A Floating Life

by Tad Crawford

  How could someone so unpleasant have a position dealing with the public?

  “That’s not it. She wants me to move out.”

  “Ah, well. Don’t look so down. You’ll get over it. And it won’t take a thousand years. It probably won’t even take a thousand days.” Here he scanned me up and down. “You look pretty needy to me. In fact, you’re the kind—”

  “What are you talking about?” I would have broken in sooner but I couldn’t believe what he was saying.

  “You’re the kind,” he repeated imperturbably, “that needs a little lady looking after you. You’d wilt like a flower if you had to be on your own. So I’m guessing sixty days, and then you’ll take the tumble into love. Mark my words and mark your calendar. And in this building complex, you’ll find a lot of enchanting, single young women. Ah, the bliss of new romance, new beginnings … ”

  “Do you rent apartments or just talk?”

  Immediately he had an injured look.

  “I’d appreciate an apology,” he said.

  “What for? You’re the one who’s way over the line.”

  “You know what for,” he said.

  I hesitated. Certainly I felt wronged. How could he speak to me the way he had? But, then again, I had cast aspersion on his professional skills. While I might feel only the slightest connection to my own work, he might gain tremendous satisfaction from being a rental agent and feel his self-worth bound up in whether the public found his performance exemplary. Also, if I didn’t apologize, he might not show me any apartments and I’d be stuck where I was.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted,” he said graciously.

  “But you said you prefer married couples. How can there be so many single women in the apartments?”

  “If you’re lucky,” he said with his leering smile and a knowing wiggle of his eyebrows, “you get an apartment with a woman already in it.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “But I got your attention. I’m not easy to fool and I can see what you want. Now,” he took me by the arm and led me to a wall papered with floor plans, “here is what we have to choose from. Basic shapes—choose what you like. You can start with this triangle, then trade up later on if you need more space.”

  He pointed to a triangle-shaped plan on the top left.

  “I’ve never been in a three-sided room,” I said. “I don’t think I’d like it.”

  “Picky, are we? Well, you have a lot to choose from. Here’s your standard square; then we move into the rectangle. Mixing and matching is perfectly possible, so the bedroom can be a parallelogram and the living room a trapezoid. You just have to choose what you like off the chart. For example, here we have a hexagon for the bedroom and a rhombus for the living room. We have regular and irregular polygons. Pentagons are quite popular, while heptagons, octagons, and nonagons suit your specialty types. If you believe, as I do, that people are defined by their surroundings, these are significant choices. You reveal yourself, your secret self,” he added, “by what you choose.”

  “I like this,” I said, pointing to an apartment with a circular bedroom and an ellipse for the living room.

  “Oh no.” He shook his head. “That’s not for you.”

  “You just told me to choose. This is the one I want.”

  He frowned and caught the inside of his lower lip between his teeth for a moment.

  “It simply isn’t you,” he said. “Trust me.”

  “Can I at least see it and decide for myself?”

  He considered this for ten seconds or so, then answered, “No.”

  “No?” I echoed with disbelief.

  “It wouldn’t be for the best.”

  “What kind of agent are you?” I asked. “If I’m willing to rent an apartment, you have to show it to me. This isn’t your complex. It belongs to your boss. You have responsibilities you can’t just ignore. Now, I want to see that apartment.”

  He thought again but for a briefer period.

  “I’ve reconsidered,” he finally said, “and my answer remains no.”

  Perplexed, I raised my right hand and rubbed my fingers together as he had done. “You want more?” I asked.

  “I don’t recall,” he said with a supercilious tone, “that I asked you for anything.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “These shapes are not without significance. If I were you, I wouldn’t choose the circle.”

  “But I am choosing it.”

  “You’re not ready for it—that’s what I’m trying to say.”

  “Why am I not ready for it?”

  He shrugged. “You simply aren’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know.”

  “Give me a reason.”

  “Just one reason?” he countered. “Because I could give you more than one.”

  “Start with one.”

  “If you were truly ready, you’d understand why I’m saying no to you today. You wouldn’t be pushing me to let you go in a direction that won’t work out.”

  “You know so much.” I couldn’t hold back my annoyance. “Especially considering you don’t know me at all.”

  “Have it the way you like it,” he responded, “but choose another apartment.”

  “Why don’t you choose one for me,” I said, “since you’re the expert?”

  “I have one in mind. Come, follow me.”

  We left his office and went to the end of a long hallway, where stairs with ornate metal banisters spiraled downward. He descended at a brisk trot, and I did my best to keep up. The charm of the well-appointed hallway of the main floor, with its carpeting, golden-framed portraits, grandfather clock, and antique benches, vanished in the sub-basement hallway we stepped into. He slowed, under the white glare of fluorescent ceiling lights, to check the door numbers. Everything—the walls, the doors, the ceiling, and the cement floor—had been painted a glossy yellowish white. Or perhaps it was white and had yellowed, but the effect was to make my guide look sallow and nearly ill. I must have looked the same way, but without a mirror, I couldn’t tell for sure.

  “Here it is.”

  He stopped in front of a door, pulled out a ring thickly covered with keys, and began to sort through them. At last he found the right one, slipped it into the lock, and opened the door. Inside he pressed a light switch, and long tubes of fluorescent lights flickered to life in the ceiling above us.

  I looked around in amazement. We stood inside a square, golden cage that I could have crossed with four strides. The bars on its walls and ceiling were about four inches apart. Outside the cage I could only see a cement floor stretching away into the distance until the light faded.

  “What is this?”

  “A deluxe studio,” he answered.

  “I asked for a one-bedroom.” I couldn’t think of what else to say.

  “This would be easier on the budget.”

  “But … ”

  “Much less of a financial strain.”

  “It doesn’t have windows.”

  “It doesn’t need windows,” he answered, gesturing to the bare cement floor beyond the bars. “After all, there’s nothing to see.”

  “But I like seeing something,” I said, “even if it’s just the brick wall of another building.”

  He winced. “You settle for so little. This cage has bars of eighteen-karat gold. Can you imagine what it cost to build? Who among your friends or coworkers has a home that could ransom a rajah?”

  “It doesn’t have a kitchen.”

  “Let’s be honest here. When was the last time you cooked?”

  I had a recollection of a cooking class, but when had I taken it? As for cooking for my wife, I hadn’t. Why did I feel his remark to be a criticism?

  “I’m quite a good cook.”

  “Just out of practice?”

  “What do you care?”

  I could see by his expression that I had injured his feelings again.

  “This is a very
unusual apartment,” he said frostily, “very desirable for a certain discreet and influential clientele. If you’re not to be counted in that group, I understand.”

  “And it has no bathroom,” I added.

  He greeted this with a sharp intake of breath.

  “Why are you focused on details?” he asked. “Can’t you see the larger picture here? Who in this world lives in a room of gold? Who? Answer me that.”

  “Nobody,” I admitted grudgingly, “at least nobody I know.”

  “Exactly. Everything is mass-produced, from McMansions to those boxy apartments with sheetrock walls and ceilings, cheap plumbing fixtures, and even cheaper kitchen appliances. You could rise above all that. Your home could be unique. You could be unique.”

  “But I don’t like this apartment,” I said.

  “What is your problem?” he asked.

  “My,” I lingered on the word, “problem is that this is a prison cell.”

  “No no no!” He shook his head for emphasis. “We live in a world of savagery and danger. At any moment, in the most chance encounter, our lives and everything we value may be taken from us. These bars hold that savagery at bay. They ensure that your life, as long as you remain in the safety of these four walls, is undisturbed. Once you have lived here, I can assure you, you will never want to live in an ordinary dwelling again.”

  The cement floor trembled beneath my feet.

  “Does the subway run under here?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “What is that vibration?”

  “The construction of the building is continuing. It’s nothing to worry about. There won’t be any vibrations when they’ve finished.”

  “They’re building down?”

  “Yes, but if you commit now you can definitely have this apartment, which is near the top of the underground levels. Practically the penthouse, so to speak.”

  “Nobody builds down,” I said. “That’s impossible. I’ve seen how skyscrapers are constructed. First they excavate for the foundation, and then everything goes up. You can’t put in the foundation and then go down.”

  “In an ordinary building that would be true, but this isn’t an ordinary building.”

  “What you’re telling me can’t be done.”

  “My firm has discovered certain building techniques. You might call them more modern. I can absolutely say these techniques are not widely known. However, we are able to go down in the same way that a skyscraper rises up. Think of that! Buildings of fifty or one hundred stories that don’t pierce the skyline or block out sunlight from the streets and parks. Above our buildings the landscape can appear natural and undisturbed, while beneath the earth are communities of tens of thousands of people.”

  “But I want a one-bedroom apartment. Can’t you at least show me that?”

  “Ah.” He sighed and shook his head. “I’ve tried to be delicate and consider your feelings. I’ve steered you in the direction of what would be practical for you. Now I have to be candid. We run a credit check on all prospective tenants. Your credit isn’t exactly stellar. In fact, you would barely qualify for any of our apartments if it wasn’t for your charitable inclinations.” Here he rubbed his thumb and fingers together. “I’m showing you what you can afford. If I let you look at a one-bedroom, of course you’ll love it. But I couldn’t in good conscience rent it to you. You’d just end up further in debt, more than likely my employers wouldn’t get all the rent, and I’d be in a tight spot for having shown you any apartments at all. Believe me, this apartment is the best I can do for you.”

  I did believe him. Even as he waited for me to speak, my thoughts wandered to a recent visit I had made to the pet store. There had been so much life there—all kinds of colorful fish in aerated tanks, parakeets and parrots and more exotic birds with flamboyant plumage, lizards and snakes and frogs, mice and gerbils and rats, even puppies that would melt the hardest of hearts. For five or maybe ten minutes I stood in front of the cage of a little golden hamster. He took food pellets from a small dish and filled his cheek pouches until his head seemed to swell. Then he ran under a small platform. Bending down, I could see his small paws working quickly to push the food from his cheeks into the corner of the plastic base of the cage. Several times he made this journey to gather at the dish and store his food in the hidden corner he had chosen. And each time he would stop on the way back, balancing on his hind legs with his paws in front of his chest and his dark eyes scrutinizing me. The second or third time he did this, I had the absurd idea that he wanted to speak with me. That was why he kept pausing to look at me through the bars of the cage. I brought my ear closer to hear him. But even if he did speak, how would I understand? I’d studied a couple of the Romance languages, but would Spanish or Italian help me to understand this tiny, golden-furred creature with those soulful eyes fixed on me? My sense, right or wrong, was that he wanted me to take him home. He was willing to take the risk and see how our relationship might grow and change. But I didn’t want to bring him to the apartment I shared with my wife.

  “So?” The agent interrupted my thoughts. “Have you made up your mind?”

  I stood there quietly, wishing I liked the apartment.

  “I’m not going to take it.”

  “I won’t bother to ask why,” he said, not concealing his annoyance. “I’ve certainly tried to be accommodating.”

  I followed him up several flights of stairs, to the ground level. He guided me past the uniformed doormen and the revolving door at the entrance.

  “Here,” he said, extending his hand, “this is yours.”

  I reached out and took back the cash I had given him.

  “But … ”

  “No play, no pay.”

  His fairness made me wonder if I had misjudged him.

  “You know what I’m looking for,” I said, returning the wad of money to my pocket. “Please let me know if anything like that comes up.”

  “If it’s affordable.”

  “It has to be,” I agreed.

  “Maybe on one of the lower levels.”

  “I’m willing to make some trade-offs.”

  “That’s wise. The elevators will be working by then.”

  “You have my phone number.”

  “Yes,” he answered. “I’ll keep you in mind.”

  11

  I arrived exactly on time for my next visit. Once again Pecheur busied himself with studying and amending the diagrams spread over the top of the counter, while I wandered among the models. And again the Chinese junk drew my attention. The proportions of its high stern and low sides struck me as unusual. Its sails looked like the wings of an exotic bird that might fly to another world.

  “One of my favorites,” Pecheur said when he joined me.

  “It is?”

  “Yes. We call it a junk, which comes from the Portuguese junco. That, in turn, came from the Malaysian djong, a mispronunciation of the Chinese word for boat, chuan.”

  I looked to see if he might be kidding me. He had alertness, a brightness, in his eyes, but nothing to suggest humor.

  “There’s disagreement about it too.” He continued. “A scholarly colleague tells me that jung would be better to use than ‘junk.’ In Chinese it means ‘river.’”

  “Jung has a more dignified sound,” I agreed.

  “Or gorl might be best, since it’s Chinese for a large boat that sails on rivers or lakes.”

  “Ah.” I didn’t know how else to respond.

  “Are you ready to see more?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  Pecheur ushered me into the golden elevator, but this time he pushed the button for the third floor. After the slow ascent, the doors opened onto a room about the same size as those on the first and second floors. A vast maze of water, miniature in scale, filled the floor. I could see a stretch of wavy ocean, lakes, rivers, streams, canals, and reservoirs—their flow regulated by a complex of dams, dikes, locks, and gates that shaped and blocked them.

  “Ma
y I?” I reached toward the water. Pecheur didn’t stop me, and my fingertips brushed the cool, wet surface. I wasn’t sure what to say. “What is this?” I finally asked.

  Pecheur smiled at my tone. “A work in progress.”

  “To do what?”

  “Look here.” He pointed at the model. “The lowlands have been painstakingly taken back from the sea. Dikes, ever larger and stronger, allow millions of people to live in homes on land once covered by water. But there is never any certainty, no matter how strong the dikes. What if a storm is stronger? What if it breaches the dikes, floods over the banks of rivers and canals, wrecks farmlands and towns?”

  “Where is this?” I asked, waving my hand toward his creation.

  “This is a model, not a map.”

  “But it’s like Holland, isn’t it? Is that where you’re from?”

  “Yes, I grew up there.”

  “Why have you built it? It’s so complex. Is it art or something else?”

  “It could be called art, but not the kind that ends up in a gallery or museum. I’m trying to find a better way to work with the force of water.”

  “You mean harness its power?”

  “That’s part of it, but also to protect against its power to destroy. I want to find a harmony between water and land. What you see here”—he pointed to the tiny dikes—“isn’t flexible enough. There must be a better way.”

  My confusion must have been evident, because Pecheur gestured to me to sit in one of the armchairs in the small semicircular space next to the elevator. The panorama filled the rest of the room. I didn’t see how Pecheur was able to move through it, much less build and adjust it.

  “To explain this,” Pecheur said, as he sat in the chair next to mine, “I have to go back to something that happened when I was a young man. I attended college for several years, but I couldn’t understand the purpose of studying. The war had ended, but the suffering and devastation in Europe made a deep impression on me. What could school offer in the way of solutions or palliatives to heal our wounds and make certain we never again resorted to war? These kinds of questions consumed me. With the certainty that only young men possess, I dismissed study and academic degrees as valueless. Finally, with my parents’ permission, I took a year off from school. One year stretched to three and then six. I worked as a crewman on the riverboats. It amazed me how far we could travel on the network of rivers and canals that wove through Holland, France, Germany, and beyond. As I thought more and more about this network, I began to believe that it, with its many connections, offered an answer to the questions that perplexed me. I couldn’t exactly put it into words, but the smooth passage over these inland waterways soothed and comforted me.