What a Girl Wants

by Angie Coleman

  “You’re right, Jane, let’s change the subject. Margherita, how long have you been living here?”

  “I moved here from New York six years ago. I needed to rest for a while and Fall River seemed like the right choice. Jane was so welcoming that I ended up staying,” she smiles peacefully.

  “It wasn’t me who was welcoming, it was you, Maggie, who left me no choice.” It seems that Jane is truly an extraordinary person. I’m beginning to see why the atmosphere is so pleasant in this building, whatever your needs may be.

  “New York must be wonderful. Was it difficult to leave?” I ask curiously.

  “Not particularly. There are moments in life when you feel the need to change, to venture down new paths, and that’s what happened to me. I found myself feeling this need, and a change came totally naturally. At first, I thought I would miss the big city, so full of life at all hours of day and night, but I have to admit that after six years here I never felt even the smallest prickle of nostalgia. Incredible, right?”

  “Maybe not. I moved here only a few days ago, but I have the same feeling. Of course, I come from a small town where the things you can miss are fewer, and Rochester is closer: if I’m taken by a sudden bout of homesickness, I can be home in an hour at most,” I reflect. In fact, I wouldn’t say I took a leap in the dark. For Margherita it must have been quite different. “Do you know everyone here?” I inquire, closing in on my objective. Sometimes you have to creep up on things before you get to the point.

  Margherita seems to think for a moment before she replies. “Not well, but yes, I’d say so. Of course, Jane and Ernest are the ones I know best, we see each other a lot. I have bumped into the man living on my floor, Sam, a total of six times, I think, since I moved in. He’s a good man, but his work absorbs him completely and he only comes home once a year, more or less.”

  “Yes, Sam is a nature photographer. He often goes on shoots around the world and his trips last months. Basically, he knows when he’s leaving, but he never knows when he’ll be back,” Jane explains with a smile.

  “Yeah, I’m afraid that because of his job he is destined to be alone. He’s over fifty by now, isn’t he, Jane?” Margherita reflects.

  “Yes, I think he turned fifty last winter, but he doesn’t look like the type to settle down. If his happiness is tied to that camera, it’s a good thing that he can follow it. He’ll reconsider his options when that’s no longer true. After all, not all of us are made to get married… look at me: never married, and still extremely happy. There are people who love to be free from ties,” Jane explains with simplicity. Sometimes we forget we’re not all the same.

  “What about Ernest? Does he have a wife?” I ask curiously. I couldn’t help but notice the man’s charm the first time I saw him, but I don’t think I saw a ring on his finger.

  Jane and Margherita look at me together and burst out laughing. As usual, I’ve missed something. “Today is my day: it seems like I can’t help but say funny things without meaning to,” I remark, looking first at one woman and then the other. Jane dries a tear with a chubby finger, while she attempts to regain her composure. It seems more difficult than expected. Instead it takes Margherita a single second to change her expression and return to being serious.

  “Ernest isn’t the wife type,” she explains as if it were obvious.

  “Why not? He seems like a good looking man to me.”

  “He is. He’s extremely good looking, come to that, but he’s more the husband type than the wife type.” What? Ok, I would never have guessed. I stare at her flabbergasted while Jane begins to laugh again. It’s obvious that my face betrays how dumbfounded I am by the news. I thought I was better at reading people, but instead I’m a newbie.

  “Notwithstanding, he hasn’t found the right one yet. He has a particular philosophy about love, but if one day he decides to look for a permanent someone, I’m sure he’ll find him,” Margherita serenely concludes. It seems that they’re both very tied to Ernest. He may well be a bizarre man, but as far as feelings are concerned he appears to be a solid and trustworthy person. Hard not to care for him.

  “Maggie has a special instinct as far as men are concerned,” Jane explains. Well, good to know. Let’s put this instinct to use.

  “What about Jared?” It’s best to focus on the crucial subject, the one I’m really interested in.

  “Well, I think Jared is the girlfriend type, isn’t he?” Margherita turns to Jane, who in the meantime seems to have more or less stopped laughing, for confirmation.

  “Yes, definitely the girlfriend type,” Jane agrees. As usual, I have to toil for my information.

  “Have you ever been in his apartment?”

  “Yes, when he moved in. I showed him the house and made sure he didn’t have any trouble with the move, you know, we don’t have an elevator here, and carrying all those boxes up to the second floor was a big job,” Jane explains. Evidently she doesn’t know that after several months the apartment still looks exactly the same.

  “He must have brought a lot of boxes if he hasn’t managed to unpack them all yet.”

  “Oh, he hasn’t?” this time I’m the one taking the two women sitting before me by surprise.

  Jane is the most amazed. “I knew unpacking wasn’t his priority, but four months is a bit much.”

  “Jane, he probably had a lot to do. And you know how these things go, time passes and you don’t even notice,” Margherita breaks in.

  “You have to be pretty distracted not to notice four months have gone by,” Jane states peremptorily.

  “What’s his job?” I try asking in the hope that one of them will unveil the mystery.

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t know exactly. I think he works for a call center or something like that. As far as I know, he spends a lot of time on the phone and his computer is full of those incomprehensible charts,” Jane doesn’t know much more than I do.

  “Do call centers work at night?”

  “Some do, like those that do customer support,” Margherita explains. This actually makes sense. Maybe Jared works shifts and that’s why he never knows if he’ll be sleeping in the morning or not.

  “How come you’re so interested, Gil?” and here’s Jane in sleuth mode. I asked too many questions, I knew it.

  “It’s not that I’m interested. He just seemed like an odd type. He’s annoyed by noise at all hours, and it’s difficult to talk to him. He’s always in such a foul mood…” I try to explain.

  “Oh, dear, you shouldn’t take it personally, he’s not a bad boy. He just has his problems, like we all do, after all,” Jane breaks in.

  “Oh, I wasn’t offended, don’t worry. It’s just that the other day he hurt himself helping me and I would have liked to thank him somehow, but it’s so difficult to understand what he appreciates. He seems to be annoyed by practically everything.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s not true. You just have to figure out how to deal with him,” right, easier said than done. Luckily, I’m not the kind who gives up; I never have been and I have no intention of starting now.

  “Hmm, so a good looking, charming young man, a little ill-tempered and quite mysterious, caught your attention,” Margherita hints. Ok, her famous insightfulness isn’t helping me much.

  “No, of course not,” I hurriedly deny. It’s my instinct speaking – I actually haven’t asked myself this question, and right now it doesn’t seem useful: Jared seems decidedly unapproachable right now, and I’m not sure that having feelings for a man like this would be a wise choice… if such a thing is, in fact, a choice. “I just would like to establish a civil and polite relationship, that’s all. He’s the only one with whom I haven’t been able to yet.”

  “That may be how it is,” Margherita isn’t convinced.

  “I’m sure he needs a friend, he’s always so alone,” Jane reflects out loud for a moment, then gets up all of a sudden. “Ready for dessert?” Her lively tone brings our attention back to the meal. The roast be
ef must have been really good, I think: I ate it without giving it much thought, I was so absorbed in the conversation. I keep turning Jane’s last statement over in my mind. Deep down inside, I think I agree with her one hundred per cent.

  5

  It has become an obsession, I can’t help myself. It’s only seven thirty and I’m here, standing in front of the same old door, like every morning of this long week that is struggling to an end. Sometimes I have the impression that it is natural for him to send me packing because of my insistence, but I’m convinced of what I’m doing, so I do not intend to turn back.

  I knock insistently for a while, until Jared decides to give in and open up. It’s really strange how I seem to have landed on a healthy and reassuring routine with him.

  “Good morning,” I greet him cheerfully, slipping uninvited, into his apartment. If I wait for him to ask me in, all that’ll be left of me is bones.

  I quickly reach the window and throw open the curtains, enjoying the soft warmth of the morning sun. When I turn, I find him with the usual hand over his eyes and an expression that is irritated to say the least.

  “If it weren’t for me, you’d be lacking vitamin D, so you can wipe that angry look off your face. You should get out a bit, instead of always staying cooped up in here,” I scold him before he can complain. If there’s something I’ve figured out, it’s that it’s best to always beat him to the post.

  “If it weren’t for you, I’d sleep for at least five hours straight, and instead, go figure, I’m always waking up after a couple of hours,” he retorts, mimicking my tone. Ok, forget it.

  “Did you work last night, too?” I am as bold as to ask him.

  “I’m always working, I have important deadlines,” he points out, still irritated.

  “Ok. And when are these deadlines?” I try to reason with him, patiently sitting on the couch that must have been his bed last night, too.

  He is baffled for a moment, then he drops down beside me on the couch and sighs. “The sooner the better.” He covers his face with both hands and sits there for a while. He looks decidedly tired. Who knows how long it’s been since he last had a full night’s sleep… he really needs it.

  “Maybe you should ease up on the work for a while,” I try to suggest, hoping it’ll make him think. He removes his hands and stares at me with that intense gaze that makes it look like he wants to decipher the world, and still has a strange effect on me.

  “How many hours do you spend in front of this computer?”

  “I don’t know, as many as is necessary,” he bursts out, sitting up and setting his elbows on his knees.

  “Maybe you don’t need that many. Maybe if you rested a bit you’d be able to be more productive and you’d need fewer hours.”

  “Maybe you don’t know what you’re talking about,” he hurriedly dismisses me. “If you’ve come to find out what time you can make noise, I’ve decided that from now on you can do as you please, I don’t care.” Not exactly friendly this morning. He’s too tired for everything else, but he’s always fresh enough to keep up this rude façade.

  “Oh, I figured that out a while ago, don’t worry. I only came to see how you were doing and to dress your wound,” I reply, unmoved by his unaccommodating tone.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “It doesn’t look like it to me, but it’s none of my business, so, if you don’t want me snooping around to look for the disinfectant, you had better go and get it. I have to get to work, too, this morning,” I candidly remind him with a smile, just in case he’s forgotten that other people have occupations too.

  “I already told you yesterday, Gil, I don’t need someone to take care of me, I don’t need a friend, I don’t need anyone right now,” he resumes after a moment’s hesitation. Too bad his face is saying the contrary. But, above all, too bad he called me Gil. No matter how unpleasant he’s trying to be, I’m sure he enjoys seeing someone every now and then, otherwise I don’t think he’d open the door for me every morning.

  “I don’t agree with that, either, but I’ll keep my peace. Well? What about the disinfectant?” Jared snorts, but he stands and disappears behind the door that leads into the sleeping area. He returns after a few seconds holding the necessary materials for changing the dressing.

  In a moment, he’s sitting next to me, holding out his wounded hand, almost as obedient as a dog, but, just to be clear, I didn’t think that, because if he finds out I did, he won’t talk to me for a week. I slip a piece of gauze out of the packet, soak it in disinfectant, and dab the wound.

  “I still don’t know why you’re doing this,” he reflects, studying me carefully, “and don’t tell me you’re a good Samaritan, ‘cause I don’t believe it.”

  “Why not?” I ask, curious.

  “Because good Samaritans don’t exist. Everyone has an ulterior motive. Everyone.”

  I look up at him trying to figure out if he actually believes what he’s saying. His expression is serious, he does not show any hesitation. He really believes it.

  “You must have met a lot of nasty people in your life.”

  “We’re all nasty people.”

  “I’m not. And I don’t think you are, either.”

  “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

  “I know you’re not a bad person, I know you like to play surly, but deep down inside you care about other people, I know you don’t like to cook and that you don’t mind me all that much after all.” An amused smile touches the corners of his lips.

  “Who says I don’t mind you?”

  “I do, of course. Waiting for you to admit it,” I assert with conviction.

  “It may well be that I don’t find you unpleasant, but I certainly don’t care about you,” he points out as if he were forced to.

  “Ok, it doesn’t matter, you’re not obliged to,” I feign indifference, I don’t want to give in, but I don’t believe him at all. Or maybe I don’t want to believe him. “There you go, I’m done.”

  Jared pulls back his hand and studies it as if he were examining my work, then he gets up and holds out the good one.

  “You had better get back to work if you actually intend to open this shop of yours one day,” he reminds me, trying to mask the smile that obstinately lingers on his face.

  I take his hand and rise to my feet, too. “Good. The first thing we agree on. Wow, we’re making progress,” I soothe him, amused, before I reach the door and leave his apartment.

  *

  “It’s true, you can’t smell a thing after all,” Ernest agrees, sitting on a wooden stool he’s brought down from his apartment, along with a chair for Jane and a low table on which tea and cucumber sandwiches, which he apparently enjoys immensely, have been laid out. It was Jane’s idea. She wanted to ‘celebrate,’ as she puts it, the end of the dust era, with some chitchat and good company. So she offered to make tea, and forced Ernest to close the shop for the afternoon while I paint the wall with undercoat.

  “I told you it wouldn’t bother you at all,” Jane insists, slowly sipping her tea.

  “I can’t always trust your word, Jane.”

  “Don’t be foolish. You will never meet someone more trustworthy than me.”

  “I was sure of that until I was caught in your clever trap last month.”

  “What trap? I don’t set traps,” Jane feigns ignorance.

  “Is that so? Gil, dear, we need an outsider’s opinion. Set down that brush for a moment and come here.” Good. Things are getting interesting. I don’t wait for him to ask a second time, I obey and join my two guests with great pleasure. I sit on the floor near the low table and take my cup.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Well, about a month ago, Margherita decided she wanted to change the dinner table she has in her living room with something more to her liking,” Ernest commences with his habitual elegance.

  “I don’t see anything wrong there,” Jane breaks in. He glares at her to silence her, one of those glar
es that would scare anyone but her; then he looks placidly back at me.

  “Naturally Jane insisted I track down the kind of table our Margherita was desperately seeking and so I did. I called my supplier and together we found exactly what we were looking for – a nice rustic durmast table, octagonal in shape, last century, perfectly restored. I showed the pictures to Margherita myself and, once she consented, I ordered it and had it delivered to this address.”

  “I don’t see any traps so far,” I observe, expecting a dramatic turn of events.

  “Because there were none, dear. Ernest tends to overdramatize sometimes,” Jane agrees, with a slightly amused expression. Unlike Ernest, who is snorting sonorously.

  “Let me finish my story, then you can decide. In any case, as I was saying, I had the table delivered directly here, thinking that the women of the house would have it brought to the fourth floor, to Maggie’s apartment, as per my express request,” he points out, as if something could escape me. “When I got back that evening, I found the table sitting out there in the entrance hall. I got worried and went up to the fourth floor to ask for an explanation from the new owner of the precious piece of furniture. Upstairs, dear Jane was there with her, and that was when the trap was triggered.” Ernest pauses theatrically and takes a sip of tea. I have to admit that this story is getting more intriguing than I expected. Who would have thought that a building like this could be so full of life.

  “And then? What happened then?” I can’t curb my curiosity.

  “The two wicked women had agreed to save money on the transporter, since the table itself had already been quite costly. According to their plan, I was supposed to bear the weight of the table and carry it up four flights of stairs.” The bizarre fact is that although Ernest was probably furious that evening, as he tells the story he preserves an apparent calm that doesn’t let any emotion show. He truly looks like a man of yore, cool and collected.