“I’m afraid it will, until you’re capable of giving me a schedule that will last more than one day,” I reply with a smile. He looks at me as if he was expecting this answer and passes his good hand through his hair again.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I say before he can slam the door in my face. He looks down at me, waiting, a slight mocking grimace curving his lips. “You’re thinking that I might as well make racket downstairs rather than come up here every morning. The result is the same, right? I’m pestering you when all you want is to be left in peace,” I translate what I think I have perceived in his expression and attitude. Jared opens his eyes wide, mildly amazed, before he replies.
“If you know it, why are you doing it?” he interrogates me, straight to the point.
“Easy. I’m saving you from having to go up and down the stairs, and my precious equipment from being destroyed by you. Plus, I’m making sure you’re taking care of yourself,” I point out, taking his wounded hand in my own and dragging him towards the couch. “If I hadn’t come up, no one would have noticed that this bandage needs changing. The wound hasn’t healed completely yet and it risks getting infected if you don’t dress it every now and then,” I remind him, gesturing towards the couch for him to sit down and heading towards the window to open the curtains. Light floods the room revealing the chaos I was expecting. The laptop computer on the coffee table in front of the couch is open displaying a spreadsheet that looks written in another language, full of diagrams and tables, numbers on numbers, all so tiny I ask myself how he manages to read them. Framing this, an array of papers – whole, torn, balled up, folded, crumpled – arranged with no apparent system.
“Where did you put the disinfectant and the bandages?” I ask him, trying to ignore his angry expression and his eyes screened by his tapered fingers as he struggles to adapt to the healthy daylight, and join him near the couch. Naturally he doesn’t make a move to sit down, nor does it look like he’s going to tell me where he put the first aid equipment, but I expected as much.
“Ok, I’ll look for them myself.”
“Don’t you dare snoop around my house,” he orders peremptorily, grabbing my arm with his good hand. The contact of his skin on my own has an odd effect on me, and for a moment I am still, observing his perfect fingers holding me firmly but with unexpected gentleness. This has never happened to me, not with anyone. When I manage to take my eyes off his hand and raise my head towards his face, I find his eyes pinning me down. His gaze is so intense I am embarrassed, but I can’t look away. We stay like this, immobile and silent for a time I am unable to quantify, until he breaks the spell.
“Why do you care so much?” Good question.
“I’m a good Samaritan,” I hurriedly dismiss the issue. Because that’s what it is, isn’t it? What other reason could there be for these morning forays I have been obstinately going on for two days now, it is quite clear they will never help determine a good time for the noisier work and it seems they will never contribute much to soften his foul temper, either? So, why do I care so much? Because I want to be his friend – is that so bad? We’ll bump into each other quite a lot from now on, so it’s a good idea to become friends, right?
Jared studies me obstinately for a few seconds more, showing no sign of letting go of my arm, and I find this confusing while at the same time my desire to understand him grows. I want to unravel the tangled mystery of his life, discover what makes him behave like this, treating me so poorly when he opens the door in the morning, but also wounding his hand to save me from a bad fall.
“Well, are you going to get the disinfectant? ‘Cause I’m not leaving until we’ve put a proper bandage on that hand,” I regain control of the situation, since he doesn’t seem to intend to. My heart rate is well above one hundred beats per minute.
Jared seems to shake himself. He lets go of me and without a word heads for the door that leads into what I suspect is the sleeping area of the apartment. I follow him only as far as the door. I can’t go further if I don’t want to irritate him even more, but I peer across the threshold. He steps into an extremely minimal bathroom. This part of the house looks completely uninhabited: the king-size bed I can make out in the next room doesn’t even have sheets, just a mattress covered in a white dust cloth. Everything in here gives the impression that he moved in only yesterday.
Before he catches me red handed, I go over to the couch and sit down, waiting for him to reappear.
“Here,” is all he says when he gets back, setting the disinfectant, the bandages, and the usual tape on top of the pile of papers on the low table. These pieces of paper are full of number sequences, some highlighted, some not, of colored diagrams, and a few notes taken in pen, I guess by him, but the handwriting is so hurried that I can’t make out what it says.
“What are you working on?” I try, feigning the greatest interest possible, as I take a gauze from the packet and soak it in disinfectant.
“I recall telling you my life is none of your business,” he retorts, holding out his hand. Odd, he’s not even trying to hide this mass of data as if he were sure I couldn’t make it out in any case. Or his words are empty, and it’s not at all true that he doesn’t need someone in his life to lead him back to reality.
“Yeah, sure, I know. I was just trying to make conversation. After all, soon I’ll be opening my hat shop downstairs, we’ll be neighbors, and usually neighbors chat.”
“I’m not the chatty type.” I’d figured as much.
“You’re not the chatty type, you’re not the polite type, you’re not the type who cooks, and as far as I can see, you’re not the type who knows how to manage his sleep cycle, otherwise you wouldn’t have those dark circles under your eyes that make you look like a zombie.”
“So what?” he retorts, piqued. His usual crabby defensiveness.
“So nothing. It doesn’t matter. We all have our faults, but they shouldn’t prevent you from talking to someone every now and then. You’re always closeted in here in the dark, you haven’t even unpacked, and you don’t eat home cooked food. It’s not good for you, you know?” I point out as I begin to treat his wound, the one he got because of me. It looks like it’s healing well, despite his neglect. I know it’s just a scratch, but it’s still a scratch too much as far as I’m concerned. There, now I recognize myself. Friends, this is what friends do, right?
“How do you know I don’t cook?” as if it were a mystery. I look him straight in the eye with an expression that says: Are you kidding me?
“The pizza boxes in the trash bag and the echo in your refrigerator are quite a giveaway,” I answer and resume dressing the wound. And it is then that Jared, completely unexpectedly, bursts out laughing. I look up and see tears sparkling in his eyes he’s laughing so hard. That’s really strange. I’d have expected anything but a reaction like this. At least not from him – the ultimate sourpuss.
“What did I say that was so funny?” I try inquiring, but Jared can’t reply, he’s laughing so hard. “Ok, go ahead and laugh while I finish up here,” I say, incapable of begrudging him a healthy guffaw. Whatever the reason for such mirth it should put him in a good mood. I began to fear he was incapable of laughter.
It takes a few minutes, but finally Jared, the man who never laughs, manages to recover from this first exhilarating experience.
“So, will you tell me what I said to provoke such a reaction?”
“Sorry, it’s not you,” he fobs me off, as if such an answer would satisfy me.
“No way, Jose! Spit it out: what made you laugh?”
“Your observation. You’re right, I’m not as unreadable as I like to think.” I don’t agree. I know how he keeps his apartment, sure, but I have no idea why.
“Why would you want to be unreadable?” I let fall, in the hope he will decide to reveal some more details. He is silent, nonplussed, just for a few seconds. I get the impression that he has realized too late that he gave something away and he’s not happy about it.
“I have no time for relationships of any kind right now, Gillian. I don’t need a neighbor or a friend, I have work to do and I don’t want to be bothered or slowed down in any way. Do you understand?” he asks, annoyed. He’s rapidly returned to nuisance mode. Too bad – in the meantime he also composed the longest sentence he has uttered since I have known him. A detail I can’t fail to notice, along with the fact that he’s finally told me something about himself. The “Jared Mystery” is becoming a little less of a mystery and a little more Jared.
“And I bet you can’t do this job in normal hours, right?” Ok, a sliver of irony found its way into my question, but I wasn’t able to hold it back and he notices, so much so that he stiffens and pulls his hand away from mine even though I haven’t finished applying the tape.
“Thank you for your treatment, I can finish it on my own. You have a renovation to work on, don’t you?” It feels like I’ve traveled many light years backwards. Jared is wearing a slightly hurt expression and has withdrawn into himself again, completely hiding the glimmer I thought I had glimpsed only a moment ago.
I stand reluctantly. Darn big mouth, when will I learn not to be so reckless?
“Ok, then… I’m going,” I say, hoping deep down inside that he’ll stop me, but it doesn’t happen. I reach the door to the apartment without Jared even glancing at me. He simply finishes fastening the bandage and returns his attention to the computer, his head bent in concentration.
*
“Come on in, Gil, come in,” Jane cheerfully beckons me in a little after noon. I spent the entire morning playing Jared’s irritated expression over in my mind, so I didn’t wait for her to come down and call me, I went up myself.
“Thank you for inviting me, Jane.”
“Don’t mention it, dear, I feel like seeing people every now and then, and eating is an activity that requires company.” Her logic is flawless.
“Can I do something to help?” I immediately offer as soon as I step into her apartment. It is very similar to Jared’s – the size and position of the rooms look identical, but the furnishing is entirely different. Jane must be an extremely tidy person, who loves plants and pale colors, good at knitting and crocheting. This house is lush, pleasant, and has a good smell. The living room is cozy; a couch and an easy chair are placed in the shape of an L in the center of the room, their backs and arms covered in cotton antimacassars the color of ice, only a shade lighter than the leather. The window sills are full of potted flowers of a thousand different colors, from yellow to pink, from light blue to purple. The dresser near the door holds a decorated porcelain tea set, a set of platters arranged behind the glass panes, and a series of odd train shaped decorations.
“Certainly, dear, why don’t you set the table? In a few minutes lunch will be ready and Margherita is on her way down,” she tells me, returning to the kitchen. I follow her and am overwhelmed by the sight of the roast beef coming out of the aluminum foil and alighting on the cutting board.
“Wow, Jane, it looks wonderful,” I can’t help but point out. She turns towards me with her habitual kindly expression that I like so much.
“Looks aren’t enough, dear. Wait ‘till you taste it,” she says, putting aside the aluminum foil and opening one of the drawers in front of her. “Here is the table cloth. Plates and glasses are in the dishwasher, and the silverware is in that drawer,” she informs me, pointing at the drawer above the one she just closed. I nod, take the table cloth, and set to work. Jane is concentrating on slicing the meat with a terrifying looking knife, but her hand is surprisingly steady.
I’ve just placed the last napkin when the sound of the doorbell floats through the apartment.
“Oh, this is Margherita, just in time,” Jane says to herself as she goes to the door. Since she first mentioned Margherita, I have imagined her in many ways: young, old, short, tall, slim, fat. Finally, I had decided that if she honored her name, Margherita would be pale and smiling, simple and easy going. In any case, I wasn’t at all prepared for the vision that met my eyes when Jane invited her in.
Margherita: beauty in the form of a woman. Whoever said that perfection doesn’t exist has never seen Margherita. Tall, but not too tall, slender, with perfect pale skin and a mass of light brown hair that frames her perfectly shaped face in thick waves. A pleasant smile and a touch of makeup set off her blue eyes and full lips. She is wearing a simple flower patterned dress tapered at the waist, and sandals with two daisies on the toe straps.
“I’m sorry I’m late, Jane.” Her voice is perfect too. I’ve never felt so out of place in front of someone.
“But this is illegal!” I exclaim without realizing it until two pairs of eyes turn to me in amazement. Think, Gil, think before you speak.
“What is illegal, dear?” Jane is the first to recover from her bafflement. It may be she’s had experience, maybe I’m not the first over the top person she has met.
“Oh, nothing, nothing… I was thinking out loud…” I try to defend myself, but Jane’s attentive gaze doesn’t leave me, so I’m forced to go on, “I was talking about Margherita,” I blurt out.
“Should I take it as a compliment? I’m sorry, but no one has ever said anything of the sort to me,” the perfect woman bestows her smile on me, now void also of the defect of being a bit oversensitive. Definitely illegal.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to say it, it just slipped out. It’s just that you’re so…” I’m trying, I swear, to find a more suitable word, but I just can’t think of one, “… perfect.” Not very creative, but it’s the only one that paints the picture.
Margherita’s lips form a pleased arch. “Thank you.”
“Good, speaking of perfection, I wanted to tell you you’re perfectly on time, Maggie, and that I wanted to introduce you to someone, but apparently we’ve skipped the pleasantries,” Jane breaks in, inviting the newcomer in with her customary politeness. Good, what about an escape plan? A providential chasm opening instantly under my feet? Nothing?
“Gil, dear, come here.” I could avoid moving forward, but Jane’s hand keeps beckoning and I mechanically obey. I feel like I’m a child again. Once I reach the center of the living room, I dare to raise my eyes and, though it seems impossible, Margherita is even more beautiful standing there and smiling at me. Isn’t there a limit? I mean: ok you’re above normal aesthetic canons, but shouldn’t there be a limit no one in the world can surpass?
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Gil. I’m Margherita, Margherita Valery. I live upstairs.” The perfect woman holds out her hand, to me of all people, the girl wearing ordinary denim overalls because they’re comfortable for work, no makeup, and no idea what state her hair is in.
“The pleasure is mine,” I return the handshake with little conviction, lowering my eyes to the ground. So much beauty is blinding.
“So, you’re the newcomer who’s fixing up the shop on the ground floor?” she asks as if we’ve been friends all our lives. Wow, this manner of hers makes me feel suddenly important, like when in high school you curry the favor of the most popular girl in school.
“Well, yes, that’s the plan.”
“Jane told me you want to open a hand-made hat shop.”
“I do. I’ve liked hats since I was a child and I’m fairly good at making them.”
“I like them a lot, too. I have a whole collection, all one of a kind. When you open your shop, you’ll have to make one for me,” she gives me a genuine smile. Wow, I suddenly feel lighter and much more at ease. Who would have thought it possible.
“We’ll talk more about the hats over lunch, girls. Now have a seat,” Jane calls us to order as she returns to the kitchen. Margherita hooks her arm under mine and together we go to the table. She seems much more easy going than I would have thought judging by her looks. She sits next to me and immediately resumes our conversation.
“Jane tells me you’re doing all the refurbishing work on your own.”
“Oh, not really. My father is going to com
e help me on Sundays with the heavier work. If it was up to him, he’d come more often, but he lives in Rochester and works the rest of the week.”
“What does your father do, Gil? I’ve never asked,” Jane breaks in, dishing up the meat with an abundant serving of gravy on top.
“Now he’s working at the mechanic’s in Rochester. After he lost his job with Robinson’s Industries in Plymouth, we all thought it would be impossible for him to find another satisfying job, but we were wrong.”
“Hmm, Robinson’s Industries. I’ve heard of it. Isn’t it that company that makes work clothes?” Right now, I have the impression there is nothing in the world that Jane doesn’t know.
“Yes, that’s the one,” I confirm, stuffing the first morsel of meat in my mouth.
“It’s supposed to be one of the most important companies in the area, I didn’t know they’d laid off any personnel. How come?”
“It happened about six months ago. The newspapers didn’t mention it, but Robinson’s lost an important commission on which they had already invested quite a lot, and to limit the damage and amortize the costs, they decided to lay off the people they considered expendable, amongst whom was my father,” I try to explain, ignoring the fury that still rises in my chest if I think of the whole business.
“Well, it’s odd that such a successful company would make such a gross miscalculation, am I right?” Margherita breaks in with interest.
“Mr Robinson did everything he could to prevent the news from getting out of the factory walls, but it seems that it wasn’t the commercial division’s fault, but rather Mr Robinson’s grandson’s, an inexperienced young man,” I comment bitterly. I shouldn’t, I know, but it’s hard to hold back.
“Well, what matters is that your father has found something else that makes him feel accomplished. Nothing happens by chance, my dear, probably that simply wasn’t the job for him and destiny had a hand in it,” Jane tries to lighten the atmosphere, and after all that’s what I needed. I don’t agree with her vision of things, but I certainly didn’t accept this invitation to lunch to discuss unpleasant subjects. In fact, come to think of it, my aim was something else entirely.
What a Girl Wants Page 6
