I briefly glanced at Gabriella Corben and gave a noncommittal grin. She moved halfway down the staircase and sat in the middle of the carpeted step, her elbows on her knees, watching me. She wouldn’t discuss their argument and wouldn’t mention him at all. She never did.
My hidden unrequited love was a secret even from her. Or perhaps not. She was perceptive and understanding and probably knew my heart as well as she understood her husband’s, which might’ve been entirely or might’ve been not at all. He and I still weren’t that different. He was up there screaming out loud and I was down here braying inside.
I went about my business. I did my work. I waited for her to say what she wanted to say and I willed the muscles in my back not to twitch.
I knew what I would see if I dared to look over my shoulder. A woman of twenty-five, comfortable beneath the finish of her own calm, with glossy curling black hair draped loosely to frame her face. Lightly freckled from the summer sun, her eyes a rich hazel to offset the glowing brown of her skin. Her body slim but full, her presence assured. I caught a whiff of her perfume combined with the heady, earthy scent of her sweat beneath it. I must’ve looked like a maniac, polishing one foot of banister over and over, so damn afraid to turn around.
Where she went a kind of light travelled. She carried it with her. It lifted my heart and left me stunned. It was a feeling I wasn’t accustomed to and for a long while I fought against it. I had learned to live with resentment instead of romance. It was my preferred state of being until she came along. Now I burned in silence.
She said, almost sleepily, “You ever wonder what it would be like if you could dig down through all the layers of polish, the paint and wax, peeling back the years, say going in a half-inch deep, to a different time, and see what life here might’ve been like back then?”
A half-inch deep. Probably eighty years. “I suspect you’d find a lot of the same.”
“Really?”
“Life wasn’t so different. Maybe you wouldn’t trip over a guy who sat in toxic waste in front of the MOMA, but there’d be somebody comparable, I bet.”
“What could be comparable to that?”
I shrugged. “A lunatic juggling hand grenades. A World War I vet used to panhandle out front here back in the 1920s, and if he didn’t make enough coin he’d chase people around with a bayonet. He spooked the neighbours on the other side of the street by flipping around one of those German hand grenades.”
She waited but that was all I knew about it. Most tales about real people only had a modicum of interest to them, and no real ending. I didn’t want to lose her attention and said, “There’s always been plenty of crazy.”
“I think you’re right. How about the rest of it?”
“The rest of it?”
“Life. Lots of happiness? Beauty? Romance?”
“Sure. This lobby is so nice that there’s been a lot of weddings performed right here, at the foot of the stairwell. The publicity shots were gorgeous. They’d have horse and carriages lined up out in the street, and after the ceremony the wedding party would hop in, ride over to Fifth Avenue and down past St Patrick’s Cathedral. If the families of the bride or groom had enough pull, they could get the cardinal’s okay to have the church bells ring as the carriages went by.”
“That must’ve been lovely.”
Dorothy Parker and one of her lovers used to drunkenly chase each other through the halls of Stark House in the raw, but that didn’t quite have the right kind of romance I was going for. “A couple of silent film stars met on the fifth floor back in the 1920s. They split their time between Los Angeles and New York and lived next door to each other for a couple of years before ever meeting.”
“Which apartments?”
By that she meant, Which of my rooms? “I don’t know.”
“Okay, go on.”
“When they did run into each other here it was supposedly love at first sight. They got engaged a week later. The press went nuts with it. They made five movies together too.”
“I think I heard about that. Didn’t they commit suicide? Jumped off the roof?”
I was hoping to skip that part. Corben had told her more about the place than I thought he might. Or should’ve. Or maybe she’d been talking to some of the other tenants, though I couldn’t figure out which of the shut-ins might actually chat with someone else.
“Yeah, when sound came in. They both sounded too Brooklyn, and no matter what they did they couldn’t get rid of the accent.”
“Death by Brooklyn,” she said. “How sad.” She put her hand on the banister and floated it down inch by inch until she’d almost reached the spot I was polishing. She tapped it with her nail. The length of her nail, a half-inch, eighty years. “I’ve heard there’s been even more tragedy as well.”
“Of course. Plenty of births, you get plenty of deaths.”
“And not all of it by natural means certainly.”
“Why do you want to hear about this stuff?” I asked. For the first time I looked directly at her, and as usual, the lust and the ache swept through me. She pulled a face that meant that Corben had been talking up the house history and she wanted a different viewpoint.
“Murder’s pretty natural,” I told her. “I don’t know if that guy ever bayoneted anyone or if the hand grenade ever went off, but there’s been a few grudges that ended with a knife or a handgun. One guy pushed his brother down the elevator shaft, and one of the scientists blew himself and his dog to hell mixing up some concoction.”
“Scientists?”
“Some scientists used to live here.”
“And their dogs.”
“Well,” I said, “yeah.”
“Oh, I see.” She chewed on that for a while. I moved up a couple steps, working the banister, easing a little closer. I could see her reflection in the shine. I fought down the primitive inside me trying to get out. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe she was just waiting for me to carry her down the stairs. But I didn’t make the move.
Gabriella said, “Have you ever considered doing a book about it? The building?”
I didn’t want to admit the truth, but she had a way of cooling the endless blazing rage inside me. My loud thoughts softened and quieted, even while I went slowly crazy with wanting her. “Yes, when I was a kid. I’ve always been intrigued by the building. There’s always been a lot of talk, a lot of rumours.”
“But you don’t want to write one anymore?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
It was a good question, and one I wasn’t prepared to answer. It took me a while to say anything. “I have my own stories to share, I suppose. I don’t need to tell this place’s legends and lessons. And it doesn’t need me to tell them anyway.”
I turned and she smiled at me a little sadly.
I knew then exactly what Corben was doing and what was now ripping him up inside. The damn fool was trying to write a book about Stark House.
A minute later the front door was awash with a blur of black motion, and Gabriella and I wheeled and moved down the stairs together, as one, like I’d seen in a dozen classic films I could name.
Our bare arms touched and I tamped down the thrill that flared through me. She placed a hand on my wrist and my pulse snapped hard. It was odd and a bit unsettling to know that such small, commonplace human actions could still send me spiralling toward the edge. I hadn’t realized I was quite so lonely until that moment.
And there it was, the first sighting of Ferdinand the Magnifico, looking dapper as hell in his old world Victorian-era black suit, lace tie. And this too, our initial meeting with the monkey, Mojo, leashed to his master by a sleek length of golden chain, who hopped around doing a dance in his little jacket and cap while holding his cup out. This also wasn’t exactly the grand romance I’d been hoping for, but I’d take whatever I could get.
“Halloo!” Ferdi shouted. Behind him scattered out on the sidewalk stood crates, boxes, and a small assortment of furniture. He must’ve
hired some cheap uninsured movers who would only carry your belongings curb to curb.
Mojo jumped back and forth as far as his chain would allow. Gabriella smiled and said, “Are you certain you can bring an animal like that into this building?”
“Animal!” Ferdi cried. “This is no animal, madam! I assure you! This is my partner, Mojo, a gentle soul no different than you or I, with a heart filled with benevolence and an obligation only to make children laugh!”
She ignored the side of his trunk that stated in bold yellow letters FERDINAND THE MAGNIFICO, and asked, “And just who are you?”
“I am Ferdinand! And this is our new home! Today we move into Apartment 2C of the Stark Building!” He glanced at me, but, like all men, he couldn’t keep his eyes off Gabriella for longer than that.
“Nice to meet you, Mr Ferdinand.”
“Just Ferdinand, madam! Are we neighbours? Say it is so!”
“Just Gabriella, Ferdinand,” she said. “And it is so, we’re neighbours. And this is Will.”
“Well then, as you say!”
I bit back a groan. He was the kind of person who shouted everything with a joyous cry. If the decibel level didn’t get you, the enthusiasm might. The monkey looked more like my kind of person. He grinned when you looked at him but otherwise just kind of held back, watching and waiting to see what might be coming his way. Printed on the monkey’s little hat was the name MOJO. A button pinned to his fire engine red jacket read THE WORLD’S ONLY TALKING/WRITING CHIMP. There was a pad with a pen attached by a string in a small bag around his neck.
Mojo pressed his tin cup out to Gabriella. He was insistent. She gestured that she had no cash on her and I pulled a quarter out of my pocket and snapped it off my thumbnail into his cup. I expected him to say thank you, seeing as he was a talking monkey, but Mojo only hopped twice, squeaked, took off his hat and bowed.
“If he talks, why does he have a pad and pen?” she asked.
“He prefers to write!”
“I see,” she said. She shot me a look. “Just like Will.”
A reference to me, not to her bestselling author husband. It took me back a step. Of course, she was also likening me to a chimp, so maybe it wasn’t quite the compliment I had wanted it to be.
“Well hello, Mojo,” she said, “how are you today?”
Mojo went, “Ook.”
Ferdi lifted his arms and clapped happily. “You see! He says he is fine!”
Gabriella laughed pleasantly and tried again. “It will be very nice having you in the building, Mojo, I hope we’ll become great friends.”
Mojo did a dance, held out his tin cup, and went, “Ook ook.”
Ferdi said, “Bravo, Mojo! As all can clearly hear, you have told them you are delighted to be a new neighbour to such gracious and wonderful people!”
“Why doesn’t he write us a note instead?” I said.
“I’m sure he soon shall! But at the moment he is enjoying this conversation so much, he has no need to give letters!”
Gabriella gave me the look again and this time I returned it. We were compatriots, we were sharing a moment. She was laughing and I was smiling. That was good enough. I drew another quarter out of my pocket and tossed it into the monkey’s cup. If nothing else, he was a smart chimp. He’d already taken me for half a buck.
“Are you with the circus?” I asked.
“No, nor any carnival! We are our own pair, a team! We have toured Central Europe, throughout Asia, New Zealand, and South Dakota! And now, we arrive here!”
“I’ll help with your belongings,” I said.
“Wonderful!”
Gabriella swept out past us heading for the door, and the overwhelming urge to touch her rose up in me and made me reach for her, maybe to grab her elbow and turn her to face me, so that I might finally find the courage to say something real and true to her, about myself or about Corben, or perhaps about nothing at all. Just a chance to spend more time with her, even if it was only a few more minutes. When you got down to it I was as needy as Corben, and maybe even worse.
But my natural restraint slowed me down too much, and even before I managed to lift my hand she was already out of reach.
My last image of her: a gust of wind whirling her hair into a savage storm about her head while she eased out the front door silhouetted in the morning sun, her skirt snapping back at me once as if demanding my attention, a curious expression of concern or perhaps dismay on her face – perhaps the subtle after effect of her argument with Corben, or maybe even considering me, for the first time, as a potential lover – moving across the street against traffic. A taxi obscured her, the door finished closing, the chimp chittered, and my secret love was gone.
I thought Ferdi and Mojo might have some friends or fans from New Zealand to help them move in, but they had no one but me. Luckily, they didn’t have that much stuff. Mojo really did have monkey bars, a collapsible cage that when put together took up an entire room of the three-bedroom apartment. It was probably my duty to call the landlord and squeal on them. No pets were allowed, much less restricted exotic animals, but I liked the action they brought with them, the energy. Let somebody else rat them out.
We carried everything up the stairs rather than futzing with the tight elevator. It took less than two hours for Ferdi and me to get everything inside and set up.
Ferdi handed me twenty dollars as a tip, but the monkey danced so desperately and kept jabbing his cup at me with such ferocity that I finally gave him the crumpled bill. Ferdi had a real racket going, and I wondered if I could talk him into being my new agent. I could just see him giving hell to my editors, the monkey using his little pen to scribble out clauses on bad contracts. Ferdi asked me to stay and share a bottle of wine with him, but I had a story I wanted to finish.
When I got back to my place I sat at my desk staring at the screen at some half-composed paragraphs that made virtually no sense to me. Being with Gabriella had inspired me, but now the words ran together into phrases that held no real resolve. I didn’t know my own themes anymore.
I sat back and stared up at he shafts of light stabbing down across my study, feeling the weight of the entire building above me – all the living and the dead, the bricks and mortar of history growing heavier every year. A hundred and forty years worth of heritage and legacy, chronicles and sagas. Soon they might crush me out of existence. Maybe I was even in the mood for it.
I had a stack of unopened mail on my bed. I tore into an envelope containing a royalty check for $21.34. I started to crumple it in my fist, but I needed the money. I decided that no matter how Mojo might push me, I wasn’t going to give it to him. I picked up an unfinished chapter of my latest novel and the words offended me. I tossed the pages across the room and watched them dive-bomb against the far wall. There wasn’t even enough air in here for them to float on a draft. I wondered if Corben was still up there howling. I wondered if Gabriella had returned to him yet or if she was out in the city enjoying herself, taking in enough of the living world for both of them. For all three of us. The claustrophobia started to get to me and I decided to go walk the building.
I hadn’t gotten twenty paces from my apartment door when I spotted a man laid out on the tiled floor of the lobby – a shallow red halo inching outward – with an ice-pick in his forehead that vibrated with every breath he took.
I’d never seen him in the light of day, but I thought it was the guy who’d invented aluminium foil. I couldn’t believe he was still alive. Blood and clear fluids lapped from his ears. A wave of vertigo rippled through me and I bit down on my tongue and it passed. I bent to him and had no idea what to do. He was finished, he had to be finished because there was three inches of metal burrowed into his brain, but he was wide-eyed and still staring at me with great interest. He licked his lips and tried to move his hands.
“Jesus holy Christ . . .” I whispered. I didn’t have a cell phone. I started to turn and run for my apartment when he called my name.
“Wi
ll.”
It was astonishing he could actually see. Death was already clouding his eyes and gusting through his chest. His voice had been thickened by it. It was a sound I’d heard several times before. He sounded exactly like my father when the old man had about three minutes left to go. There was no point in leaving him now. I kneeled at his side. “I’m here.”
“I lied,” he said.
“About what?”
“I didn’t invent aluminium foil. Aluminium foil was first introduced into the industry as an insulating material. It later found diverse applications in a variety of fields.”
“What?”
“It can be used instead of lead and tinfoil in other specified applications. The aluminium foil thickness ranges from 0.0043 millimetres to 0.127 millimetres. It comes with a bright or dull finish and also with embossed patterns—”
“Shhh.”
“Foils are available in thirty-three distinct colours. In 1910, when the first aluminium foil rolling plant was opened in Kreuzlingen, Switzerland, the plant, owned by J. G. Neher & Sons stood at the foot of the Rhine Falls and captured the falls’ energy. Neher’s sons together with Dr Lauber – oh, Dr Lauber! Dr Lauber! – discovered the endless rolling process and the use of aluminium foil as a protective barrier.”
The ice-pick had ripped through his memories. Even if he hadn’t invented aluminium foil, he sure knew a hell of a lot about it. I couldn’t quite figure why his head was full of all this, but it was probably no worse than thinking about stealing Dutch Master prints and heading to Aruba. I wondered what I would be spouting on about in my last minute if someone stuck a blade into my brain.
I should’ve offered up some kind of soothing words to send him on his way, but he looked animated and eager to chat despite the fact that his brains were leaking out of his ears and tear ducts. I should’ve asked him who had done this to him. Instead I said, “Why the hell would you lie about a thing like that?”
The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 19 Page 54
