Innocent Monsters

by Doherty, Barbara

  “What are you doing here?” She asked him.

  “I came to meet you.”

  He was still looking away, she saw his lips curl in a smile and smiled herself. “I mean, really, why did you come here if you don’t like these people?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Why did you come? You don’t like them, do you?”

  “Well, I’ve been invited, I have a contract with them.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like a good excuse.”

  “Doesn’t it?... I don’t know, I guess I thought it would be different...” I thought Ian McKey was a professional, I thought Jane Ashley looked like a housewife... “Do you write?”

  “Me? Uhm... No, probably not the way you mean. Do you ever read the San Francisco Post?”

  “Might have. Couldn’t swear on it.”

  “I’m a graphic artist. I draw the cartoon strip for the paper. Mostly.”

  “Wow, really? You don’t look like the type.”

  He laughed. “What is it? Am I missing a beret? Or glasses? Or is it the long hair?”

  She felt embarrassed by her own remark and didn’t like it. “I don’t know, I just always imagined newspaper cartoonists to be middle-aged, slightly balding and just not as... Well, young as you, I suppose. That’s all.”

  “Understandably. I don’t do that old fart political stuff you’re probably thinking about. You should buy the paper tomorrow. Page twelve, then you’ll see me differently.”

  “Maybe I will. But forgive my ignorance, I still can’t see the connection between you and the Jefferson Company.”

  “The Post has commissioned a collection of my work. The Jefferson Company is publishing it. I know Roger.”

  “Roger?”

  “Roger Wither, I believe he’s your editor.”

  “So he is.” She considered him with suspicion.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not a stalker. That’s pretty much all I know about you. I didn’t follow you over here. I don’t know where you live.” Jessica suddenly burst out laughing. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. I’m sorry. It’s just the idea of anyone willingly following me to Crocker- Amazon. I’m pretty sure only drug dealers travel that far.”

  “Crocker Amazon, uh? I just assumed you lived somewhere downtown. Where is that?”

  “South of Mission Street. Between San Francisco’s border and Daily City. I think most people from around here don’t even recognize it as one of their districts.”

  “Too far out?”

  “Totally.”

  “Pretty?”

  Jessica thought about it, about the takeout spots with their faded pizza signs and the tired bars clustered around what was considered to be the main strip; she thought about the suburban feel of the residential areas and the vast, ever green Playground, where she had spent many afternoons as a teenager with Kaitlyn when there seemed to be nothing else to do. She sighed. “Pretty enough, I guess, but nothing special to be honest... I don’t know, I should have moved years ago.”

  “So... Why do you still live there?”

  “Good question. Let’s see... My family lived in the area because that’s were we could afford a house at the time, then when I got my own place, I kind of stayed because my mother lived there... I don’t know. I wished I had a really interesting answer to give you but I don’t. Something I have discovered about myself over the years: I resist change.”

  He sucked on his cigarette again then threw it over the balcony. “She’s still there? Your mother?”

  “No. She died a few years ago. Truth is, I haven’t got an excuse in the world to live where I do.” Not anymore, nobody in the world. “I’ve just been caught up in things with the book and all that, and moving just hasn’t really been a priority. But I was hoping to spend Christmas somewhere else this year.”

  “Moving? Really? Where to?”

  “Still San Francisco, hopefully downtown.”

  “Looking to buy?”

  “Ideally, yes.”

  “You’re not giving yourself much time, are you?”

  “I know. I’m looking into it. If I don’t succeed, it can be my New Year’s resolution.

  But I definitely want to move.”

  Donald Jefferson suddenly burst out laughing somewhere inside, so loud they both turned to look at the door. Jessica rolled her eyes and Blaise smiled at her. He had a friendly smile, defined lips.

  “Look, I know this is gonna sound like too much of a coincidence,” he said, “but I’m moving out of my apartment. It’s in Nob Hill, not too large but spacious enough. Five rooms. I’m trying to rent it. You would definitely be in by Christmas and you could look for a place to buy from there when you feel ready. You think you’d like to come and have a look?”

  It did sound like too much of a coincidence.

  “... I don’t know... I suppose I could have a look.”

  Blaise took a black business card out of the inside pocket of his grey jacket and handed it to her.

  “This is the address and my number. I’ll be here until next week. You can come to have a look anytime you like. Just think about it and give me a call.”

  He waved his hand and walked away. Not a goodnight, not a nice to meet you. Her eyes followed him as he disappeared among the guests in the room, then moved down to the card in her hand.

  William T. Blaise

  Chambord Apartments

  1467 Sacramento Street

  415 558 3857

  14 November 2000

  IT WAS her third day at the Palace Hotel. It had started raining before the sun had come up and it hadn’t stopped since.

  Jessica had planned to climb the hill to Sacramento Street by foot, but the weather had dampened her resolved and she had ended up travelling up the steep slope in a cable car, listening to its struggling engine, marveling at the view outside the dripping windows.

  Even in this weather, travelling up Nob Hill’s beauty and cultural richness made her feel invigorated —a feeling she never remembered enjoying while walking through Croker Amazon, not even as a child. Window shops were slick and meticulously arranged; restaurants looked expensive but inviting; pruned potted plant adorned entrances; big, old, famous hotels loomed over the streets. Everything tidy, tall, in order.

  Once off the tram, the walk to the Chambord Apartments was short and pleasant. The building stood elegantly at the end of a leafy residential road, within a wide silver gate enclosing a large manicured grass area.

  Jessica walked briskly through the gate’s entrance holding her umbrella with both hands and stopped to admire the tall building in front of her. Curved balconies and immaculate statues adorned the exterior of every floor.

  Blaise had told her that the apartment was on the third floor and she studied the third row of windows before walking in, trying to guess which ones were his, which ones could become hers.

  She walked through the main door into an empty lobby paved with large glossy tiles and headed for the elevator. Third floor. When the lock on the 3C apartment door clicked she was standing in the middle of the carpeted corridor shaking rain off her coat trying to hold the umbrella as far away as possible. Blaise held the door open for her before she even had the chance to knock, staring at her with a cigarette between his lips. He was wearing a tight black V- neck sweater, black trousers, bare feet, his hair a much lighter colour than it had seemed a few days earlier.

  He took out the cigarette from his mouth and grinned. “You’re early.”

  She looked down at the watch even though she knew perfectly well how early she was. It was eleven forty five, fifteen minutes earlier than scheduled. “I guess I am. Is it all right?”

  “‘Course it’s all right. Come on in.”

  Jessica walked past him and he gently touched her
waist to guide her inside. A corridor extended before them, two arches opened on both sides of the entry hall they stood in, the walls as white as the exterior of the building. Music was playing softly in one of the rooms.

  ...Beethoven...

  “How did you know I was outside the door?” She asked still shaking her coat.

  “You’re dripping.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I was waiting for you. I saw you coming from the window. You’re dripping,” he said pointing at the raindrops falling off her umbrella onto the floor. “Let me get this for you.”

  He took the umbrella from her hand and guided her through the arch on their left, a large kitchen with white walls, empty apart from glossy white fitted cupboards and a small fridge underneath an oak worktop where a solitary coffee maker sat. A small stereo played on the floor between a couple of wooden boxes.

  ...Beethoven... Moonlight Sonata...

  “I love Beethoven.” She whispered looking at the stereo.

  It reminded her of her grandparents house; warm afternoons spent in the dining room sitting on her grandmother’s arm chair, listening to old records on her old record player; her dry, wrinkled hands, the way she used to take sweets from them and hide them in her pockets so that mother wouldn’t take them away, and her father sitting in a corner with his eyes closed, almost in a trance. Stuart Lynch loved classical music, his face melted in ecstasy whenever he listened to his mother’s records; he relaxed, mellowed. Music was the only thing that got to him, everything else just seemed to bounce off. Jessica had wished many times she could play an instrument, any instrument, something she could use to perform for him only so that he would see her, so that he would see how much she wanted him to be like everybody else. An instrument she would play every time he tried to raise a hand against his mother, something that would stop him, hypnotise the monster inside him. But she couldn’t play. She could only write, and her father didn’t like reading.

  Coffee started coming out of the coffee maker as she turned around, the image of her father so vivid in her mind she half expected to see him standing in the room. Instead she found Blaise standing by the sink where the umbrella was now dripping, looking at her smiling, and she smiled back at him trying to take her coat off and get her handbag off her shoulder at the same time.

  “I was about to have some coffee. Would you like some?”

  “Coffee sounds great.”

  A couple of mugs were already set side by side.

  “You can hang the coat on the door, if you don’t mind. I forgot to mention that the place is unfurnished, I hope it’s not a problem for you.”

  “No problem, no. I’ve got my own furniture.”

  “That’s if you decide to take the place. Milk, sugar?”

  “Black, thanks. No sugar.”

  He handed her a mug and sat on one of the wooden cases by the window looking up at her, waiting for her to do the same, and they sat facing each other, the music loud enough to cover the sound of the rain pouring down outside.

  Jessica started sipping her coffee looking around, studying the room, the two windows by the sink, one next to the other, tried to imagine her furniture arranged against these walls. She had never seen a kitchen so colourless before, she found it eerie, bleak.

  “Have you lived here long?”

  “About three years, I think.”

  “Can I ask why you’re moving out?”

  He took a sip of coffee. “Are you asking me if there’s something wrong with this place?”

  Jessica tried to order her face not to blush but she could feel her cheeks disobeying as usual and she hated herself for looking so guilty when she had only asked an innocent question. “I didn’t mean that...”

  “I need more space. The more space I have the more space I tend to need. I’m moving to Russian Hill. Been there yet?” She shook her head, her lips brushing against the mug she was holding close to her face. “Much quieter than here. I like peace and quiet, you see.”

  “Is this not a quiet place?”

  “Oh yes, it is. It’s really very quiet. It’s just me, I guess. I like real peace and quiet.”

  “And space.”

  “And space, yes. That’s about all I need. What about you? Have you considered moving out of San Francisco? You could go anywhere in the world.”

  She shrugged. “I guess it’s best if I stay here, my publishing company and my editor being here and all that. I like it here...”

  And Kaitlyn did... But she couldn’t tell him that.

  His eyes were an interesting colour, grey-blue. He had a way of keeping his head slightly lowered while looking at her that made them shady, as if he was trying to hide his stare underneath his eyebrows, behind his long hair. He was weirdly handsome.

  “You bought it, then.” He said out of the blue, nodding towards the handbag sitting by her feet. The top corner of the copy of today’s San Francisco Post she had bought that morning poked out of the open zip.

  “Oh, this! Yes, I was intrigued.” She patted her bag the way one does with a faithful pet.

  “And? Can you see how cartoonists don’t need to be fat and middle-aged now?”

  She could. His cartoon strip was nothing like she had imagined. Elysa by Gospel. Beautifully drawn, moody, the overall feel of it closer to Japanese cartoons she remembered watching as a kid then what she had up to then associated with newspaper’s strips. But after only two editions of the Post she still couldn’t quite make out what it was all about.

  “It’s different. I like it. I’m not really into cartoons so, sorry if I offended you the other day. I didn’t mean to.”

  “God, no, you didn’t. No offence taken at all.”

  “Good. Why the pen name?”

  He shrugged. “I like it that way. I’m not after fame and recognition. I just want to do what I like. Besides, William sounds a bit too ordinary.”

  Lightening flashed and thunder struck outside and Blaise stood up from his wooden box quickly, leaving his mug on the floor.

  “Come here, I want to show you something.”

  He held her wrist gently and guided her to one of the windows by the sink, where she left her mug and waited for something to happen, admiring the view, the grey shades of the sky, the flat rooftops and in the distance, the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Thunder struck again and she saw lightning flash out of a cloud, purple and white streaks of electricity ripping the sky.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” He asked, a strange excitement in his voice, his gaze lost in the sky ahead of him. “You can always see them from up here.”

  It was beautiful, yes, and she wondered how many lightning storms he had watched here by himself, how many rainy days and nights. She wondered if he could see lightning striking from any window of the new place he was about to move into. She looked at him and he glanced at her quickly, let go of her wrist.

  “Guess I should show you the rest of the apartment now. Come on.”

  Jessica nodded. Most of her coffee was still steaming in her mug but she didn’t protest, she followed him out of the kitchen, past the hall, through another arch into another white room. An ivory piano stood against one of the walls, an armchair in a corner faced two large windows opening onto the rounded balconies she had admired from the outside. Next to the armchair an ashtray and a candle laid on the floor.

  “Can you play?” She asked pointing at the piano.

  He shrugged. “Let’s say I could be better. It helps me to relax when I feel tense. I started learning when I was very young, then I lost interest and then I started again. You need to be consistent with this instrument and I definitely have not been.”

  They stepped out of the room into the entry hall.

  He pointed a thumb to his left. “Ok, so that’s the kitchen, we’ve be
en there already...” Thumb pointing right, “that’s the dining room, a lounge or a study, anything you want.” Index finger pointing ahead, “bathroom, bedroom, storage room, over here.”

  The corridor in front of them was short and narrow, two doors opened on its left wall and one on the right, a window at its end overlooked the private gardens at the back of the building.

  Blaise pointed at the first of the two doors to his left. “Storage room. Nothing but shelves. We’ll get back to this one.”

  He opened the second one and motioned for her to enter. Jessica walked into yet another white room, square, not too large, a white sink opposite the door, white cabinet above it, a stand alone bathtub, white toilet bowl next to it, white floor, white ceiling. The wall opposite the bathtub was completely covered by a mirror. Jessica tried to imagine William standing in this room. Did he like to admire his own body? Did he stand naked, looking at himself?

  When she came out she found him standing by the window, arms crossed, suddenly looking nervous and edgy as if he had been waiting there for hours, as if he’d had enough time to think about it and come to the conclusion that, actually, showing her his apartment wasn’t really that much of a good idea.

  “I like the mirror in there.” She offered. “...Everything ok?”

  “It was there when I bought the place.” And he moved off the window, opened another door for her and switched the light on. “This is the bedroom.”

  A heavy black curtain —the only touch of colour— covered the window in this room. It was empty apart from a stereo, a king size mattress and a gigantic black and white portrait of a girl with pale skin, dark hair and probably blue eyes resting against the wall behind it. She had a strange smile playing on her lips, almost invisible, and she looked so very familiar.

  “This is beautiful. Did you draw it?” He merely nodded. “It’s big. It must have taken you a while to do it. Is it a portrait of anyone you know? ...If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “As a matter of fact I do mind,” he snapped, looked at her as if she had just asked him to jump out of the window.