L (and Things Come Apart)

by Ian Orti

  Lachaise took a handkerchief from his pocket, folded it in four, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. To him, the square was the most natural shape. A divine shape reflected in every aspect of natural life. There were the earth’s four natural elements; the four seasons; the four weeks in each of his thirteen months; the four points of a compass; the four corners of the planetary calendar: the spring and autumn equinoxes, and the solstices of winter and summer and the four years which passed before the earth’s orbit played its trick on the street outside. For Lachaise, there were four sides to every story. Naturally, for his friend Laplante, there were no sides to any story, only lies.

  As Henry moved to the back to collect empty glasses, Lachaise eyed a cup on the countertop as it started to rattle. Slowly, it rose above the saucer upon which it had been placed. This kind of reversal of universal laws hardly struck Lachaise as unusual. Travelling through the universe at such astronomical speeds, things were bound to become dislodged or lose their place. Lachaise lifted his hand to catch the cup as it flew past him, but he was not as lucky with the saucer, which flew by him and shattered against the wall.

  Henry passed the broom across the floor.

  “What are you thinking about?” asked L.

  “Summer,” said Henry.

  Henry smiled and placed the broom back in the corner as the bell above the door rang the entrance of the stranger.

  “This is insane. I’ve searched everywhere and I can’t find them. They have to be here.”

  “Maybe someone accidentally—”

  “The bums here don’t read. No one ste-…No one robs notes and papers. They’ve got to be here.”

  L held the torn white edges of her napkin between her fingers. They sat like snowflakes on the table.

  “I’m sure it will turn up,” Henry said.

  The man focused his gaze on L for a few moments, struggled with his speech. There was a way the man looked at L, the way he examined her face and a way her face averted his gaze that made Henry think the two might know each other. But she held her eyes to the table. “I’d hate to think they were sto- sto-,” his stutter intensified with his frustration. “-Th -th -that a theft had occurred. It wou- it wou- not surprise me. Considering some of those in this neighbourhood and the things they do to get by.”

  And then he left.

  “Do you know him?” asked Henry.

  “No,” said L.

  “He seemed to know you.”

  “He’s just someone who lost something.”

  “But there was something in the way he looked at you—you seemed familiar to him.”

  L paused. “Would you like me to pack, Henry?”

  “Why would I want you to do that?”

  “I’m afraid he may have made you believe bad things about me.”

  Henry squeezed a wet cloth in his hands and walked to the other end of the counter. He was accustomed to this system of silent exchange, this doublespeak where meaning lay hidden between the words, so he did his best to sell her the idea of staying without revealing how desperately he wanted her to do so. She was free to go, of course, he told her, but rents in the area weren’t cheap, and since he never had any intention of renting the flat prior to her arrival, he saw no reason to raise the rent in the future. Besides, he shyly added, there were no other flats in the city that he knew of where food and drinks were included in the rent.

  “Except inns,” she said.

  “Then consider this place an inn.”

  “Then my stay will be temporary, and I’ll eventually have to move, and you’ll have to find someone else to take my place. But I don’t know when that will be just yet, so for the time being, you’re stuck with me.”

  “I guess I can find a way to put up with you a little longer.”

  L squinted at Henry, pursed her lips. She knew he was being facetious but she couldn’t let his comment go without at least appearing angered by it. Henry tried to fight back a smile as he squinted back, his face mirroring hers.

  On the wall next to where she sat the mortar between the bricks was rough and coloured by the residue of time. The place was old. She narrowed her eyes to see how the lines connected and what images they created. She asked Henry what he could see and he told her: they were just bricks. She asked what he could see between them and he told her: just lines. She ran her fingers along the wall passing her fingers along the coarse surface between each brick. He asked her what she felt and she told him.

  “Nothing.”

  As Henry turned to greet a customer, L scratched gently along the mortar between the bricks. Slowly and effortlessly, she slid her fingers deep past the surface, feeling the grainy underside of the bricks against her fingertips. And here, inside the wall, she buried the lie she told Henry about the stranger. She knew the stranger better than she knew any man. He was the reason she was there, and she the reason he was searching. Only, he hadn’t recognized her. Not like this.

  10

  ALONE IN THE UPSTAIRS FLAT L built cities to destroy, making miniature skyscrapers out of tea bags. She began by cutting a straight line below the staple that fastened the bag together, and after unfolding it she would pour the shredded leaves into an old tobacco can and, pressing the edges together gently, form a long rectangular tube she would then stand upright on her palm. If her hand shook, the structure would fall; she had to be still. Setting fire to a building, real or fictional, required steady hands.

  With her free hand she would strike a match and set fire to the top of the miniature tower and watch as the ball of fire swallowed it, then took flight, carrying the last fragments of the tea bag high into the air above her before disintegrating, leaving the slow descent of ash falling to the floor. It was a pleasant obsession for her, creating these miniatures and then destroying them.

  11

  HENRY STANDS IN THE KITCHEN AWAY FROM the muffled chatter in the dining room. He runs thick fingers over thinning hair and waits for water to warm in the kettle. He fumbles with three tea bags on the countertop as water runs from the faucet over dishes piled in the sink. He slides a drawer open, shuffles utensils around until he finds a pair of scissors. Outside, rain streaks the windows and withered leaves sever from their branches.

  Henry hears the kettle whistle and removes it from the stove. He places a tea bag in each of the two clay cups in front of him and pours steaming water into each. As he waits for the water to cool he cuts open the remaining tea bag and empties the dry leaves into his hand. He can hear his wife’s voice telling him to open another bottle but he doesn’t turn to face her. He folds the tea bag and puts it into his pocket. Already he has forgotten the bottle he was supposed to open. He spoons a small amount of spices into the water. Cloves. Cardamom. Cayenne. He stirs repeatedly, blending the ingredients. He brings the cup to his lips and sips gently.

  Looking outside the window, he wonders how it’s possible that so many days can pass in such a short amount of time; the older he gets, the faster time passes. He had always thought the opposite would be true. He is accelerating towards his eventual end at breakneck speed and can do nothing to slow this momentum. As he sips the tea, he reasons that if in fact he has a soul, it has surely left his body. He feels a sort of romantic contempt for life, as though it were his sworn enemy. He has done so well at feeling so little until this moment, but suddenly the enormity of his insignificance begins to tighten into a knot in his chest.

  He puts the tea down and passes a towel across a bowl. Outside, autumn marches towards its end. In the dining room the guests continue talking. As he stares out the window above the sink, he sees the reflection of the other female guest. She’s standing beside him but they look at each other through their reflections. She passes him a pile of plates and he takes them from her.

  “The sky is only ever white or black. This weather makes it seem as though we’re trapped in some old film,” she says, as she places a cup beneath the water and
runs her fingers along the rim. Henry continues drying the bowl. She hands Henry the cup, which he dries in the same circular manner, saying nothing, hoping only that she might stay.

  She lets the water run and continues to wash the remaining dishes, holding each under the water a final time before passing it to Henry and he wonders how he can feel so close to someone without ever having felt their touch.

  “This city…” he says.

  “I know.”

  “There’s something about it. It just wasn’t made right.”

  12

  HENRY ASSUMED THE CUSTOMER WAS A BUILDER assumed the customer was a builder by the missing thumb and tool belt hanging loose around the waist. He asked the builder about work and the builder said simply, “Work has been slow. Strike slows everything. After the transit workers left, it was only a matter of time before we did too.”

  “Things will be back to normal soon.”

  “I hope so,” said the builder. “But that’s not the problem. Or maybe it is the problem. Things are not right.”

  Henry could see the builder wanted to talk so he walked to the far end of the counter, dried his hands on his pants, crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall.

  “I’ve been doing private work on the side. I have to eat, my kid has to eat. Little jobs. Just for the cash.”

  Henry listened, nodded and turned to pour coffee into a mug assuming that the early to bed early to rise custom of the job called for such drinks, but this was not the usual builder. And when Henry saw a thumb-less hand waving for him to stop pouring, pointing instead to something a little stronger, he decided to pry.

  “So what are you working on?”

  “A bathroom. For a neighbour. Not the most lucrative, but it’s work. All I had to do was knock out a wall. That was yesterday. This morning I returned and it was finished. But not just finished—it was immaculate. It was fit for a museum, exactly as I had imagined it. I couldn’t believe it. I had to try it. To be sure it was real.”

  “And?”

  “And? And I didn’t want to get up. I must have sat there for an hour just admiring the place. When I stood my legs were numb and I fell. All I could do was lie there. Looking.”

  “You should be happy the job is done, no?”

  “Sure, but I didn’t do it. I knocked the wall out, yes; that I did. I had a vision of what this space could be, but that was all.”

  “Maybe it was the owner.”

  “Impossible. The owner is a cripple.”

  “He must be quite happy.”

  “She is,” agreed the builder, “but now she wants me to do the whole house. I’m an honest builder. I can’t take more than what I said it would cost.”

  “But the cost of the supplies—”

  “The cost is the same because none of the supplies I bought were used.”

  “Look at the money you saved.”

  “At this point I don’t care about the money. The construction baffles me. If I were a sleepwalker, sure, but the supplies had to come from somewhere. And who can install marble fittings in a night and not wake anyone?”

  The builder sighed, took a long sip and sighed again. Then, lowering the glass in a way that signalled to Henry the need for another, the builder drank the second in silence. Henry moved to the other side of the counter where Lachaise was staring out the window.

  “Want to hear an interesting story, Lachaise?”

  “Heard it already.”

  “Never mind then.”

  “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “Oh?”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “Like?”

  “Last night I dreamt I was a chair.”

  The builder, with a missing thumb and one leg slightly longer than its match, thanked Henry and walked out, as one would with one leg longer than the other.

  13

  THE NEXT DAY HENRY CLOSED EARLY AND ASKED L if she would join him for a walk. He told her he knew the best view of the city; she told him she knew the best place to sit.

  They walked to the square.

  L held Henry’s arm, shielding her face from the wind in his shoulder.

  In the middle of the square there was an empty fountain and everywhere the trees were bare and grey. In summer the place was colourful. Wooden crates overflowing with produce from the countryside that rested at the feet of men in tweed vests, faces in shadows beneath the brim of their hats as people passed by inspecting the fruit and vegetables while old men sat on benches smoking cigarettes and patting their foreheads with handkerchiefs. Women sat on the grass next to their bicycles, raising cold bottles to the skin beneath unbuttoned blouses. But now there was none of that. No vendors, no fruit, no colours. Only greys. Only skeletons.

  For L, summers were the white lines drawn in the pond by the wake of passing ducks. Behind them, a row of black lampposts. These were the colours that comprised the seasons beneath an overcast sky and spelled summer on days when it was hot. She would sit on the wooden benches along the banks running her fingers over the surface of the seat, occasionally scratching her name into the wood to leave her mark, to prove that she was there, to prove, at least to herself, that she existed. She knew the park well. Too well. Knew every corner of it, but did her best to enjoy it anyway.

  Henry and L passed the damaged frame of an abandoned bike. Henry too kept a bicycle he never rode, but he kept air in the tires and grease on the chain. It sat mostly undisturbed and locked to a gate outside his place and he watched as it aged over the seasons, accumulating rust and gradually fading. He marked the summers not on a calendar, but by the colours and textures of the square, and the arc or absence of water cascading from the fountain.

  Henry could recall the sound of the fountain and other familiar summer sounds of the square. The pop of a wine bottle being uncorked, laughter. A brass band playing in the shade. Someone practicing their instrument under a tree. But now it drew only Henry and L, and a man and a woman sitting at the other end of the square. The woman was rocking an empty stroller while a small child knelt nearby gathering leaves.

  “Well,” said Henry.

  “He’s a salesman…”

  “And she?”

  “She’s a nanny.”

  “They’re not married?”

  “Not yet,” said L, “but tonight they will dance together for the first time.”

  From where they were sitting, Henry could see a small suitcase at the man’s feet. Although they were both wearing thick coats, their elbows were touching. There was contact, and for Henry, even in that small detail, he found something beautiful, which he coveted. Both glanced at Henry and L.

  “Maybe they’re playing the same game,” he said.

  “If you saw us from a distance, what would you imagine?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, reluctant to answer.

  “Come on, Henry,” she leaned into his shoulder. “What kind of life would you impose on us? What kind of characters would we be to you?”

  She watched the leaves on the ground rise and spin like a carrousel above the pavement. “Maybe I’m a prostitute, we meet here every Friday, decide on a place…”

  “And I’m a senile old man who insists on going to some place different each time…”

  “And in your senility, you always suggest the same place.”

  “And each time we meet, I always repeat the same story, tell it like it was new each time.”

  “And each time I listen like it was the first time the story had ever been told.”

  “Until one day…”

  “…I tell you I’ve heard the story before. That I can’t bear to hear it again. That since we’ve known each other it has always been the same story. And then you ask me if I want to stop our visits,” L leaned into Henry’s shoulder again. “And I say no, I just want to hear a different story.”

  “Do you want me to show you the best view of the city now?” asked Henry.

  “No,” she said. “I just wan
t to sit here. I‘m happy just to sit here watching the others—even if there are only two.”

  “Three,” said Henry.

  “Regardless,” she said. “It’s cold, but it’s quiet.”

  “If you’re cold we can go.”

  L lifted Henry’s arm and draped it around her. “There,” she said. “Now we don’t have to go anywhere.”

  Henry was careful not to speak. Not to move. Not to end this moment. He couldn’t see her but he knew her eyes were closed. And they were. Perhaps she was continuing their game, speculating. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was there. They sat together until snow began to fall, until they were the last two figures in the square.

  “What does that one look like?”

  Henry opened his eyes, then turned them to the dense plume of smoke visible across the city and the square.

  “Not there. Above. Straight above. Through the branches.”

  “I don’t see anything. A cloud?”

  “Maybe someone hunched. No, someone standing.”

  “Doing what?”

  “No. I’m not even sure it looks like a person anymore.”

  “What does it look like now?”

  “Something else.”

  14

  FOR THE FIRST TIME IN A LONG TIME for the first time in a long time there was life inside Henry’s place. It was full. At tables people spoke. They waved their hands, laughed with open mouths, motioned to their chests or their heads when they talked, or leaned forward to touch the hands of those who sat across from them, listening attentively. He watched as some looked outside at the falling snow or rain or sleet or darkness or whatever it was that kept them in their seats. They looked to Henry to order another, no, two more thank you, and then continued with their conversations, leaning in and touching each other, interrupting to raise this point or that. Henry poured their drinks slowly and took his time bringing them to the tables. He didn’t want to go home. He didn’t want the night to end. And it didn’t. Morning never came as long as L sat alone at the counter.