocking it. I kicked at the door with the back of my foot, allowing just enough room for me to squeeze into the apartment.
Inside, everything was dark and dank and smelled of rotting food. I fumbled for a light, but the switch did nothing. I found a table lamp and flipped it on. And now I saw that the walls were covered with paintings from floor to ceiling. There must have been forty of them at least. And all of them seemingly identical: a singular yellow window.
CHAPTER 4
There was no violence, no depravity, but staring at those paintings filled me with an overwhelming dread. I can’t explain it. Was this evidence of a terrible insanity or a relentless obsession? I moved toward the wall and studied one of the paintings closer. At first glance it was just another yellow window. But when I stared at it for a long enough time, I saw something else—the unmistakable silhouette of a woman.
