by Bassoff, Jon
“Wake up! Wake up!”
I rolled out of bed and walked across the room to where the painting rested on the easel. She remained trapped on the canvas, the faraway expression on her face. And I listened to the rest of Shakespeare’s sonnet:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow’st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
More incessant knocking on the window, and outside the wind was blowing, just like in my dream. I took a step forward and then another, my eyes narrowing into slits.
On the bottom of the painting, an artist’s signature.
Max Leider.
CHAPTER 17
Move ahead some days.
Ever since I had moved into the apartment, all those hours staring at her window, I had never seen another shadow or glimmer of life. Of course, from Leider’s letters and rambling phone calls I knew she’d been involved with Anthony Flowers, but he was dead, throat slit in the alley, and since then, to the best of my knowledge, she’d never had anyone inside her apartment, not even a maid to wipe the sluggish dust from the leather couch and wooden table. She stayed by herself in that little apartment, studying her grief, afraid to lift the blackened veil for fear that the darkness would remain.
But now there was more than one figure behind the yellow window and I couldn’t stop shivering.
“Better check that out,” Leider said. “What do you think she’s up to behind those curtains? Maybe go knock on her door like you did before. Probably just an uncle coming to check up on her. That’s it. Probably just an uncle. Better check it out, though, just in case…”
The portrait was perfect, but I was suddenly filled with the same anxiety that plagued Leider, the anxiety that if another man entered Claire’s periphery, her beauty would be slashed and left to bleed on a snowy city sidewalk. That’s what I worried about and I hated myself for it. The portrait was done, complete, she was forever immortalized, so why did I concern myself with her real life, her real relationships?
Perhaps if it had only happened once or twice, I wouldn’t have been so concerned, but for several straight days I saw that second silhouette through the trembling curtain, and I got to thinking that maybe Claire had moved on from Anthony Flowers, that any day she’d rip off that black veil and reveal her newly giddy expression, only the giddiness would be for the stranger and not for me…
At some point he transformed from a silhouette to a man, entering her apartment building in the evening and remaining until morning. He was tall and handsome with temples graying. I possessed her portrait, but this man possessed her warmth. It was too much to handle. I should have drawn the blinds and ceased my self-immolations, but I couldn’t pull myself away from the window, couldn’t stop my imagination from running wild with images of Claire engaged in carnal lust.
If a crow had landed on my shoulder and pecked my eyes out, I would have been more content than having to watch the suave gentleman enter her building each evening, his shadow soon appearing behind her half-drawn curtain.
It’s such a shame that the world is filled with so much rage and regret.
* * *
Early in the morning and I stared out the window at a fencepost gray sky, snow falling haphazardly onto the troubled asphalt. I waited for the lover man to make his appearance (usually he exited at around 7:30), but he was nowhere to be seen. Were they lying beneath tangled sheets damp with sweat? Were they swaying in each other’s arms as a love song played on the radio? Were they laughing over an inside joke, tears of happiness wiped from her cheek?
Down below the freaks were out in force: an old drag queen walking his miniature poodle, a wino arguing with the trash can, a fat woman singing “I’m in the Mood For Love.”
Meanwhile, the phone kept ringing and Leider wouldn’t leave me alone. “He’s not her uncle, of course. I was just trying to calm you down. So tell me the plan. Are you going to kill him? Is that what’s in your heart? To do to him what I did to Anthony? Well, well, well. It’s a mistake, Mr. No Name. A big mistake. Claire Browning. She’s the one. She’s the problem. You think she’s some virginal angel? You’re more naïve than I thought.”
The anxiety was bubbling in my belly. Leider was trying to torment me. He had always been trying to torment me.
“We’re similar, aren’t we, Mr. No Name? We spend our lives imitating, pretending, acting like something we aren’t, striving to become a caricature of something other people want us to be. Meanwhile, when nobody’s looking, we’re out there smearing ourselves with deceit, violence, and ruthlessness, laughing all the while…”
He would have kept talking, but I slammed down the phone. I couldn’t stand to be in the apartment any longer. Groaning with dread, I rose to my feet, put on my yellow jacket, and dashed to the front door.
In the hallway, as was often the case, the doctor was standing there, the stethoscope dangling from his neck. His face revealed shame, and I could tell that only moments before he’d been pressing the stethoscope against my door, eavesdropping on me.
“It’s not right,” I said, stomping my foot. “People have a right to privacy.”
But he only shook his head and grinned thinly. I noticed that his pupils were cloudy, perhaps damaged by cataracts. “Not here,” he said. “Not in this apartment. Our problems are shared, collective. But tell me. Whom were you talking to just now? I could hear the panic in your voice. Do you want to tell me what the problem is? I can get you help, you see. There’s a doctor by the name of McCabe. Brilliant fellow he is. He’ll start with a simple diagnostic exam and figure out where the damage is. He helped me. I was hearing voices…”
And now, like some olden ritual, the other nearby tenants (the old woman with her fly swatter, the bearded twins) stepped cautiously into the hallway, shielding their eyes from the dull light. Did they ever leave the building, these people? Or did the poisoned air cause a collective case of agoraphobia?
Down the stairs I ran, thinking about Claire’s lover and what I’d say to him if I had the chance, and along the way I dodged through madness, dormant until recently: the dying super with the enormous mole, shouting about the money I owed her; the albino son yanking her arm, shushing her ear, calming her rage; a little boy holding a real machete, threatening death to all who betrayed him; the owner of the wig shop, gripping a mannequin head, calling out to me, “Why you in rush? You come whisper in my ear, please.” But I ignored all of them and raced outside, the streets stinking of violence and illicit behavior.
For hours I wandered the streets, unsure of where I was going, and the wind whipped hard and mean, forcing me to cover my ears with my hands. I thought about returning to the meatpacking district and finding myself another whore, but I knew that it wouldn’t do. Claire Browning was my salvation and my damnation. The snow began falling harder, and I could feel my skin twitching with rage. And every time I felt that rage shifting toward Claire Browning, I would picture her pretty face, the one that I’d painted for the world to see, and I’d shake my head and mutter under my breath, “It’s not her fault. Leider is wrong. Don’t blame the girl.”
Tired and confused, I decided I needed a place to rest. Another few blocks and I saw the worn signage for a Laundromat. I stepped inside. A pair of Hispanic women sat on plastic chairs, staring straight ahead, while an old-timer with an anchor tattoo on his arm paced the floor, mumbling about the government and satellites and airborne weapons.
I sat a couple of seats down from the Hispanic women and warmed myself up by blowing on my hands and bouncing my feet. I watched the washers and how the soaked clothes spun round and round, the glass smeared with laundry soap. After a while the warmth of the heater and the drone of the washers and driers relaxed me enough that I closed my eyes and fell into a dreaml
ess slumber. And I wanted to stay asleep forever, I wanted to leave behind this world, but I worried about the fireworks in the next one…
When I woke up, the Laundromat was empty. Empty except for a single man loading clothes into the washing machine. A black dress, a black sweater. Bras and panties. Only women’s clothing. I watched him with interest. And when he turned around, I gasped.
It was the man from Claire’s apartment.
Instinctively, I dropped my head and turned away. A few moments later, I could hear the man walk across the floor and sit down on one of the plastic chairs. Eventually, I glanced up. He was reading a magazine, his manicured fingers crumpling the cover of a Business Weekly. But it wasn’t the magazine itself that interested me. It was the address stamp.
Dan Turner. 250 W. 94th Street.
CHAPTER 18
Time passed, twenty-four, forty-eight, seventy-two hours, and now I pushed my way through the crowded subway platform, angry faces peering at me through slitted eyes. I hadn’t been underground since abandoning Ethel, and so even though I was hidden by the mobs inside the subway station, I kept worrying that the mayor would sneak up from behind, squeeze my shoulder, and laughingly call me “Charles Pierce.” But he didn’t, of course.
I found an empty seat on a wooden bench next to an old man who I figured was either sleeping or dead. I was relieved when I heard him breathe in loud, short gasps. And then the rumbling of an incoming train. I rose to my feet and stood at the edge of the platform, just inches from the track, then closed my eyes as the train pounded past me, sucking the air from my lungs.
Unable to find a seat on the train, I grabbed a hold of a pole and held on as the subway lurched forward. The walls and windows were defaced with graffiti. I watched the passengers, old and young, black and white, staring straight ahead, eyes like the living dead, bodies bouncing and jerking in unison. The lights kept flashing on and off, creating a strobe-light effect. “What are you gonna do once you find him?” the man next to me whispered, and it was only after a several agonizing moments that I realized it was Leider, always Leider.
His taunting distracted me, and when we came to the 96th Street station, I became momentarily disoriented and had to quickly shove my way through grumbling passengers to get to the subway doors before they closed on my Baracuta jacket, sleeve tearing as I yanked it away.
I took the stairs three at a time until I was above ground, the cold wind causing my temples to ache. The city rushed past me, the cabs and buses and cars on the streets, the nannies and businessmen and bag ladies on the sidewalks, none of them meeting my glance, and there was a real worry that I would vanish without a trace.
Hands buried in my pockets, collar pulled up against my neck, I hooked a left on 94th Street, walked another half block, and spotted the building in question. A green awning with the number 250 written in script hung above a pair of heavy oak doors with brass handles. The building itself was maybe eighteen stories tall and had high gables and deep roofs and intricate stonework. This was no dwelling for starving artists, I can tell you that much. Standing just inside the vestibule was a doorman wearing a two-button charcoal gray jacket, matching trousers, and a military-style hat.
I didn’t pause, just kept walking past the building toward West End, and nobody paid me any mind because I wasn’t doing anything wrong, not yet, anyway. I came to a street lamp and leaned against it.
I waited until the sidewalk was clear and I was shivering cold and then crossed the street and strode toward the apartment building. I glanced upward and saw a pair of men gazing out of a single window, and I swear to God when we made eye contact, they started pointing and laughing.
But the doorman didn’t laugh, didn’t crack a smile. I told him I was here to see Dan Turner and could he please tell me what his apartment number was. The doorman narrowed his eyes and shook his head almost unperceptively. “What’s your name?” he said. “I’ll ring him.”
What’s your name, what’s your name, what’s your name?
“Max Leider,” I said.
He pressed a button and a buzzer rang, but there was no answer. He pressed it again, and there was still no answer.
“Not home,” he said.
“Too bad. I was hoping to surprise him. I’ll try again later.”
And as I walked away, a sly grin spread across my face because I’d seen the button he’d pressed, and it had been a penthouse apartment.
* * *
Over the next several days I studied the doorman from various shielded vantage points up and down the block. I waited, waited, looking for a moment when I could sneak past him. Most of the time he stood in the vestibule, leaning against the door, checking his phone. When a tenant would appear, he would drop the phone in his pocket, doff his hat, and pull open the door. Other times he’d disappear into the building for twenty or thirty minutes at a time. There were just never any moments when I was reasonably confident that I could make a break for it.
So it must have been on the fourth day when I finally caught my break. I was crouched against a building, head covered by a rainbow-colored pom-pom hat that I’d purchased the previous day from a man in a clown’s suit. I was getting discouraged, wondering if I’d ever find the right moment to sneak into the building. In fact, I had told myself that if the opportunity didn’t arise within forty-five minutes (it was 4:15 p.m.), I would call it quits and forget all about Dan Turner. That’s when a big group of ladies (there must have been eight or nine of them) appeared on the sidewalk, heading directly for the apartment. They wore fur coats and wigs, and they gossiped and laughed loudly. If it had been under different circumstances, I wouldn’t have minded kicking a few of them in the stomachs, that type of thing. But here, I sensed an opportunity, so I rose from my crouch and quickly crossed the street, followed behind them at a safe distance.
Sure enough they entered Turner’s apartment building and the doorman opened the door and greeted them, although he didn’t smile at them either. A fellow can be invisible if he tries hard enough, and so while the doorman dealt with the ladies and tried buzzing their “dear friend” over their incessant yapping, I slipped right past, and nobody said a word, not one.
I pressed the elevator button, tapping my foot all the while. I managed to get on and close the doors just before the heavily painted and perfumed old ladies attempted to stuff themselves on. The elevator rose, and I leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted. I placed my hands in front of me and studied the skin, and it seemed as if I’d aged twenty years in the last few weeks. My mind was all jumbled, but I didn’t want to know. The elevator door opened at the penthouse, and I stepped outside, my legs unsteady.
Why was I at Dan Turner’s apartment? What would I do if he were home? What would I do if he weren’t?
I walked down the hallway and everything was quiet. There looked to be four apartments on the floor. I came to the first apartment and rapped on the door. Thirty or so seconds passed and then I heard footsteps on the floor and a woman’s voice mumbling, “Just wait a minute.”
The door opened to the chain, and a pair of wrinkled eyes stared at me. “What do you want?” she said in a husky smoker’s voice.
“I apologize,” I said. “I seem to have lost my way. I’m looking for Mr. Turner. I know he’s on this floor, but I’m afraid I don’t know which apartment is his.”
“Apartment C,” she said. “Next one over.”
I thanked her, and she slammed the door shut.
And now I stood in front of apartment C and suddenly I was terrified, but I didn’t know what of. I thought about turning around and leaving, just forgetting the whole thing, but I knew I couldn’t, not now, not after making it this far, so I knocked on the door, once, twice, three times, and waited.
A minute passed and then another and another. I knocked again. Still nothing. I sighed in relief. It had been a ridiculous idea in the first place. God had done me a favor by making sure this Dan Turner was gone. Otherwise…
But I had jus
t turned and was about to walk back toward the elevator, when a glint of light caught my eye. Above the door protruded a thin line of metal. What are you doing? What are you going to do? I quickly glanced up and down the hallway and, seeing that nobody was there, reached above the door frame and pulled down the silver key. The devil/god had set me up big-time.
CHAPTER 19
Hands strangely steady, I placed the key in the keyhole and pushed open the door. I stepped inside and closed the door gently behind me. The living room was filled with leather furniture and Oriental rugs and generic paintings in gilded frames. In the middle of the room was a glass table with today’s newspaper and a half-finished cup of coffee. A pair of slippers hid underneath the couch, but otherwise everything was in its place. On the mantel were several photographs with different faces in almost every one, but always with Turner, he with that perfectly bleached grin, perfectly scrubbed face, and perfectly coifed hair.
I walked down the hallway, and for the first time in a long time my mind was quiet. Along the walls were more paintings, mostly pastoral landscapes. I stopped and studied one of them, an old English cottage surrounded by oak trees and a pond. I touched the canvas, ran my finger along the acrylic paint. Then I closed my eyes and imagined myself living inside of the painting. Imagined Claire and me sitting inside the cottage, sipping wine and listening to bucolic English music, Butterworth or Vaughn Williams maybe, a young towheaded boy on the rug playing marbles or pick-up sticks or jacks. Imagined feeling so full of love and contentment and hope as I watched the sun drift below the water, turning everything orange and purple. But when I opened my eyes, I was standing in a stranger’s hallway, and Claire was across town, and I was terribly lonely.
